This is genuinely one of my favorite lines in the whole series, because it’s got so much meaning. She’s standing in the last place she’ll ever see, looking a what she believed was the cause of all evil, something she committed horrible crimes to fight, and realizing that it’s actually something beautiful. But the fact that she’s talking to Lord Asriel makes it even better, because she’s not just talking about Dust, she’s talking about them. She spends all three books calling their relationship a mistake and a humiliation and sinful, and yet as her life draws to a close, she’s able to look around at Dust and realize, no, we weren’t a mistake. We were beautiful. We were something good.
His Dark Materials is a franchise that tackles so many branches of physics and even creates a universe where the main course of study is experimental theology which is all about identifying and explaining dark matter while also adding dimensions to string theory, the multiverse theory, and the very concept of the human soul. At the same time, it aggressively calls out the problem with the state being controlled by the church, how people are condemned for being different and religious fearmongering stops the chance at growth both on an individual and a societal scale. It’s a franchise where the heroes of the story are two children who aren’t allowed to know the prophecy they’re a part of, who save the world unwittingly simply by doing what they believe to be right. Meanwhile, the person who thought he was the hero all along, the person who rallied an army from multiple universes to FIGHT. GOD. HIMSELF. is ultimately consumed by his own ego and forced to take a back seat when he realises he’s just one tiny piece of a much larger story that’s true heart is his own daugher. The child he abandoned, the child he didn’t know or care to know how to look after. It’s a franchise about finding love even when your biological family abandon you, it’s about looking evil in the eye and seeing your own mother, it’s about good and evil not being black and white but instead a complex and cruel mixture of both. It’s about the two worst people you know banding together at the last second to save their daughter with their final breaths. It’s about exploration and learning how to grow through experience, it’s about kindness being shared across the multiverse, exchanging stories with strangers and saving the whole world by doing something perfectly ordinary and receiving no reward.
Oh, and it’s also a franchise rich with fantasy, with giant talking polar bears, witches and ghosts, angels and daemons, and a mammal-like species from another world that travels exclusively on roller skates.
I love the simplicity in Mrs Coulter's design. In a world where everyone's soul is able to think and speak on its own, in a shape with clear connotations about your own personality and mindset, here is a woman whose very essence is unnamed, completely unwilling to communicate, in a shape with unclear associations (in western and northern Europe at least) that has the most similarity with an engineer but with an unfamiliar beauty that is both off-putting and entrancing. I just think it's neat story telling.
summary: jack has been trying to get the pretty pediatric caseworker from upstairs to fall in love with him for weeks now. the only problem is, you have no idea that he's even into you. (4k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, michael robinavitch, dana evans
contents: sunshine!reader, slightly ditzy!reader, friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, humor, fluff, not proofread :P
FIC #4 / 20 FOR 20
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
PEDES CONSULT — CENTRAL 14.
The message scrolls across your pager on the elevator ride down to the bottom floor, where the chaos of the E.D. hits you before the doors have even opened. A monitor wails from somewhere inside the trauma bay. A nurse rushes by with a crash cart rattling violently against the tile. Someone in triage is crying; someone else is swearing. A thousand conversations fill the air until they turn into a dull roaring in your ears.
You enter like a sliver of sunlight breaking through storm clouds, weaving through the chaos with a practiced sort of ease. A pale blue cable-knit sweater bunches around your wrist, while a flowing ivory skirt patterned with delicate forget-me-nots sways around the tops of your sneakers with each step. You’re made of much softer stuff than the sterile brightness of the E.R. — like springtime washing over a war zone.
Robby and Jack stand together outside the closed door of Central 14. Exhaustion sits heavily in the former’s bearded face, weighed down with the regret of not clocking out an hour ago like he should’ve when he had the chance. The latter flips through the chart in his pale hands, scruffy features screwed in concentration until you enter into his eyeline.
He straightens almost instantly, hardly able to stay casual when it comes to you. “Little Miss Sunshine…” he greets with a cool grin, tucking the clipboard under his strong arm.
Your polite smile widens a little at the nickname. “You paged?”
“We’ve got a three-year-old girl. Suspected meningitis,” Robby briefs in a monotone, each word coated in a thick layer of fatigue. “High fever, lethargy, neck stiffness— labs are ugly, too.”
