That Guy Syndrome
Hi, doc. How are you?
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That’s good. I’m well, I’m okay, I guess.
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Yes, it’s a professional call, but I don’t really need a diagnosis. I already know what I’ve got. It’s That Guy Syndrome, doc. I’ve got TGS, and I’m scared.
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Which symptoms? Well, I say the wrong thing at the wrong time. I fail to understand the mood of the room. I interrupt people, or leave pauses where I shouldn’t. People exchange glances, and I don’t know what they mean. Subtext isn’t in my vocabulary. I don’t make eye contact. I’m AWKWARD, doc. I’m THAT GUY. You gotta help me.
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Why now? Well, it’s been easy for me to ignore —- I’ve got friends who’ve got TGS way worse than I do. When they’re around, I seem like I’ve got the usual amount of social graces. But when they leave, they become the butt of jokes — and I get a little burning sensation in the pit of my stomach, because I know that when I step out, I could be the next joke (if anyone thinks of me at all). I don’t mean to imply I’ve got low self esteem; I think I’m just grand. That’s part of the problem, I think: thinking I’m right, I’m cool, I know what’s going on. I have to FORCE myself to worry about social interaction.
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No, it’s not all been bad, of course. My ignorance of interpersonal, uh, stuff, made middle and high school work out OK. If I was teased or bullied, I don’t remember it. Making fun of me must have been like punching a sack of wet cement. No reaction. So I learned a lot. I read a lot. I did stuff. I built robots. I didn’t date, or learn how to talk about sports. I didn’t go out with friends after school. Social atrophy. It wasn’t ‘the best time of my life’, but TGS is ironically merciful —- a sort of mosquito, it anesthetised me precisely where it was cutting me.
Really, I’m lucky, when it comes to TGS sufferers. I’m a high-functioning That Guy. If you see me on stage, or if you happen to meet me somewhere that reminds me to pay attention, you might only notice minor oddities. I might make eye contact at not-quite-right moments; if you offer me your hand to shake, I might have to look at it for just a second before I realise what I’m supposed to to with it. Only a breath —- you’ll probably forget the strangenesses as soon as you notice them. But over time, they add up; little failures of rapport, slowly building an invisible wall between us. Imagine you’re looking at the picture of Dorian Grey, slowly transforming from a pleasant young man into THAT GUY.
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Why am I calling? I need a cure, doc. Constant vigilance is exhausting, and it never seems to become more natural. It’s never instinctual. Afterwards, when I’m alone, I can remember all the mistakes. I stumbled into a morris dance: none of the steps are hard, but they must be executed without hesitation or confusion. Every misstep, I cringe —- and that doesn’t help, either.
Isn’t there an experimental perscription drug I can take, doc? A class? Does everyone meet early for rehearsals?
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What do you mean the condition doesn’t exist? So what if it is all in my head? I don’t care how many other people suffer from the same feelings. I wanna be better, doc. I wanna be well.
Posted on 14 November 2011