Be Different: Adventures of a Free-Range Aspergian With Practical Advice for Aspergians, Misfits, Families & Teachers (14 page)

The popular guys always had girls on their arms. I’d see couples walking together in the halls, and I’d feel sad and wistful. Sometimes I saw them holding hands, and I wondered what that would be like. I had not held anyone’s hand since I was a little boy. How I wished I could do that.

When I was lucky enough to gain a female friend in those days (by some miracle), we were too shy to be boyfriend and girlfriend. In eighth grade I had made friends with Mary Trompke, whom I called Little Bear. We were together all the time, it seemed. I walked her home from school every day, then turned around and walked seven miles back to my own house. All that time, though, we
never held hands or kissed. I thought about it, and I’m sure she did, too, but it was just too scary. We didn’t go beyond that until we were both out of high school and she was at the University of Massachusetts. She later became my first wife, and our son Cubby’s mom.

I didn’t know it at the time, but Little Bear was a little bit autistic, too. Were we drawn to each other because of that? Surely our mutual social oblivion kept our budding romance moving at a glacial pace. Could we see kindred spirits in our difference? Whatever the reason, my connection to her has endured for almost forty years, which is more than I can say for most of the other people in my life.

Today, I can see why I didn’t have other regular girlfriends in school. The simple answer is: I ran them off. I acted strange, and my antics dissuaded interested people from taking the next step. For example, I think Emily Bolduc wanted to make friends when she walked up to me after social studies class back in ninth grade. But when I looked at her and went, “Bow bow bow,” like some kind of crazed dog, she quickly changed her mind. Who knows what might have been had I just responded in a less unexpected fashion.

The first girlfriend of my adult life—Cathy Moore—chose me while I was working with bands, doing sound in local bars and clubs. That relationship didn’t last, but
it gave me confidence that I could make friends with girls and that I might not be alone forever. However, the road from there to marital contentment remained pretty rocky. Cathy showed me the value of basic manners, something I’ll be forever grateful for. I also learned not to say totally weird things, which made me acceptable to a much wider circle of people. But I remained a social ignoramus, light-years removed from the popular kids I saw around me.

I bumbled along in that state right through into my early twenties. That was when I decided to get a real job. I became a staff engineer at Milton Bradley, the famous toy and game company in East Longmeadow, Massachusetts. That was the first time since high school that I found myself among lots of people, interacting with them about different things on a daily basis. Most people have that experience in college, but I didn’t go to college, so I missed that opportunity for socialization.

Milton Bradley actually had behavioral standards and a dress code, which meant that I needed a major overhaul before walking in the door. I had read about Big Business and how one dressed for it, so I cleaned myself up for the first job interview and stayed on my best behavior right through the process.

The result of cutting six inches of extra hair and putting on a suit was just amazing. People reacted to me as if I were a different person. Before, I had looked like the factory workers, the mechanics, and all the others who did the physical work. Now, I found myself a part of the white-collar workforce. Executives actually addressed me in a different
tone of voice than the one used to talk to the factory laborers. In some cases older people even deferred to me, not knowing I was little more than a big kid in a suit.

I was shocked to discover how powerful an impression clothes made. But once I saw it, I embraced the concept. As soon as I could afford it, I outfitted myself with a Brooks Brothers suit, Hathaway shirts, Bally shoes, and even accessories like an S. T. Dupont fountain pen. I became a picture of sartorial elegance.

My new attire—and the manners I’d been picking up—also helped my social life. By looking like a young executive, I became acceptable to other young executives, and I was drawn into their society with very little effort on my part. By then, I had learned enough to watch and imitate, and I didn’t run my new acquaintances off by howling, “Bow bow
bow
!” I couldn’t play golf or do all the things they did, but I’d learned to nod politely, follow along, and stay in the group anyway.

However, even in the new and improved environment, I was still not able to approach females. I’d been too scared to ask a girl to dance in junior high; now I was unable to ask an attractive girl at work to lunch. Why were girls so scary? After all, I’d overcome my fear of monsters.… Could
it be that girls were scarier than T. rex? I guess they were.

I was not the only geeky young adult with those fears. Bob Jeffway was another Milton Bradley engineer who felt exactly the same way. He and I both looked at the attractive females at work, but that was as far as it went. All we could do was admire them from a distance, or program a toy robot to approach them and report back. We watched movies and read books about it, but neither of us had the courage or confidence or polish to actually get a girl out on a date.

However, both of us were saved from loneliness by virtue of being chosen. Having females choose us rendered our own inability to pursue and choose potential mates moot. Becoming Choosable proved to be the solution to the Girlfriend Problem.

Bob was introduced to Celeste—the female who picked and married him—through a family friend. Celeste also happened to work at Milton Bradley, though they didn’t actually meet there. I was reconnected with Little Bear, by chance, when we found each other as young adults at the University of Massachusetts. Both Bob and I ended up marrying our choosers, though it worked out better for Bob than for me, because he’s still married to his and I’m not.

I recently asked Celeste what she had found attractive in Bob, and she said, “He was just the most interesting man I knew. Other guys just wanted to talk sports, but Bob was into airplanes and computers and all manner of
things. He was just interesting.” I was fascinated by that because all through high school it was the sports guys who got all the attention. Where were girls like Celeste in high school? After speaking with a few other females who chose geeks as mates, I concluded that preferences like hers must evolve after high school. They say a taste for fine wine is acquired in adulthood; perhaps more sophisticated mate-picking abilities arrive then, too.