Your features soften instantly. “Oh, poor baby…”
Your eyes dart to the window. You catch only a sliver of the family through the edge of the curtain — young parents, likely in their early twenties, faking teary smiles for their sick baby, who sits in a too-big bed in a too-big hospital gown patterned with so many cartoon puppies.
“Parents are freaking out, obviously,” Jack adds gently, never once taking his eyes off of you. “We thought you could walk them through the admission process before we take her upstairs.”
“Of course,” you nod, with a voice as gentle as you look.
Jack passes the clipboard over to you and allows his calloused fingers to brush your softer ones for a beat longer than probably necessary. Though if you notice it, you make no mention of it as you flip through the thin pages and follow behind Robby into the dim room.
The chaos outside muffles when the door clicks shut behind you.
A young mother — Nia, the form tells you — sits in a chair beside the bed with a wadded tissue clutched in her trembling hands. Her husband, Malcolm, sits on the edge of the hospital bed, wearing the long day all over, as his daughter curls lazily into his side. Ruby Turner is clammy with fever; her round eyes are heavy with it, too. And beneath her chubby arm, is a stuffed animal wearing a lab coat and a stethoscope around its long neck.
“Hi, there…” you greet in a gentle lilt, crouching beside the bed until you’re eye level with the toddler, who eyes your warm smile with a weary suspicion. “I have to say, that is a very serious giraffe you’ve got there, Miss Ruby.”
The girl blinks back at you with sleep-weary eyes; the same dark brown as her mother’s. “Pickles,” is all she can make out through her hoarse throat. The words came out like dry gravel, which rattles harshly in her chest when she coughs hard a second later.
Her dad pats her gently on the back with a wide hand and flashes you a tired smile. “She named him Pickles,” he clarifies.
“Pickles?” you gasp. “I had a dog named Pickles when I was growing up— He looked a little like that one there.”
You motion to the shaggy white dog on her hospital gown. The girl tilts her curly head down and begins pointing at each puppy herself, aptly naming each of them Pickles. It’s the first time the child has been moderately alert, or otherwise has been willing to engage, since she arrived some hours ago. Watching you work feels a little like watching a magic trick.
“Sorry. Hi. I should probably introduce myself,” you laugh warmly and rise to full height again, shaking both of the parents’ hands. “I’m one of the pediatric caseworkers upstairs— My job is basically helping families know what’s happening next. You know, all the boring insurance details, and making sure you guys aren’t going through things alone.”
The mother nods, wiping her nose with the crumbled tissue in her fist. “So what happens now?” she asks, voice teary and trembling.
You nod with a polite smile. “Yeah, so the pediatric unit is gonna start preparing a room for her upstairs, so our doctors can give her the full evaluation she needs— They’ll probably monitor her over the next few nights, too, just to make sure everything’s okay. And you’ll be able to go with her once transport comes, of course, we’ll just need to get everything squared away with insurance while she’s getting tested.”
“So she’s gonna be okay?” the father presses, half-strangled.
You never lie to families. Not ever. It was, as you saw it, the golden rule in any hospital. Jack noticed that about you, too — because he couldn’t help but notice everything about you. But he saw how hopeful you were without ever being dishonest, without ever making promises you knew you could not keep.
“She’s exactly where she needs to be,” you answer carefully. “And she has the best doctors I know taking care of her now. You guys made a great decision by bringing her when you did.”
The mother beside you sniffles. Her exhale leaves her mouth in a quiet sob, which she buries behind her hands before her daughter can see her crying. It’s not quite sad — certainly not as much as it had been earlier that day — but rather it’s a cry of distant relief; the first time all day she hasn’t felt like the worst mother on the planet.
Robby exhales quietly through his mouth behind you — scruffy cheeks puffing, obviously eager to leave. Jack, however, just keeps on staring at you, as you turn back toward the little girl with your voice now lowered in a feigned sort of seriousness.
“Now, Miss Ruby, I’m gonna need your professional opinion on this, okay?”
The girl blinks slowly back at you.
“…Do you think Mr. Pickles needs his own hospital bracelet, too?”
Jack sees the young girl laugh for the first time all day when you’re helping her wrap a plastic arm band around the giraffe’s stuffed leg. It’s basically your superpower, the way you make all the terrifying things feel halfway manageable. By the time you’re stepping back out into the hallway, with Jack and Robby at your side, the family is a little bit steadier than they were before you arrived.
