I’m fucking amazing at job interviews. That might be the most random opening line ever, but it’s also true. Though I have the tendency to be a highly-strung nervous Nelly in my day-to-day life, when it comes to job interviews I effing rock. I walk in confidently, smile big, shake hands warmly, and answer every question with a demeanor that says “I know I’m fabulous and you know I’m fabulous, let’s just iron out these pesky details and proceed to being fabulous together”. I don’t know what it is, but once I walk into that office or conference room all my nerves skeet away and I just shine effortlessly – no prep work required.
Well that’s not totally true. There is one part of the interview that I do have to prep for – the end, where they ask you if you have any questions. That’s where – if left to my own devices – it would all fall down. Because I just can’t ever think of anything I feel want to ask.
This peccadillo is not limited to interviews. In life, in love, in chats, I pretty much fail at asking questions. And it isn’t that I’m disinterested or not curious, I just….I don’t even know what. I have a hard time asking questions about important things. For unimportant shit or things that are completely not my business I have no problem being fass, but when it’s something serious like someone in my life whom I have been chatting with on a near-daily basis for a fucking year who refuses to give me their phone number so we can text each other like civilized people ( just to throw out a completely made-up example), I will never ever ask why.
Why is that? I have no fucking idea.
Maybe I’m afraid they’ll refuse to answer. Or I’m worried that they will, but I won’t like what they say. Maybe deep down I don’t think I have the right to know. Or maybe I don’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing that I want to know. Or maybe – and I like this possible answer the best – I think that the information someone volunteers to share with me is way more telling than what they divulge as a result of me asking.
At any rate, I don’t ask questions. Particularly of my coterie of men friends. So when I gather the ladies on gchat to tell a story, we are invariably going to reach this point:
One of those heaux: That’s awesome/weird/hilarious/funny/so sad. But what about ___________?
max: You know what? I have no idea.
One of those heaux: Didn’t you ask him?
max: Hahaha nope!
Then one of those heaux is gonna call me one of those names that one friend shouldn’t never call another.
For a long time, I really did not consider my lack of question-asking to be a big deal. I thought it might be a restful change for the people in my life; a welcome respite from the nosy inquiries they get everywhere else. But as I get older I realize that – without the benefit of knowing the meandering thought process behind why I don’t ask questions – people are drawing inferences from this. And the conclusion they usually come to is that I don’t ask because I’m not interested in the answer. Which I guess is fair enough.
Now that I’ve realized that my refusal to ask questions gives people the wrong idea – and probably offends them – I suppose the next logical step would be for me to start asking some questions. That’s really the only thing I can do to remedy the situation. But you what the problem is with that? I don’t really want to. I mean, even though I have no real reason why I don’t enjoy asking questions, I’m still pretty attached to that course of action. I don’t want to pack it in and become a question- asking machine, I want people to just read my mind and magically intuit that I want to know something and then just offer up the information. Is that really too much to ask?
You tell me dear readers – is my aversion to asking questions just another way in which I am an asshole or am I entitled to it? Are you an asker or a wait-er like myself? Do you know anyone who never asks questions and does that annoy you? Why do you think I find asking questions so distasteful? Analyze me in the comments.