I’m not big on small talk. I know, right? Shocker. A typical mindless social convention I can’t wrap my head around. That just might be the theme of my life. Anyway, on Monday, when buying a new pair of hiking shoes for camp this summer, I ran into something I never expect but always dread—a talkative fellow patron. A TFP is typically an older man, probably white, a little bit fat, and wearing some kind of plaid. He will probably use words that no one uses any more (“dungarees,” “chums”) and remind you why you worry when your dad goes to a store alone to buy something for the whole family. He might be in front of you in line, next to you on a plane, or in this case, also trying on shoes. “I can never find anything here,” he’ll say to you, “what kind of shoes are those?” He remembers the halcyon days of yore when salespeople spoke English and had any idea where anything was—two things that we modern shoppers no longer expect. “What are the ones I had before the ones I had last time?” he asked “Manuel.” “Manuel” did not know.
As annoying as a TFP is, there is a sense of inevitability to it all. A TFP tends to be harmless and good-natured, in no way trying too hard. I’m sure when I am his age, I will have no idea how to get the robot to fix my rocket car. So karma will eventually get me. I like a different approach in stores—avoid the store employees as much as possible. This might be an extension of the whole not-wanting-grocery-store-cashiers-to-know-I’m-making-enchiladas-for-dinner branch of crazy. But it is also a different thing. I don’t want to bother them. I know that working retail is generally awful, and I don’t want to open up a big bunch of crazy on them (I recently started a phone call to a receptionist in San Jose with “so, I have a series of potentially stupid questions” and then took her on a little journey through my orthodontic history and my love of dental hygiene before dropping the fact that I had moved to New York seven years ago).
Even when I have a list of things to buy, I attack it with the Associate Justice Potter Stewart philosophy (you know, “I know it when I see it”). So any store trip takes a few inefficient laps around, just getting a feel for what is there, before I even get down to business. It also turns into a hide-and-seek horror movie scene as I actively try to avoid the salespeople. (Why did he go upstairs? Why do they always go upstairs? There’s no escape! Don’t go into the clearance racks! Doesn’t he know there’s a short girl hanging shirts in there? “Hi, do you need any help?” Run! Run! She has a 10% off your purchase today pending approval of a Gap Credit Card offer!)
I also had an old man ask me for a pair of sandals in a size 8. But he was not a TFP as much as an old, old man who probably had no idea where he was or why some people here wore matching white polo shirts with the Sports Authority logo on it and why some people wore blue hoodies that say “Old Navy Surplus” on them.
In any case, when I go shopping, I am perfectly content finding everything myself and not interacting with anyone. I am not looking to meet a friend as much as I am looking for a reasonably priced pair of sneakers that I like. I suppose that is what a TFP is looking for too—just with a different philosophy. Something like, I am going to find these shoes, and if I make a friend or two along the way, well that’s just fine by me! Something he learned when he lived in Mayberry. The TFP really is just an outdated social convention trying to buy shoes in this cruel modern world. Not the worst thing in the world.
No, the title is held by something else. The worst social interaction of the modern age (and potentially, the worst thing in the world) is the forced nostalgia conversation. You know, when a bunch of people who probably don’t have much in common besides physical location at that moment and, possibly, age, sit around and talk about the things they remember from ten, fifteen years ago. But not remembering shared experiences. No, no. You just sit around and list the movies and TV shows that you all watched as a kid like an unfunny version of a VH1 series.
It starts out better than it ends, for sure. Typically, it begins with more personal anecdotes (“My brother and I used to watch that show after school every day,” “I remember listening to that album over and over on cassette tape in my Casio tape player!”), which is just fine, if told well. Then, midway through, you get to the analyzing the odd logic of old things section (“I know your mom died, but don’t worry, her brother is moving in, as well as this…other guy! But don’t worry, it’s not so creepy because he can do Bullwinkle impressions”), which is sort of like hearing stale stand up comedy. And eventually it just reduces down to naming things (“Remember Ren and Stimpy?”). You don’t even have to qualify it. Just name something! Smurfs! Slap bracelets! Hammer pants! Doesn’t even have to be from the right decade! No one even cares any more! Zack Morris mobile phone! Sophie B. Hawkins! Kurt Cobain’s suicide! The Little Mermaid!!
The true problem is that most the time, people are lying. For some reason, these conversations turn into a big “if you don’t also remember this, you are not cool” party. So, of course you watched every single show that ever played on television between 1982 and 1996, despite the fact that you were born in 1991. Of course you were watching R-rated movies when you were 6. Why wouldn’t you remember music from when you were a baby? I mean, I’m sure that my parents played Madonna and Wham on repeat to me as I lay in the crib, trying to figure out what my toes were. I was singing along the whole time.
Again, there is something to be said for bridging the gaps between people with whom you have nothing in common besides the decade of your birth. That is fine. The problem is when it turns into a desperate attempt to earn the collective approval of the group by inventing a childhood that was not yours. This is not some noble attempt to forget your abusive past. This is pretending you watched a TV show you did not. Way to go. I’m pretty sure if you admit to not watching Rocko’s Modern Life, they will still believe you were born in 1986.
So, really, I’d take a TFP in line with me in the vestibule of a bank any day over a FNC with high school kids ten years my junior. Also, how do you like those initialisms? I hear the kids use them today. Why the face?