What else did we do to get picked? you may ask. Well, I, for one, learned manners. Both of us learned more about how to behave so as not to shock or horrify others. We dressed well and placed ourselves among potential mates.

Once I learned I had Asperger’s, I was able to make an even bigger leap in social acceptability because I understood how some of my behaviors affected other people. I realized I still had a number of obnoxious habits, like talking over people, running on and on, and general rudeness. Unfortunately, they were pretty ingrained, so they were hard to change. But I succeeded, and people responded almost immediately. When I made myself receptive to approaches from strangers I began making new friends, one after the other. I was amazed
to discover that I really was a nice guy, or at least a reasonably likable one.

I learned that it was possible to make friends with a girl without asking her to dance, or doing things that seemed unnatural to either of us. Best of all, I figured out how to get girls and guys to approach me, just by being myself. I guess you could say I learned to be the human equivalent of a flower. Just by being there, flowers attract honeybees.

Today I know that the things I do in the course of my life are interesting to other people. So rather than focus on how to make people like me, I focus on how to do the things I do really well. I still don’t know how to ask a girl to dance, but I do know how to be a good restorer of cars and a good designer of sound systems. So I go out and do those things, and more, every day. That’s who I am. And now I know that people will like me for those real accomplishments, if only I open myself to their approach. I call that
being receptive
.

I still can’t really go out and actually chase down new friends, but making myself receptive to other people’s approaches has brought me many new friendships. For someone like me, that seems to be a good strategy. As successful as I am, I still have not let go of some fundamental insecurities. By being the chosen, not the chooser, I reduce the risk that someone will laugh in my face and call me names. People come to me because I did something that captured their interest, and not vice versa, so most of the anxiety is on them.

What a wonderful idea!

Some people have told me, “Your idea of getting chosen is nutty. I can go meet anyone I want.” That may be true for some people, but it’s not true for me. I can do interesting things. I can display good manners and look clean and presentable. The most important thing I can do is to make myself receptive. All those things will incline people to approach me. However, none of that empowers me to walk up to a stranger and attempt to make friends. I just can’t do it, not without some kind of context.

That means my circle of friends is limited to those who first display an interest in me. I’m a chosen, not a chooser. That sounds restrictive, but it’s really not. For a relationship to succeed, both people must choose each other. And it has to start with someone. I must choose you, or you must choose me. It doesn’t matter who makes the initial approach. There are millions of people in the world, and if I present myself properly, plenty of them will chose to connect with me.

You can do it, too. Take regular showers, wear clean clothes, brush your hair, and mind those manners. Listen more and talk less. All that may seem like a waste of time, but I assure you, the results are worth it.

Let the friendships begin.

C
an you feel the labels on your underwear right now? I can. I can also feel the seams on the inside of my shirt and pants. At this very moment, the tags in the collar of my shirt are gnawing at my neck. Luckily, I have taught myself to ignore those feelings most of the time. Otherwise, they would drive me crazy.

I know a rational designer would not incorporate the functional equivalent of sandpaper into his own underwear or create clothes with seams that scratched and clawed him every time he got dressed, so I’ve come to the conclusion that I am unusually sensitive to certain kinds of touch.

Unfortunately, knowing I am different does not make me more comfortable. I still have to endure constant assault from seams and labels on clothing. Even the fabric itself can become aggressive.

Psychiatrists tell me that many people on the autism spectrum have unusual sensitivities. Some—like me—are sensitive to touch. Others are sensitive to sound, or light, or even smell. A few of us are sensitive to everything.

Touch sensitivity has its good points, but it can also bother me a lot, especially when I think about it. As I write this passage, my clothing is becoming increasingly noticeable. Sharp little fibers are biting into my back. The label on my shirt is scratching my neck. The more I think about it, the more I feel. Soon, I may have to tear all these clothes right off. Hopefully something will divert my attention before that happens. Otherwise, this shirt is headed for a bad end. But probably not. If this time is like most, some distraction will come along and my touch sensitivity will fade into the background.

Things were worse when I was younger. There were days when a piece of clothing would bother me all day, and I’d just sit there distracted and fidgeting. “Why are you squirming around like that?” my teachers would challenge me when they saw me wriggling. “Can’t you sit still?” I never knew how to answer them, so I’d say something like, “I don’t know,” and they’d just get mad at me. For some reason, I never thought to say what was really bothering me. I knew I was itching, but for some reason, I could never seem to say that. I should have said, “My sweater is scratching me and I’m distracted.” If I had, I’m sure my teacher would have understood. Maybe she’d have told me to take it off, or worked something else out. I wish I had known, but I just didn’t get it.

“How could that be?” people ask me, dumbfounded. “How could you just sit there while a piece of clothing quietly drove you nuts?” As a child, I never knew why I suffered in silence. Years later, my crazy old pet poodle has provided the answer. Like many small dogs, he wears a harness rather than a simple collar. The harness has a loop around his neck, a loop around his chest, and a strap that holds the loops together. Every now and then, he gets tangled up in his harness. If you try to take it off him to free his leg, he’ll bite. He must think that harness is a part of him, and when I try to take it away, he goes nuts, as if I were trying to cut off his tail.

I was the same way as a little kid. When my mom put an itchy wool sweater on me, it became a part of me, and it would never occur to me to just take it off because it itched. So it just drove me crazy, quietly.