where are you neal o'gane?

An example of my social incompetence:

I was dining at Seasons, the upscale restaurant in the Four Seasons hotel in Chicago, with my partner and some of the attorneys from the upscale law firm where he was working. I didn't know anyone. Furthermore, although I met many nice people who worked at the firm, the people we were dining with were, in my opinion, the worst sort of lawyers - exactly the type of arrogant S.O.B.s that give lawyers a bad name. Not a sympathetic or contemplative bone in their bodies if you ask me. Just out to exploit ambiguity and to win.

I sat mute for the most part, realizing that I would likely come to regret anything I said. My game plan in such situations is to do like the chameleon - become indistinguishable from the other spouses, all of whom, remarkably, were vapid grade school teachers (no, these 2 things do not always go together) and wore those matched "outfits" you buy - you know the kind with the capri pants with the embroidery that matches the embroidery on the little blouse and little sweater? Given the obstacles of my unmanaged hair, poorly applied make-up, and inappropriate attire, I knew that the cards were stacked against me. However, I carried on.

Disregarding basic pleasantness, I maintained my silence until we got to dessert. The conversation turned to kickball. Some of the lawyers had joined a club kickball league - playing indoors with the little red rubber balls that we played with back in grammar school. As kickball had been a very important element of my early education, I could not contain my curiosity:
"Do you play with the same team every time?" I asked.
"Yes."
"That's interesting. The thing I remember most about kickball, apart from the mean spin I could put on a pitch, is how your social standing depended upon how quickly you were picked for a team."
[extended silence]
"I got picked first once. Neal O'Gane picked me first when I was in fourth grade."
[extended silence]
"Of course, I was picked last a few times too, but I choose not to dwell on that."
[brief period of silence until someone has the wherewithal to change the topic of conversation completely].

This, dear readers, the surgical skill with which I kill a conversation, is why I choose to stay home.