Jack eyes you up and down for a moment, before leaning in to nudge your shoulder with his broader one. Your soft sweater grazes his bare arm, and he gets a faint whiff of your pretty perfume before he leans away again.
“When did you get so good at that, huh?”
Your head whips to the side. You blink like an owl up at him “…At talking?”
“Sure, yeah,” he laughs. “At talking people off the ledge.”
“Oh.” You bounce a shoulder in a lazy shrug, then reach to pull the neck of your sweater back up again when it slips off your collarbone. “I don’t know, I just… try not to sound like a hospital brochure, I guess.”
“Hear that, brother?” Jack quips, reaching behind you to clap Robby on the shoulder. “Try not to sound like a hospital brochure next time, yeah?”
The older man says nothing. He just lifts his hand and scratches at his temple with his middle finger, discreetly flipping him off.
You laugh under your breath and head back towards the elevator, pretty skirt swishing around your ankles. “Try not to traumatize anyone while I’m gone, alright?”
“Can’t make promises like that down here, Sunshine,” Robby calls back. “You know that.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to think we should just keep you down here permanently,” Jack says with a lazy shrug. His freckled biceps flex slightly when he crosses them over his broad chest, swaying back and forth on his feet. “You know, just— bring you into every room before the doctors go in. We’ll call you the Emotional Support Coordinator.”
“Oh, would you?” you scoff a faint laugh and hit the button for the upper floor.
The doors part with a soft ding a second later. You step in through the threshold and turn to face him once more, giving him a much better view of the smile on your face.
“I mean, it’d certainly make me feel better,” he jokes.
“Well, you’re not the patient, Dr. Abbot,” you retort with a devilish grin. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got a few more years before your geriatric assessment, right?”
“A few,” he echoes sarcastically, light eyes squinted. “My opinion still counts, though.”
You shake your head at him despite the soft grin still dancing on the edges of your mouth. “You’re funny, Dr. Abbot,” is all you say, as you press the panel on the inside of the lift. The doors whir when they slide shut; your grin remains visible between them until hatch closes just ahead of you.
Jack drops his head with a chest-deflating huff when you’re gone.
Robby tries and fails to choke back his laughter.
“You are officially 0 for 6, brother,” the man jokes. He claps Jack on the shoulder, hard, as his dark eyes squint under the weight of his smiling. “It’s honestly getting a little painful now.”
Jack turns to flash him a deadpanned look. “Shouldn’t you be clocking out now?” he wonders in a monotone.
“Not anymore,” Robby scoffs. “It’s just starting to get fun.”
The pediatric floor was quieter in the mornings, you found, after switching to the day shift some weeks back. It was never truly silent, exactly, but it was still a little bit softer, as the panic from the overnight patients faded into a calmer sort of quiet.
Cartoon reruns play quietly behind closed doors, while lively children’s music can be heard from further in the main area, down the hall to your right. A softer set of lullabies, meanwhile, plays more distantly from the nursery behind the double doors to your left. And, somewhere within the soft sanctuary of it all, a wailing baby is fighting a losing battle against taking their liquid medicine.
It’s all confetti to you, really, from where you sit behind the reception desk with three different charts open on the monitors ahead of you.
There’s a highlighter in your hand, a pen behind your ear, a paper cup of cooling coffee between your teeth, and approximately fourteen unfinished tasks glaring at you from the computer screen.
You have not yet properly woken up — the same way the sun has not quite yet risen over the horizon. Your hair has been haphazardly dealt with, for one. Your cherry-colored sweater is bunched awkwardly at your waist, for another, while the white button-up you wear beneath it sticks out over top of your plaid-patterned bottoms. You vaguely noticed that your socks were mismatched when you slid into your scarlet flats, but were much too tired to bring yourself to care.
You don’t even flinch when the phone rings beside you. You reach for it with your free hand without looking, missing twice before finally plucking the plastic from the hook.
“PTMC—” You falter when you realize you still have the paper cup between your teeth. You scramble to set it back on the desk with the hand not holding the phone. You clear your throat and try again. “PTMC Pediatrics— How can I help you?”
“Morning, Sunshine.”
