The Thing About First Impressions...

 "Not even the creator of the universe knew what this man was going to say next."

~ Kurt Vonnegut ~

Being essentially on the road for four straight months has some pretty sweet upsides. For instance, I can tell the same story over and over again and each time I have an entirely new audience to bore half to death. While the spinning of my "that time I climbed Machu Picchu" yarn has grown to me both tired and hackneyed, its crisp, rehearsed delivery keeps it at the top of the charts for first-time listeners. It's nearly impossible for people to get sick of me because we only have a handful of potential social interactions before it's time for me to skip town and set up shop on a new continent. And possibly best of all, each stop is a new chance to reinvent myself and make up all sorts of cool and interesting facts about my past that may or may not be true.

Reinvention Fail

Such perks however come at a cost. With each chance meeting and new introduction, I'm faced with the all important 'first impression' at least seven or eight times a week. While my short time at each volunteer post might mean never having to say I'm sorry for my generally skittish behavior, life is generally more enjoyable when everyone around me doesn't think I'm entirely out to lunch, so I have to continually be on my toes lest I send the wrong message to my new acquaintances.

Normally I do fine in these situations. Ask anyone who has ever come with me to a law firm meet & greet - I can press flesh with the best of 'em! And my track record of success as a kick ass plus-one at company holiday parties speaks for itself. Recently though I think the stress of my sixteen week status as the new guy is catching up to me. My introductions are getting briefer, my self-descriptions more terse, but through it all I've done a bang-up job of staying sharp. Then last Friday at my first social event with all the interns at my office, the wheels came off the bus.

For dinner, we hit the legendary Bains des Paquis for fondue and white wine, dining in style while overlooking beautiful Lake Geneva. Having recently sworn off all dairy (owing in part to my new found, half-assed veganism, and in majority to my crushing lactose intolerance), my drinking base consisted entirely of five pieces of doughy bread and a bottle of cheap Chardonnay. It was still early in the night and I was on a tear, so I remained at all times entertaining and kept things pretty lighthearted. If anything, there were some minor fault lines creaking across my friendly surface but nothing too damaging.
First Impression Rating: 7/10

Being the cash conscious consumer that I am, I purchased a hip flask late last week in order to help save money whilst engaging in brown-liquor-based self destruction. With a glass of cheap bourbon clocking in at about 15 Swiss Francs, and the flask itself setting me back a mere 45, I figured it would pay for itself within about an hour of casual drinking. Despite careful stock being taken of my bank account during the planning stages of this debacle-in-the-making, I failed entirely to consider the toll my secret shots might have on my sanity. When the wine at dinner was finished, I turned to the flask to get the party started. I offered some of my delicious Four Roses brand bourbon to my coworkers but received few acceptances. I would later polish off the flask in the bathroom of a sports bar nearby.
First Impression Rating: 5/10

The time then came for us to hit the clizub and get our dance on! I was entirely excited to rock out a bit, having celebrated my one week anniversary back in civilization with the aforementioned wine, whiskey and two additional pints of Carlsburg for good measure. I was so excited, in fact, that I walked directly into a wall on the way out of the bar. Now, bear you well in mind, when I say walked into a wall I don't mean brushed shoulders with the corner or clipped my wingtips on the crown molding - no sir, in mid sentence I went nose-to-brick with a half ton of mortar and clay that I honestly did not see coming. My momentum carried me a good foot or so back off the surface, and amazingly I did not spill a single drop of my beer.
First Impression Rating: 3/10

Last stop: dance club. In my seven-year-old Banana Republic button down and ratty jeans I marched past the bouncer like an I-banker on bonus day, too stoked about his hair gel and opportunity to test out his new Johnston & Murphy's to even consider that there might be a cover charge. "Not now chief, I'm in the zone," I thought to myself! I set up shop near the dance floor and got to work. That is, I got to work doing the only thing I know how to do on a dance floor - skank. That's right bitches, Eric's visceral response to music of any kind is to pretend I'm at a New Found Glory concert and hope for the best. Needless to say, I made few friends this way, and managed to obliterate the last inroads I had made with the interns by Irish-Exiting to catch the last tram home. Like the Millennium Falcon escaping a Death Star explosion, I blasted out of the club door and picked a direction. "West!" I thought to myself while running at full speed in worn out loafers through the red light district at 2:40 A.M., my coat hanging pathetically off my left arm and the cigarette in my mouth casting ash about the crosswalks. "West is the way to the tram!" Drunk Eric's hippocampus took over and guided me to the tram station where I caught the very last ride back to my apartment.
First Impression Rating: 0/10 = *TOTAL FAIL*

Of course, when I got into work on Monday, I got a little ribbing for my semi-ridiculous approach to first impressions, but all in all people still seemed to like me just fine. I suppose the only real loss here is that I tipped my hand a bit earlier than anticipated. Ideally you want to lay down a foundation of normalcy before letting everyone know that you're actually a one man wrecking crew, but since when do I do anything the normal way?