The "Mills Slip"

I am not a subtle person.

It’s just one of those gifts I wasn’t born with. My sister is fond of saying that I am incapable of subtlety or keeping anything close to the vest. (Could this very blog be proof of her theory?)

I can’t lie, I tend to say what I’m thinking and when I can’t say what I’m thinking, you can read my emotions all over my face.

I may tell you that I love your haircut, but odds are that if I don’t, my face will involuntarily recoil into a look that implies you took scissors to your head while drunk and taking style cues from the Sneetches.

More than one teacher told me that they judged how well a lecture was going based on my face because it was always obvious whether or not I was getting the point of the lesson.

(When you’re not a subtle person, it’s usually best to have friends who aren’t subtle either. Since I’m likely to use language that some people might find offensive or over-share at any time, it’s best to surround myself with like-minded people. If I ask, “Do my nipples looks askew in this dress?” – which, yes, is an actual quote from a time I tried on a bridesmaid’s dress – I need a friend who finds that funny or is fully prepared to examine my chest area and give me an honest answer.)

In addition to lacking subtlety, I also lack patience, but love efficiency, so I find that these three traits can actually work together in a kind of oddly beautiful congruence. Anyone who uses the word “lady” in a non-ironic way or can’t admit to a secret crush on JWoww, or other embarrassing reality star, would probably best be seated next to someone else at the dinner party. We aren’t going to be pals, and I prefer to know that kind of thing without the tedium of 30 minutes of small talk.

Unfortunately though, sometimes my lack of subtlety even sneaks up on me. Through the years, I have adapted some filters, but my lack of subtlety is so strong that even this thin veil can fail, and when it does, it fails miserably.

If Freud were alive, I think he would have reconsidered calling the “Freudian Slip” a “Mills Slip.” (Sorry to indict the rest of the family, but I have to be consistent. If it were a “Sigmund Slip,” I would have gone with a “Laurel Slip.”)

Many, many years ago before I was deliriously happy and in a committed relationship, a male friend and I went out to eat at a restaurant. When the meal was over, and we were pulling out of the parking lot, I said, “The next time we have sex, we really should go to …”

And complete silence fell over the car.

It took a few seconds, but the look of shock and confusion on my friend’s face helped me realize what I’d said. The name of whatever restaurant, café or taco stand I’d meant to finish that sentence with as a suggestion for our next meal was gone, and it was gone for good.

Where I’d meant to say “lunch,” I’d said “sex,” and there’s no coming back from that one -- especially when you put the words “we” and “have” in front of it. (Luckily, most men are flattered by the idea that you might want to or have thought about sleeping with them, but it’s still hardly an ideal situation.)

In this type of instance, an “I meant to say lunch” is pointless. Not even laugher works well. Silence is an option, but it seems to just turn the uncomfortable moment into a gaping chasm of social faux pas.

I’ve found that when you’ve blown any cover that you have, it’s usually best just to keep the lack of subtlety going.

“So, that was awkward and weird,” I said. “Want a coffee or ice cream?”

Because, really, who doesn’t love a coffee or ice cream? And you’ve got to figure that conversationally, unless you have actual Tourette’s, there’s nowhere to go but up from there.