Jack’s low voice crackles from the other line. You can practically picture him downstairs in the E.D. just now — leaning against the workstation with a computer glowing before him; with his messy silver curls, and his tired blue-green eyes, and that stupidly handsome half-smile he gets every time he talks to you.
You’re smiling at the thought alone before you even realize it.
“Dr. Abbot?” you answer. “Do you need something? What didn’t you just page me—”
“Weren’t you the one who said I can call just to say hi before you switched to the dark side?”
(The day shift, he means.)
You scoff quietly and lean back in your swivel chair. “Well, I guess, that is preferable to getting paged about sick babies, so… I’ll take it.”
“Wow…” Jack croons drily. “You always say the sweetest things to me, you know that?”
“Well, what can I say? I’m very charming before seven A.M.”
“I think you’re very charming all the time, Sunshine.”
You falter for a brief moment, unable to tell if he’s flirting with you or if he’s just being nice and you’re the weirdo for thinking otherwise. So you shake the thought from your head and change the subject entirely.
“You sound tired, old man— Isn’t it almost bedtime for you?”
“Almost…” His sigh crackles through the faint static of the landline. “But unfortunately, there’s this case manager upstairs who won’t stop distracting me…”
You exhale a frustrated huff, utterly oblivious as you begin to gossip with him under your breath. “Is Hastings bothering you, too? Because she’s been hounding me about clearing beds up here since I came in an hour ago.”
There’s a long beat of silence on the other line, filled by the sound of distant chatter from the E.D.
“…I’m talking about you, Sunshine,” Jack clarifies.
“Oh…” you trail off, face burning hot. Your brain scrambles further when the light starts flashing on your desk, another call waiting. “That’s, uh— Sorry. There’s— There’s just someone on the other line.”
“Oh.”
You tuck the phone between your shoulder and cheek, fingers whizzing across the keyboard as you type with practiced (only now slightly anxious) hands. “So if you wanna have a conversation, you’re gonna have to trek all the way up to pedes, unfortunately.”
“Damn…”
“Yep…” you hum absentmindedly. “It’s a real difficult journey. Very treacherous elevator ride.”
“Well, you’re making a pret-ty compelling argument here, Sunshine.”
“Goodbye, Jack,” you lilt with a big dumb grin on your face, that you hope isn’t as audible in your voice.
“See you soon, Sunshine.”
You think nothing of his words when you decline his call and take another. You hardly expect to see him now, not when he’s still wrapping up the long night and briefing the day shift that’s trickling slowly in downstairs. He’s about half an hour shy of going home and collapsing face-first into his mattress — and you’re hardly special enough to lose sleep over.
Jack, however, respectfully disagrees.
And so does Dana, who saunters into the workstation to start her morning, only to find the man hanging up the desk phone with a lazy grin hinting at the edges of his mouth.
“What’s that look for, huh?” she croons in place of a greeting, shrugging off the jean jacket she arrived in and spreading it on the back of her chair before her.
Jack looks up from where he’s shoving the phone back into its cradle. “What look?” he scoffs. “I don’t have a look.”
“Oh, you most certainly have a look,” she argues.
“I have a face, Dana.”
“Uh-huh,” the older woman deadpans, half-distracted, as she logs into the monitor ahead of her, with her glasses sitting low on her nose. “And right now, that face looks like you’re the main character at the climax of a Nora Ephron movie.”
“…What’s a Nora Ephron?” Jack wonders with furrowed brows.
The corner of Dana’s mouth lifts in a crooked half-smile as she peers at him over the top of her clear frames. “Go ask Little Miss Sunshine about it. She’ll tell ya.”
Jack’s light eyes narrow in a smug sort of look as he strolls slowly past her. “Thanks for giving me an excuse to go up there, Evans,” he quips.
“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “You were already on your way.”
There’s a newfound skip in his step, along with a faint limp in his prosthetic from the long shift, as he makes the elevator ride up to the pediatric floor — where he’s greeted instantly by soothing lullabies, children’s laughter, and reruns of old cartoons.
He’s swaddled instantly by the dim lighting and the soft warmth — both of which are rare to find in the cold, sterile chaos of the unrelenting E.D. just a few floors down. It’s like entering a whole new world when he steps out of the elevator.
