BODY LANGUAGE SECRETSBody Language Anecdote-You Cannot Not
Communicate In 1982, I was recently divorced and
naive about the single's world. (That's redundant, of
course.) So, my two best friends took me to the
ruling pick-up club for some on-the-job training.
The parking lot was packed. As we drove around
looking for a parking place, I kept muttering, "Don't
like the vibes. Bad vibes at this place!" Mark re-
plied, "Get real! We're not even inside yet! You can't
possibly feel anything!"
Disco was in its death throes most places, but in
the heart of Orange County, it was "staying alive."
Once inside, my friends took off for the bar and left
me staring at a scene I found surreal.
The women were 22-42, blond and attractive or
non-blonde and attractive. To my amazement, many
actually were dressed like disco dollies. You know,
five hours in the making. Men were mostly 30-50,
business types and a few Middle Eastern career stu-
dents.
I was transfixed. The music roared as billions of
attractive females floated by, just a few inches from
my face.
Suddenly, Disco Dick appeared, violating the
scene. I stared. My God! Just like in Saturday Night
Fever, he was wearing gold chains, black patent
leather platform shores, a bright red satin shirt
open to the navel and skin tight black pants held up
by a chrome belt.
He grabbed a tall blonde by the wrist, spun her
around until she was facing him and pointed. She
nodded and they sauntered toward the dance floor.
I was dumbfounded. Why didn't she smack him?
Manhandling her like that! How could she then
dance with such a maggot? What the hell is going
on?
My friends appeared. Each handed me a beer andFurther Conversations Without Words 67motioned for me to follow. We ended up on a wide,
raised walkway that ringed the dance floor. To be
heard, John shouted in my ear, "We can check out
the women from here." I nodded.
After a few minutes, I pointed to the blonde on
the dance floor and yelled in John's ear. He shrug-
ged, gesturing he couldn't hear me, but looked
where I pointed. One bit of music blended into
another. Disco Dick went his way. As the blonde
walked by us, she slowed down, gave me the head to
toe once over and kept going.
I backed up and leaned hard against the wall.
And, even with a beer in each hand, I crossed my
arms across my chest. Both friends looked at her,
then at me, then at the way I was standing. They
stared at one another, each with a puzzled expres-
sion.
The music was roaring as John pointed, pulled on
my arm and pointed again. I didn't know what he
wanted. I shrugged. He pulled harder. So, I leaned
against the wall harder and crossed my arms even
harder.
He looked at Mark and signaled. Mark grabbed
my other arm and they both pulled me away from
the wall but I kept my arms crossed. They spun me
around and pushed me toward the men's room.
Inside, they both wanted to know—Why don't you
go ask that blonde to dance? What the hell is the
matter with you? Why are you standing like that?
With my arms still rigidly crossed, I indignantly
pronounced, "If she'd dance with scum like that, I
wouldn't even talk with her!"
They both howled, then spent five minutes trying
to convince me that just because a woman dances
with a slime ball it doesn't mean anything. My arms
remained crossed and my mind remained closed, as
it does to this day.