Noah (angelbob) wrote,

I suppose it's been a week or two of trite revelations.

I've noticed that occasionally the way I combine dialect and five-dollar words makes me sound like Dan Aykroyd's character in "Ghostbusters".

I've been told I'm like Jordan from "Real Genius". I wasn't using a power-sander on my floor at three in the morning at the time, but it was that kind of moment. S'okay, that was a good thing to hear. I like it :-)

I've been told that I sound not just foreign, but trained, in the way I speak. Like the whole "Hungarian princess" deal in Pygmalion (or My Fair Lady).

And apparently my body language is also weird in some ways I only mostly understand. It's true. Apparently old, mostly-defeated shyness still presents itself that way. That's true too. The shyness hasn't really been there for a long time, but I still stand awkwardly, duck away reflexively and speak quietly. Well, okay, all of those are "sometimes". But it's a good thing to be reminded of.

And this is unrelated to those, but my coworkers are of an entirely different culture than I am. I was reminded of this, and learned more of its extent, today at lunch.

My manager was talking about the Renaissance Festival and SCA freaks (yes, that was the word, and no, it wasn't used respectfully or playfully), and other folks on the team concurring or offering other biting comments. I was more than a little surprised that Craig, generally probably the most likable guy on the team, seemed particularly down on the medeival dancing the local SCA chapter did.

Just to drive the difference home a little further, things broke up when one of the guys made some kind of crack about prancing around naked and the image was apparently enough to drive the other folks off. Vijay's not that bad-looking a guy. I don't mean he's gorgeous, I just mean he's fine and average and generally acceptable.

I chose not to use that moment to mention either my comfort with nudity, my experience with Renaissance Faires, my Irish dancing on Monday nights nor my painted toenails under the motorcycle boots. There was a moment like this in my job at NOW Solutions where one of my coworkers, a rampant homophobe, said that regardless of the reason for them he didn't think he could work with a guy he knew had leather pants. He was talking to Jim, another coworker, about motorcycle pants. I shut up about the fact that I owned a pair, and at the time did *not* own a motorcycle.
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