Don’t Worry, Be Aspie!

Do this for me now—hold your right hand palm outward, fingers together, holding your hand in the shape of a “C” and say the following:

I’M RUBBER, YOU’RE GLUE! WHAT BOUNCES OFF ME STICKS TO YOU! 

The gesture is important, as scientific studies have shown that the rubbery nature of the human hand causes all harmful words to spring with full force back to their sender.

One of the advantages of having Asperger’s syndrome is that insults, sarcasm, manipulation and just plain nastiness often goes whizzing past us unnoticed. What does hit its mark tends to bounce back to its sender when the oh-so-clever remark is met with a blank stare, sticking to the sender and making him look like a total ass.

Not that I would notice, of course.

This is a very useful technique for the NT as well. It’s something Linda and I call Aspieing Out. Aspieing Out is when you take what someone does or says at absolute face value, ignoring all of the finer points of well laid verbal and social landmines. You can use the Asping Out as a well-honed avoidance technique for people who just won’t directly tell you what they need or how they feel—people who expect you to just innately know what’s going on with them.

Let me give you an example.

Susan has broken up with her boyfriend for the 14^th time in the past 3 months. She’s on her fourth appletini. Her eyes are bloodshot and her head is on the table.

You: Are you OK, Susan?

Susan (Lifting her head from among the piles of wadded-up Kleenex): I’m…<sniffle>…fine…

You (Looking blankly): Great! See you next week!

There are some, however, who revel in being able to say or do anything they want to you with little consequence—the kind of adult who likes to bounce beach balls off little kids’ heads. These obnoxious meanies truly delight in tormenting the unwitting. Eventually, they begin to get sloppy with their remarks until one of them is so obvious that even a hard-core Aspie will notice that they’ve been insulted. At that point a good Aspie just stares blankly, says “Goodbye” and strolls out the door for good.

An Aspie, an NT and an Alligator Lizard

An alligator lizard has set up camp in our geraniums.

She says:

The alligator lizard, nicknamed Al, moved in as a youngster. Back then, he was small enough to slink up the trellis when he was scared, and pretend to be one of the stringy green beans.

Alligator lizards are location-tenacious. They stake out a spot, and don’t like to move from it. Al’s now a stout seven inches long, with stubby legs and a thick prehensile tail. The gold and grey dino-like pattern on his back contrasts well with the pretty fuchsia flowers.  And Al doesn’t like getting wet.

When I water the garden, Al will sometimes be courteous and scoot slowly out of the way, nestling under the nearest garden gnome, where it’s dry. Other times, he’ll appear out of nowhere and dash madly toward my feet, then zig-zag his way to alternate cover, hiding behind a half-used bag of charcoal.

Al doesn’t run like a regular lizard. He moves like a snake, swinging his hips with each slithery step. I love Al, but when he pops out of nowhere, frantically undulating across the patio, he can really freak me out. Sometimes I wish he would act more like a normal lizard, like the fence lizards our neighbors have.

I think some people feel the same way about getting involved with someone with Asperger’s.

It’s easy to see danger in differences. The western fence lizard might offer a more predictable pattern of behavior but I really appreciate the unique gifts of the alligator types.

Like location-tenacious Al, my Asperger’s husband is loyal and devoted in a way I never thought possible. Also like Al, Tom surprises me every day with unpredictable reactions – witty comebacks that make me laugh, or penetrating observations that make me reconsider my assumptions.

Relationships are complicated and neurological differences are only one part of them. Still, when making assumptions about people, whether western fence NT’s or Aspie alligators, it helps to look beyond the knee-jerk reaction – the fear that a funny looking lizard is going to scare you, hurt you or nip at your toes.

Sometimes the best things in life don’t look the way we had expected. We all have alligator parts to us, darting around and trying to connect. And maybe our next great connection is already here, nearby and accessible, just hidden beneath the flashy flowers.

© 2012 Tom and Linda Peters

 

Honey, Where Did You Put M45?

We can’t find a good place to put the Pleiades.

She says:

I bought the wall-sized poster to bring some twinkly fun to my home office.  It’s a 4×6 foot view of the famous star cluster, and the otherworldly colors and light fascinate me.

But sitting next to the massive dark mural, I felt like I was falling into a black hole and had to grip my ergonomic armrests for support.  I needed a little distance from deep space. Luckily, I married a space junkie who was totally fine with plastering the universe across the far wall of our living room.

He says:

That I’m totally fine with it was an understatement. When my son was 6 years old, I spent a whole week arranging plastic glow-in-the-dark stars on his bedroom ceiling in an accurate representation of the night sky. Astronomy is something I have always loved—one of my Aspie Special Interests.