Jack hears your voice, distant at first, but growing louder the further he treks down the hall. “No, I understand the policy, sir. You don’t have to explain it to me again—”
You exhale an annoyed sigh when the man on the other line prattles on, anyway, talking in a slow monotone as if you hadn’t understood him the first time. Despite your irritation, you perk instantly when Jack enters your vision, still in his black scrubs from the night shift, with a new exhaustion etched across his scruffy face.
He greets you with a tight-lipped smile anyway.
Your chest swells with a funny feeling accordingly.
“Sorry,” you mouth apologetically. “Just— one second.”
Jack waves a hand in your direction. “You’re fine,” he mumbles and turns away, idling awkwardly some feet away with his hands in his pockets, pretending not to hover. He marvels at the paintings on the walls, vivid scribbles from children of all ages, as he shifts on his weight — trying to relieve the distant pressure in his artificial limb.
You return to your phone call some feet behind him: “Yes, I get that. But this is a six-year-old going through extensive leukemia treatment— Delaying authorization for inpatient care would—”
You grumble an annoyed breath and drop your head into your hand when the man on the other line speaks over you once more. Jack glances over his shoulder at you, features softening instantly.
“—No, why should his parents waste their time fighting insurance, which should already be in place, by the way, when they could be spending it with their son? How is that fair?” you continue, obviously angry, but still so soft in your way. There’s a few seconds of silence as the person on the other line responds. You nod wordlessly to yourself at whatever they’re saying. “Yes, I will absolutely call back when your supervisor comes in— and every day until this is handled. Alright? Great. Bye…”
You set the telephone back on the hook with a huff.
“…Asshole,” you grumble around your breath, then get all sheepish again when your eyes find Jack’s. You cower under his softened stare. “Sorry… This insurance company’s trying to deny extended coverage for one of our oncology kids— because apparently compassion is illegal now, so…”
Jack musters a weak smile as he closes the distance between you. “I’m sure it’ll all work out.”
“Hopefully…” you sigh, a little embarrassed now, as you shrink further in your swivel chair. “So, uh... H-How was your shift?”
“Better now,” the older man croons, folding his arms along the countertop ahead of you, and leaning in until you can smell the cologne lingering on his skin — a mixture of leather and sandalwood.
“You’re such a suck-up, Dr. Abbot,” you say with squinted eyes.
His face twists into a look of faux-offense. “Well, that’s not a very nice thing to say to someone trying to invite you out for lunch, now is it?”
You brighten instantly. “Wait, really? That sounds so fun! Are Shen and Ellis coming, too— I haven’t seen them in ages!”
Jack’s smile falters slightly at the edges. “Well… Well, no, ‘cause I.. I thought, you know, it’d be just us. You know, you and me. Like a date.”
You blink owlishly back at him. “Oh…”
“Unless— Unless you don’t want to—” Jack stammers, quickly losing his ground.
“Of course I want to!” you blurt, a little louder and a far quicker than you mean to. “I just… I didn’t— I didn’t realize that you, you know, that you… liked me.”
His brows lower in confusion because, to him, it couldn’t have been more obvious that he was into you. He’d spent months tripping over himself to get your attention, including the time he ran into a crash cart ‘cause he was too busy staring at you to notice that it was in his way.
A chuckle sputters suddenly from his mouth accordingly. “I’ve been flirting with you for weeks! I mean, I’ve been calling up here just to talk to you since you changed shifts!”
“I thought you just liked bothering me!” you giggle in return, face burning hot.
“Yeah, well,” Jack tilts his silver head. “I do like bothering you, actually.”
“I like when you bother me, too…” you murmur sheepishly, struggling to meet the man’s unwavering stare as you swivel anxiously back and forth in your chair. You catch yourself smiling wider than you realize when you tell him, “And lunch sounds great, by the way.”
“Great…” Jack exhales a breath he didn’t know that he was holding, that he feels like he’s been holding in for weeks now. “‘Cause Robby’s kinda been threatening to ask you out for me if I didn’t do it myself, so… Happy to save myself the embarrassment.”
Your eyes widen with a girlish sort of horror. “Wait— Robby knew?”
“Sunshine,” Jack grins. “I’m pretty sure the entire hospital knew.”
why is it so hard for people to grasp that disabilities disable and chronic illnesses are chronic. yes even when it inconveniences you. yes even when your patience runs out
this might piss some people off but I don’t think some of you actually ever tried to unlearn your hatefulness. you just came out as queer and decided your new targets really truly deserve it this time.
