Conversation Starters

My grandpa was an intellectual type who kept up with the news in whatever room of his house he happened to be in, was well-respected in his field of public relations, got several newspapers a week, and loved to write.  Funny that he had me do this, because we didn’t ever really talk much, but when I was a teenager he asked me to write a list of 100 conversation starters.   He’d pay me $20.  Isn’t that the weirdest way to earn a dollar you’ve ever heard of?  But I did it.  And I was thinking of doing it with my kids, but I can’t decide.

I envision them up late talking—at least when I slept over that’s what they did while they watched Family Feud.  Worrying about their kids and grandkids, the world and its nations, intruders and their health, you name it.  Of course we lived close, so maybe that’s why we were the beneficiaries of all their worrying.  I may have liked to have known the surrounding conversation, but it’s probably better that I didn’t.  They were most likely concerned about my lack of confidence, the way I  mumbled, my hair (moms and grandmas seem to always worry about hair), my future—I honestly don’t know.  But for whatever reason, they proposed this to me; and I took it.  I had to turn my list in to them; I wish I would’ve kept it.

I suppose that’s where it all started.  Because since then I’ve been drawn to the books about conversation.  I know, so weird.  But I’m afraid the pendulum has swung too far.  I imagine people feel like they’re being interrogated when we’re sitting together.  I’m so sorry.  I just long to know what’s deep inside a new friend—especially the quiet types.  What are you passionate about?  Why did you choose that major?  Do you really like your job? What would you do if you could do things over?  What would you secretly love to do?  What do you worry about?  I think I catch people off-guard.  I forget to filter and remember to play the game by the rules.  It makes people uncomfortable when I don’t.  I’ve got to learn to keep that in mind.  I get a little edgy with small talk—I just want to get to the meat, what really makes a person tick.  But I’ve learned the hard way so many times:  most people aren’t into this.  They want to stay safe and fluffy.  Sigh.  We’ve had some pretty good laughs at my expense because of this habit.  But sometimes I shut down because I feel rejected, I’m too invasive, I ignored the rules of propriety.  Again, I’m so sorry.  I just think my grandpa sparked something in me that caught me by surprise:  I have an unquenchable desire to find out what’s really inside, who the real person is; pretenses make me impatient.

I wish I could remember some of my old questions, but I’m sure I’ve asked them all by now, several times over.  I recall so many dinner groups where everyone was quiet.  Introverts.  I totally recognize the type because I’m one of them.  But I assume that when I invite people over it’s part of the job to include everyone and to get and keep the conversation going, kind of like volleyball.  So whenever the ball or conversation stops I sometimes feel like I’m the only one who notices and I find myself serving again.  Exhausting.  But my exercise from long, long ago continues to come to my rescue and I remember a key to conversation is to get people to talk about themselves.  I sit back and relax the minute they start!