Burned Popcorn and a Badly Bruised Hip

When watching my step with my girlfriend’s parents backfired

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

The concrete front steps of my girlfriend’s family home were painted with an icy frost, so I was watching my step from the very beginning, about to meet my girlfriend’s parents for the first time. With the anxiety that most of us reserve for job interviews and international border crossings, I double-checked the orderliness of my hair, cleanliness of my shirt, and closure of my fly. I approached the oak door and lifted the cold, weathered knocker with my ungloved hand. Raising the heavy metal ring, I paused, wondering if I was actually ready to let it drop and announce my arrival.

I had heard more than a few stories about her father’s unpredictable temper, but tried to comfort myself with the thought that he’d surely keep his cool over a first meeting with his daughter’s boyfriend. Should I pay attention to the churning in my intestines or ignore it?

Deciding to proceed I dropped the knocker with a sharp metallic clack, like a movie-set clapboard marking the start of a scene. I was met at the door by my girlfriend’s mom. I had hoped for a warm and disarming welcome that would help me relax, but the greeting was stiffly polite and brief. We went right to the dinner table where my girlfriend, her brother and parents were all ready to eat. Conventional introductory conversation ensued while I struggled to chew with my mouth closed, swallow before speaking, and sit upright instead of slouching and shoveling, all of which were on the list of my usual sloppy eating habits. The ravioli was delicious, but for some reason, her mother was unaware that she’d badly burned the popcorn, which she retrieved from the stove while announcing we’d watch a movie together after dinner. This struck me as an odd focus for our first meeting, but it took me out of the spotlight, which was a relief.

The film was “Dead Poets Society” starring Robin Williams who plays a renegade teacher named John Keating in a stuffy elite boys school. One of its beloved scenes features Mr. Keating encouraging students at the academy to cast off conformity and, as an exercise, find their own unique way of walking through the cobblestone courtyard. The scene unfolded dramatically as the students explored their authentic gait, and then I realized I had to pee.

I leaned over to my girlfriend and whispered, “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Through the kitchen, take a right down the hall, and then a left,” she answered.

Being funny has always been a way I cope with awkward situations. I tried to soften my interruption as I got up off the couch by crossing the living room floor with exaggerated, long, loping strides—as though taking Mr. Keating’s encouragement to heart. As I exited the living room into the kitchen I heard a wonderful sound behind me. Her parents were laughing at my joke, which put an even longer lope into my step. I took that right turn out of the kitchen and then headed down the hallway in the same confident, high-stepping manner.

The lights were off in the hallway, so it was a little dark, but I could still make out the studio family portrait hung at the end of the hall, and the darkened bathroom door on the left. I headed for it quickly, because I was already well-past the point when I would have relieved myself had I been sitting alone at home.

Two more steps.

A left pivot.

Then I took a big step through the door, while simultaneously reaching around the frame in search of the light. But, I never found the switch.

Primarily because . . . I never found the floor.

Instead of my foot touching down on any solid surface, my entire body plummeted into a black hole of empty space.

My girlfriend had failed to mention that the first door down the hall on the left was an unlit root cellar, which had a steep wooden ladder instead of stairs. She likely assumed no one would be daft enough to make the mistake of walking straight into it without pause. In one moment I was walking through a middle-class domestic home. In the next, my body and mind were suddenly plummeting into nothingness, with no reference points to orient by. I rapidly descended into the void, but soon enough, I started to hit things.

First the ladder, halfway down, my hip smashing into a broad wooden step, and an instant later, I collided with the basement dryer with a sound that can only be made by a falling body landing on a metal appliance from above. I was reduced to a crumpled heap of tangled limbs up against the side of the old battered Maytag. The next thing I became aware of was screaming coming from the other room as the family registered what had happened. Before I knew it, they were all at the top of the ladder, my girlfriend shouting, “Oh my god!” and her dad flying down the steps to attend to me.

It was purely a miracle that after a few minutes I was able to stand up and crawl up that ladder on my own power. Bruised, but nothing broken.

I immediately visited the real bathroom. Then, we finished the movie—but not the popcorn.

Typical of someone in his mid-twenties, I was working very hard at getting love, approval, and attention by trying to figure out what other people wanted from me, and then modifying my behavior to provide it. I’d be smart, polite, or funny to be accepted.

When I hopped up off the couch to look like I was being my own person, all of my attention was actually behind me, on those I wanted to impress. I wasn’t yet confident that I could keep my eye on my own direct experience and vision and successfully connect.

Authentic communication is a skill refined over a lifetime, a gradual ability to guard our vision and integrity and form meaningful relationships at the same time. The necessity to locate a true, inner signal to find our natural and meaningful place and role in the world has never been greater.

Trying to figure out what others want you to say to get acceptance, praise, subscribers, sales or a job is a recipe for losing your way, eliminating your opportunity to contribute your best to others.

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A big thank you to my Write Hearted community, especially Dana Allen, Kathy Ayers, Manju Aishwarya, Larry Urish, Alden Cox and Clelia Vahni Lewis for help with edits on this piece.

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