Making conversation over dinner by asking someone about how they had liked living in the South, and receiving the expected response: Not very much at all, thank you. Somehow or other this prompts someone else to remark on how extremely little I ever say about myself.
I look around the table and they're all nodding somberly in agreement, staring at me like I'm some sort of master of international espionage. I try to explain that it's not secretiveness, but merely a desire to not tell what doesn't want to be heard. This must seem as good an invitation as any, because then the questions start. Where did I grow up, What highschool did I attend, What am I majoring in, What's my favorite book?
Deadeye Dick, I say, not because it's true, but because The Diary of Anne Frank sounds like too much and The Bell Jar doesn't sound like enough.
After spaghetti was perfectly aimed and thrown to hit the ceiling, the laughter began and I began to think about how amazing it is to be surprised. That making friends was just so much easier than I had expected it to be. I'm not sure if I am surprised by other people's perceptiveness or by my own oblivion, but either way it's a humbling thing.