Charm is a hard thing to come by. A lot of folks think they have it, but charm is elusive. The people who have charm make you feel fun and safe while they lull and mesmerize you, like kids running around with sparklers fizzing on the Fourth of July as the sun sets and the faint waft of barbecue curve through the murmurs of the crowd... A lot of the self-proclaimed charmers – well, they're more like rat-a-tat-tat firecrackers, popping off beneath your feet, getting in the way, overly loud and brassy – you can't help but notice them. They're like kids who are overly fond of the mess and noise of firecrackers, popping them off for attention and yelling their testosteroned heads off. I try not to confuse overbearing crassness with charm.
Not a lot of my friends have charm. We're just a bunch of geeks and dorks who shuffle along the margins of polite company, our hearts in fantastical lands and our brains turning this and that problem round and round until all the pieces come tumbling out. But there are a few – and I learn from them.
Boys charmers tend to poke and prod, make fun, then retreat into their expected foolishness. Where's the line between comedy and insult? Perhaps that's why Triumph the Insult Dog is so funny. Guys or girls: listen and appeal to their sense of worth, and thrust and parry, always that, until the ups and downs of charm becomes something safe and the charmed relaxes their guard.
Girls beguile me. I've fallen a lot for women that way, by misunderstanding their own appeal to my vanity. But girls generally don't play the jester role; they have their own brand of charm, a mixture of innocence, naiveté and cunning ferociousness. Helpless, until you feel (yes) safe and in control and then the charm catches you off balance.
As I get older, charm fades. There was this one girl in high school – she scribbled poetry, played the violin, smiled like there was just a secret we both knew, hair smelled like shampoo all the time – and I was charmed from freshmen til senior year. Now, that kind of stuff doesn't do anything. The poetry were oft-repeated doodles on her notebook, the violin was scratchy, her smile masked her ignorance and well, her hair did smell good.
I know that charm often comes from insecurities sometimes, or from the fact of me projecting what I wanted onto other people. The people I find charming are blank slates, when you really think about it. They're so bland that they reflect whatever it is that I think they ought to be. I idealize a lot of people, think that they're smarter, or more curious, or extra spontaneous, than they really are. The people who tell me different -- the "hey, don't tread on me" kind of stuff -- I used to think that they were ornery, but now I wished I knew them better.
It's always like that. I grew up and learned that the wizard is just some buffoon behind the curtain, that folks I didn't care for are now the very persons I admire and respect – the charmers now fade into sepia, their wits and laughter dulled by the erosion of time. The guys that weren't so malleable, that weren't so charming, are the ones left standing... and round and round it goes.