I feel like in the rush of “throw out etiquette who cares what fork you use or who gets introduced first” we actually lost a lot of social scripts that the younger generations are floundering without.
A lot of tough situations where we now feel like we “don’t know what to do or say” had social scripts just a couple of generations ago and they might have been canned phrases or robotic actions but they could still be meant sincerely and unfortunately we haven’t replaced them with any more sincere or easier new script.
a lot of people are giving examples in the notes of things they just find annoying like not using headphones in public, but OP is talking about actual literal scripts of things to say in awkward situations
if you have a date or two with someone and you don't see a relationship developing? most millennials / gen Zers just end up ghosting. but a social script that might have been taught and rehearsed in the past could be:
"I really appreciated getting dinner with you the other night and I enjoyed your company, but I'm afraid I didn't feel a spark. I wish you the best, and hope you find that special someone!"
like it sounds kind of trite but it was at least something to say and it can still be meant with kind sincerity. it also communicates in 2 sentences that you don't want to see them romantically again, but there aren't any hard feelings about that. that's it!!! that's all it takes!!!
Another example is that at parties a lot of people talk about how awkward it is to mingle or talk to people they dont know. But at old timey parties that was traditionally the HOST'S job, and there was a specific scripted way of doing it that eased the process! The host would bring you in, introduce you and maybe even a little bit about you like what you did for a living, and then guide you to a group you could talk to. They didn't just let you in the door and then ditch you to fend for yourself in a sea of strangers. That would be unthinkable and no one would be surprised if a get-together like that wound up being awkward.
I still do the party-host thing and yall can, too! (Thanks Mad Men for teaching me a lot of outmoded social scripts... no really tho)
Remember things about your friends! Ask people about their weekends, hobbies, holidays, studies, and jobs! Listen for the concerns people have and what they are working on! Draw connections between one person and another to get the ball rolling. "Oh, Maura, you just got your first cat! You should talk to Felix, he used to work at a rescue. Felix, please tell Maura all the new-cat-guardian pointers."
"Bill, Sheila, Xan, this is my friend Kale. Kale is really into Star Trek, Bill you and them should talk about it!"
Orrr whatever! After you make the introduction and draw the connection you just float on into the next interaction with someone else at the function. Just listen, care about your friends, get our of your own head, and think of how you can bring other people together and you will feel 100% less awkward.
hi i am so excited about this post because i have posted this exact thing MANY times on here, often in the specific context of how formal etiquette is so useful for autistic people especially, but also for everyone. even if you come off a little bit formal, which you will sometimes, having Old School Manners (or just knowing what they are) for various common scenarios is like having a magic ticket that will just sail you through all kinds of social iinteractions, gatekeeping, social weirdness, and as is pointed out in the above posts about introducing people to each other, can make you into a really valuable and helpful person for an entire gathering or group of people.
i also want to point out that knowing what the polite thing to do in all situations makes you a lot more effective at being rude and obnoxious when the situation calls for it, which is also a valuable and necessary adult skill
#things to write#but also#things to do#I could certainly benefit from a manual...
If you're looking for a manual on these sorts of things; social etiquette, social scripts, how to handle difficult and/or awkward social situations, etc. then I highly recommend picking up any book by Miss Manners. Her books really are the gold standard for learning the types of skills this post is talking about. I should also mention that Miss Manners is witty and hilarious so her books are also fun to read.
The best book by Miss Manners to get started with would be Miss Manner's Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior. This one is probably the best starting point because it gives the best overview of all the basics.
If you're the type who likes to listen to podcasts, I recommend checking out "Were You Raised By Wolves?" and/or "Awesome Etiquette". Both are also great tools for learning the type of social skills this post is talking about. I'm personally a fan of "Were You Raised By Wolves?" because not only are they pretty funny and informative, they also bother to try to teach the underlying social intelligence behind various manners and social etiquette so that you can have the skills to solve social dilemmas on your own. However, "Awesome Etiquette" is also pretty fun and informative.
