I often say my wife, Shannon, is my representative – especially during the holidays, which I refer to as “the season of the extrovert.”
While socializing at one of the many festive get-togethers we attend, her gift of gab is sufficient enough that I can awkwardly smile and gesture like a mime and remain mute. Luckily for a mime, though, they never have to worry about bumbling over their words. I, on the other hand, must ensure that whatever comes out of my mouth echoes the accepted rhetoric of the other humans.

Socially, it would make sense for me to daylight as a mime, but the face painting would surely grow old over time. Not to mention, I’ve never had a fondness for striped shirts.

That said, human interaction wasn’t always so difficult for me. There was a time when I was quite good at socializing – or at least what I considered to be good. I was the life of the party. I never met a stranger, and I was sure to keep a soirée alive well into the night. I would dance, sing and spin yarns for all to hear. If a band was playing, it was incumbent on me to break out my signature dance move: the worm. I once lost a toenail doing said move, and it still hasn’t grown back properly to this day. Yet I digress.

Everything has its price, and my extroverted lifestyle was no exception. I paid for it with alcoholism. The common denominator in my love for socializing and camaraderie was imbibing. I couldn’t seem to do one without the other. It was rare, if ever, that I attended a social function without drinking heavily before or during the event.

I could share many a cautionary tale of my alcoholism, but I’ll save that for another time. Let’s just say it was bad – really bad.
After seeking and completing the treatment I needed, I started a new life free of booze and full of hope. But I had no clue who I really was. After spending nearly two decades leaning on alcohol as a social lubricant, I had forgotten how to interact with others. Maybe I never liked social interaction to begin with. Perhaps that’s why drinking was a prerequisite for everything.

Fast-forward, and here I stand today: sober and different. My noisy mind prompts me to write in this column about my quirks and introversion because it helps me understand that confusing part of myself. It’s baffling, because I still meet a stranger every time I look in the mirror. I spent so many years masquerading as someone else that I’ve had to learn to live all over again. I like to look at sobriety as a rare gift – an opportunity to become reacquainted with myself every day.

I think every introvert should be assigned an extrovert, if for no other reason than to make sure we leave the house. Also, someone has to do all that talking with the other extroverts, and it’s not going to be me.

But take me with a grain of salt, because I actually love when Shannon brings me out of my shell. It awakens parts of the old me – the funnier, lighter side that cautiously emerges without alcohol.

It’s profound how those who love us know what we really need, especially when we can’t see it for ourselves.

I don’t know the psychology behind being introverted or extroverted, but the characteristics are absolutely on brand.

I often mention my disdain for small talk, though I fear it sounds pretentious. So let me clear the air: I don’t think I’m beyond reproach because I don’t like discussing weather forecasts. I’m simply disappointed sometimes because I know each of us has interesting things to say – we’re just not saying them. I get frustrated over lost moments that could have been special but weren’t, because we lacked the courage to be ourselves.

Shannon got a good laugh out of my craziness a couple of weeks ago. We attended a party where we knew no one except the birthday girl and her husband. From the moment we arrived until the time we left, we weren’t greeted or approached by any of the other guests. We tried our hand at social graces, all to no avail. As we drove home that evening, I began to complain about not being spoken to. Shannon replied, “So let me get this straight: You don’t like small talk, but you’re offended that no one attempted it with you?” I paused, then laughed and said, “I at least wanted the option to be bothered by it.”

For now, I think I’ll continue leaning on my wife to handle the talking, and I’ll try to lighten up. Meanwhile, I should probably go shopping for a striped shirt and some face paint. I may have missed my calling.

Clay Bowen is a Columbus native who cooked professionally as a chef in fine dining for 12 years and appeared on the third season of Top Chef. He is also a licensed landscape horticulturist. Email him at [email protected].