Lasting Impressions

There is all this malarkey floating around those “restore your inner fluffy bunny” websites suggesting we ‘never get a second chance at a first impression' *insert cheese queen, life coach voice*. I think this is complete balderdash; moreover, I’m relying on it. I make lousy first impressions. If I am going to make an offensive joke or controversial comment, burp, fart, fall, sing it’s going to be when I am making that all-important first impression. It’s what I do. Last night was a shinning example of how I can make an appalling first impression. Wait for it.

I went to a singles date night last night, not because I wish to cure my current single-dom (I really don’t!!!), I was rent-a-crowd for my mates first foray into organising said event, plus there was poker and booze. The promise of booze tends to ensure my attendance at any event which may have otherwise not engaged my enthusiasm. I won’t hold you in suspense, I didn’t win, I didn’t come close, I was pretty much out of the game shortly after it started, but I was definitely not the first, which at the end of the day, is a win for me. I lost my competitive streak the day my little brother, otherwise known as Mr Peunyverse grew to six-foot-three overnight; I remained at five-foot-three and still do.

Unfortunately it wasn’t my abysmal poker-man-ship that tarnished any first impression I made, it was my perhaps misguide sense of the hilarious that saw me describe myself on the registration form within my three word limit as “Noisy, Neurotic, Junkie”. Regrettably this was to be the tagline descriptor on my name badge. Opps. I have to plead ignorance here, I didn’t realise that I would be wearing my misnomer. In truth, I find this funny, especially when around the like minded, however, I think I may have missed the mark and said missed mark was my first impression. “Noisy, Neurotic, Junkie”.

Jumping ahead, I seemed to have made a little friend by the end of the night, lots of discreet back touching and a few more intimate arms-on-shoulders for photographs, while this was unreciprocated affection, the moral of the story here is that I obviously had my second chance and proved myself to be a cut above “junkie” even if that impression may have been “easy”, who knows?

I think there is a certain sense of nostalgia dating back to a first impression that may have not been an entirely accurate portrayal of the individual in question. An inquisitive friend/former colleague of mine recently asked me about the first impression she made on our team. I squirmed, tiptoed around the answer until eventually giving in, answered somewhat severely – “Intense. We thought you were intense”. The retaliation for this (in good humour of course) was informing me several of my former colleagues thought I was a bitch on their first encounter. Then the laughs ensued, for me this was actually a great compliment, I’m actually an old softie when you get to know me, but normally, I come of as a bit of a dim-wit on first meeting.

I have these thoughts painfully swimming around my mind at the moment. I’m starting a new job next week and more than the adorning dorky, impractical, corporate attire, the subdued newsreader haircut and the professional manner that I have to adopt, the thing I am packing it about most is having to make my first impression. You know all those ridiculous conversations you have to have about generic topics, like the weather, which will consist of me having to say “My yes, it was a little crisp at the station this morning” naturally moving on to where I live, “Oh, I reside in Emu Plains, it’s the bottom of the Blue Mountains” progressing to recoils in horror asking me if I mean the Emu Plains near Penrith, which will force me to reply “Yes, good man, the one and same!”. The conversation thus comes to a grinding halt where I can either not gage the conversation has stoped and keep going or do one of the following; burp, fart silently but stinky, fall or spill my bowl of baked beans down my front bringing attention to my Target Classic white shirt I got on sale for $18.99. First impression? Dumb-shit, westie chick, too tight to by lunch with odour problems and bad taste in fashion who DOESN’T SHUT UP. Sigh.

I’ve never been good at making small talk, whenever I do all I seem to achieve is displaying zero personality content. The weather, the public transport system (sans a string of expletives I would normally use), how $5.00 doesn’t go far anymore, how small mobile phones have become are all key features. I am a grandmother’s wet dream and my own worst nightmare. So gripped with this knowledge I have to march into a brand-new office come Thursday, with fifty fresh faced colleagues all full of expectation and all I’ll have to offer is “My, it was mighty chilly this morning and it’s not even winter yet!” let’s hope my second chance at a first impression is sans flatulence and baked bean mishaps. *Burps*.