"I'm going to figure you out," she wrote. "I'm a good detective." These words were written on the back of a school picture a girl I briefly dated gave me, or perhaps they were written in a Christmas card. The point is that she thought I was mysterious because I was a quiet boy who never had much to say. "Mysterious" sounds complimentary if one is talking about a spy like, say, James Bond. Mysterious is cool if you're an untraceable master thief, an enigmatic stranger at a party who commands attention without saying a word, or a silent prodigy. I was none of those.
I liked mysterious guys. I liked Clint Eastwood as the cowboy without a name who let his actions do the talking. I liked John Rambo - he was quiet and deadly. In later years, I would admire Dorain Yates. In the 1990s, he stayed in Birmingham, England, training in a dark, gritty, underground basement gym called Temple Gym. He rarely did interviews, rarely guest-posed, and completely stayed out of the public eye for up to a year at a time.
Because there was no social media in the 1990s, his competitors had no idea what he looked like or how much size he was putting on. He would literally fly into the United States right before the Mr. Olympia contest, walk out onto the stage looking like an absolute alien with completely revolutionary muscle mass and graininess, crush the entire lineup, take the trophy, and fly right back to England. His nickname was The Shadow.
But I wasn't mysterious. I was just boring.
I was always quiet. Fortunately, I wasn't aloof. I had a few things going for me: I had a good sense of humor, and I smiled and laughed a lot. Occasionally, I would say something funny out of the blue. I was nice - or about as nice as you could expect a teenage boy to be. I was social, too. I went to sporting events and parties. I had friends, and I had girlfriends.
But I was boring and always at a loss for words.
"How are you?" someone would ask.
"Fine," I'd reply.
End of talk.
One evening, I was talking on the phone with the girl who thought I was mysterious. She asked where I would like to travel someday if I had the time and money. I had no idea. I think I might have finally told her France, just so I could say the Eiffel Tower.
At some point, she stopped talking and said it was my turn. Was I supposed to break into a monologue at that point? Clearly, that wasn't going to happen. I had a captive audience and could have talked about anything, but I had nothing to say.
Other girls I had dated had been quiet, too, and our phone calls were painful. Other than "How are you?" and "What are you doing?" we simply didn't have much to say.
"How was your weekend?"
"What have you been up to?"
"What kind of music do you like?"
"What's your favorite food, song, book, TV show, and movie?"
"What's the longest or shortest your hair has ever been?"
"Do you have any heroes or role models?"
"Do you have any nicknames?"
"Do you collect anything like, say, comic books or figurines?"
"Have you ever been in a club like 4-H or the Scouts?"
"What's your zodiac sign? Do you believe in astrology?"
"Have you ever been in a cave?"
"Do you prefer oceans or mountains? Why?"
"What's your favorite room in your house?"
"Do you prefer salty snacks or sweet?"
"What is one of the best compliments you've ever received?"
