Social Insecurity
One of the more thankless tasks of being a civilian department head on a small and otherwise all-military staff is having to attend semi-official functions sponsored by said staff. This means social interaction, something I pretty much suck at no matter what the surroundings.
I’m sort of like the social intercourse version of a nuclear warhead. I’m either the quiet dud that hits the ground with a soft thump that nobody notices, or the armed weapon of mass destruction leaving tears, despair and destruction in my wake. Usually it depends on if I have eaten dinner beforehand.
I have nothing against breaking bread with the military – I am an Air Force vet myself – but my past experience has been mostly working with enlisted personnel. As an ex-sergeant, I could deal with that. I was just a working stiff like them, except maybe with a better haircut…well, “better” might be a stretch. It’s kind of like asking who had the best haircut among the Three Stooges. I’ve been mistaken for Larry on many an occasion.
But to get to what I was trying to say before I was so rudely interrupted by myself, I am uncomfortable with brass. Most of the small staff on the ship is made up of junior officers, led by a Commodore (rank of Captain) and Chief Staff Officer (Lieutenant Commander), with a smattering of enlisted petty officers doing their bidding. In most military situations, there are rules regarding fraternization between officers and the unwashed, er, enlisted. However, with a staff this small, those rules are not stringently observed, much to my chagrin. Theirs too, probably.
While I have no problems dealing with officers in a business setting, it is a whole other matter when things are transferred to a social setting. Suddenly the efficient professional I portray at work turns into Jerry Lewis. I drop things. I get tongue-tied. I find myself relating stories that are of no interest to anyone…including me, once I have a chance to think about it.
This is not to say that I am asocial or anti-social, not at all. I’m very comfortable with a bunch of guys drinking beer and watching football. A quiet dinner with a few select friends? Not a problem. I can be spontaneously witty and urbane, especially if I practice first.
I have even, on occasion, rubbed elbows with the rich and famous…except for maybe the famous part. I managed to hold my own, as long as nobody else asks me to hold theirs. Then things get complicated.
But get me around a bunch of military officers and I become Beetle Bailey or Sad Sack, fumbling words, cocktail glasses, dinner plates, silverware, the occasional waitress, etc…
I am at a loss to explain this phenomenon. It’s not like these functions are held at embassies with the officers in full mess dress, the lights from the chandeliers glinting off their Medals of Honor, and white-jacketed waiters serving flutes of Dom Perignon while I stand forlornly in the corner in my finest ensemble, purchased during Spring Clearance at the Men’s Warehouse.
More than likely, they are held at reasonably-priced restaurants that rate somewhere below Wolfgang Puck’s but a notch or two above Taco Tuesday at Skull & Lola’s Bucket of Blood. The dress leans more toward Tommy Bahama than Prince Philip, and if they have a microbrew or two on tap, hey, we’re talking high end of the spectrum.
It matters not. Somewhere along the line I will spill a beer, drop a quesadilla or trip over a carpet. And I’m sober at the time. It is enough to make me want to start downing shots of mescal the moment I walk in the place, get drunk fast and pass out before I have a chance to break anything, but I’ve been told that tends to leave a negative impression as well. Go figure.
You would think that, having been out of the service for nearly twenty years, awe of rank would have worn off by now. But I guess there are some things which you can never let go. Unlike cocktail glasses, dinner plates, silverware, waitresses, etc…
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