One of the markers for Asperger’s Syndrome is a tireless devotion to a specific subject. I’ve had a long trail of Special Interests in my life — from astronomy to fish keeping to origami to bonsai to classical music (my profession) to carnivorous plants to my current obsession with the ukulele, the banjo and music of the 1920s.

For me, the universe represents something fixed, something stable and reliable—all qualities that I find in short supply with the ephemeral nature of day-to-day life. If I look up at the sky, the Pleiades will always be there, in its usual place—like an old, loyal friend.

I was a little disappointed when Linda put down her compass and told me that the feng shui situation in the west was all wrong for star murals and we’d have to find a more auspicious spot.

Our search for a place for the universe continues.

©2012 Tom & Linda Peters

What To Do About the Head in the Living Room

We’re trying to decide how to dress our phrenology head for Halloween.

The head, nicknamed Harold, was a wedding present. He’s a beautiful bald vision in porcelain, with inspirational statements handwritten on his cranium.

She says:

Harold sits on our entry table, staring out at the world with a blank stare, seemingly lost in his own little world, and encouraging us to “Dance like no one’s watching” and “Love like we’ve never been hurt.”

We’ve been a little remiss in dressing Harold, as evidenced by the funky necktie and Dodger’s cap that he’s still wearing from Father’s Day, so we’re trying to be more proactive. We love Harold and want him to have the best Halloween costume that a disembodied head can have.

Tom thinks Harold would like dressing as a bunny, complete with fuzzy ears, but I think he’d find that get-up way too emasculating. With his sparkly white skin and faraway expression, I say we get a pair of plastic fangs and go Team Edward on him.

He says:

Linda is correct. Harold has a blank stare and a head full of ideas. Based on that alone, I’m certain that, like me, he has Asperger’s Syndrome. In other words, he’s an Aspie. Asperger’s Syndrome is a form of autism hallmarked by an inability to read social cues. Aspies often gaze out at the world through blank stares.

If Harold were a neurotypical porcelain phrenology head—NT for short—he would view his world with a definitive expression, deftly reflecting the world around him, and engaging in pleasant cocktail conversation.

Instead of dwelling on such platitudes as “Love is the sharing and giving of two hearts together” and giggling quietly to himself about the pithy Dr. Who reference he just made (and if you understand that reference, please have yourself tested for Asperger’s immediately), he would be filled with more practical notions such as “The gas bill’s due” or “Make sure you pick up a birthday card for Aunt Miriam.”

Still, he would look great with a kicky set of bunny ears.

Squeezing Pugs

“A fawn pug lying down (2004)” by Jenny2513 – Own work. Licensed under CC0 via Wikimedia Commons

He says:

For a good portion of my adult life, I have been convinced that pugs can go to the bathroom only when squeezed.

This notion came from my early adult days in Chicago. My friend Jeff rented a room from a family in Evanston during his time at Northwestern University, and one of the conditions of his stay was that he was to take care of George, the family pug. George had some issues; the worst of which was that his bowels didn’t work properly and he needed some help. It was Jeff’s job to squeeze him.

I often kept Jeff company on his walks with the dreaded George, so after the initial shock of seeing a pug thoroughly squeezed wore off, I assumed—like the good little Aspie that I am—that all pugs needed to be squeezed.

Shortly after I met Linda, George somehow came into the conversation. I professed to Linda that although they are cute, pugs have a certain maintenance problem. I’m not sure how to accurately describe the look I got in return.

She says:

I was telling Tom that I thought pugs were cute. It was an offhand comment based on a Facebook photo. I’m allergic to dogs and wasn’t planning on getting one.  But Tom looked concerned. He advised me not to get a pug, and then he told me why.

I’m not an expert on pugs but it seemed unlikely that the smiling women dressing pugs up in Christmas sweaters for online photos were okay with this whole squeezing thing. So I turned to Google and punched in a variety of rather unsavory keywords. And after a fair amount of research, I could find no evidence that Tom’s claim about the entire pug breed had any merit at all.

We say:

And thus, the term “pug-squeezing” was born. Any generalization made on the basis of a single experience—something Aspies are prone to do—has since been met with a gentle, “Honey, I think you’re squeezing pugs again.” Which brings us to the topic of this blog.

We’ve read a lot online about Aspie/NT relationships being burdensome, awful and doomed to fail.  But we seem to be doing just fine—in fact we’re downright giddy. To us, the whole notion that neurologically mixed marriages are inherently unworkable is no better than squeezing a pug, and often with the same result.

And so, we’d like to offer a different perspective here and share some of our own experiences.

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© 2012 Tom and Linda Peters

Spectacular Pug Image from internet-pets.blogspot.com