#long post#I feel like 'i dont do small talk nobody cares about the weather' had a negative impact on social interaction#I mean yeah sometimes small talk about nothing gets awkward. but often it leads to the most interesting conversations#just asking 'what kind of music do you listen to at the gym' or 'have you read any books lately' could be such a lovely subject#I'm sometimes socially awkward despite being a huge extrovert. that's why etiquette is such a great thing#if you don't know how to act around people just stick to the etiquette rules. if they have a problem with it they're not for me anyways
Sorry @darlingdear but I couldn't let this stay in the tags.
I say this as someone who is neurodivergent had grew up very socially awkward, but recently I find the "screw small talk, I wanna get to know the REAL you" attitude to be pretentious as well as a demonstration of a lack of boundaries.
But also, I think a lot of people who have this attitude don't actually really know what does qualify as small talk. The definition of small talk is any topic that's of no real consequence and includes topics like food, pets, sports, music, whatever show you're currently streaming, whatever book you're currently reading, and yes, the weather. A lot of people who have this "I hate small talk / I don't do small talk" attitude probably think it's only reciting a bunch of secret scripts about the weather, and don't realize how much they engage in small talk whenever they talk about their pets or their favorite foods or the really cool show they're watching right now.
Small talk is just about boundaries and getting to know someone *before* you move into more serious and personal topics. The older I get the more I learn you really can't just trust anyone with more serious and personal subjects. Small talk first is important to gauge if they're someone safe and trustworthy first before moving into more serious and personal subjects. If you really genuinely refuse to get to know someone before immediately discussing serious and personal subjects you may have an issue with boundaries and should consider working on that.
Oh my god, so much the last point. All of them, but especially the last.
Small talk is a way of sounding out a person’s attitudes. It’s about finding out if they’re a rabid asshole or someone you want to spend more time with.
I had a professor who got angry at a group of (mostly women), from five countries, all of whom met yesterday, for talking about daytime TV. He basically insulted us and called us shallow.
Dude, we were figuring each other out with a safe topic! We were the best of friends three weeks later. We could broach harder topics because we understood each other’s boundaries better. If you immediately demand people bare their souls, you’re not likely to get them to be honest.
also it's always polite / a good idea to balance the conversation out between yourself and the other person.
By which I mean, if they've asked you several questions, turn it around: "and what about you?"
/ "what has your experience been in [topic]?"
I used to be too awkward to do it but noticed conversations would bleed to death. Then I overcompensated and only asked the other person question upon question. This was also Not Ideal because guys would end up thinking I was super interested in them and get confused when I shut off my interest / social battery later on.
So, balance: I try to talk about 50% of the time and share something that is either useful or relatable to the other or important to me. And by being interested and asking real questions you can get to know someone better and they will also know you a little, which can be really lovely.
Due to me seeing this post again, I decided to start re-reading Miss Manners Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior, and all I can say is, this is a book Tumblr is really sleeping on.
It's not just the fact that this book is perfect for those of us who are neurodivergent, who can really benefit from having a book which kindly and patiently bothers to explain social rules and norms that people just expect you to know without ever telling you themselves.
It's also the fact that, despite this book being nearly 45 years old, Miss Manners makes it clear in the preface and opening chapters that she is explicitly against classism, sexism, and homophobia. She also makes it explicitly clear in the preface that her personal belief in the importance of good manners and etiquette has nothing to do with a desire to return to "the good old days", because those days were not actually good for women, LGBTQ+ people, poor people, and people of color.
What really made me re-fall in love with Miss Manners though was right in the opening chapter she addresses using sexualized threats and insults to debase and degrade others (you know, like "get fcked", or "suck my genitals", or "yeah well that's not what your mom / sister / other female family member had to say last night") because if sex is something that's supposed to be good and pleasurable, why are we using it as a threat to debase and degrade others? Honestly I love her so much for calling out the inherent sex-negativity of using sexualized threats and insults like that, and nearly 45 years ago at that!
Miss Manners has never been a stuffy old fashioned fuddy-duddy. She has always been a deeply compassionate woman far ahead of her time, whose sole mission is to make the world a kinder and more considerate place.
I love so much that Philip Pullman wrote a beautiful fantasy trilogy to say “organized religion is bad” and then came back 20 years later with a second trilogy to say “but you know what’s worse? capitalism”
His dark materials is so funny. It starts out like “oh no, my best friend is missing! Let’s go on an adventure to find him!” and two books later they’re going “let’s start a multi universal war and kill god”. And they’re twelve.
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