The Asperkid's (Secret) Book of Social Rules

by Jennifer Cook O'Toole

  Facebook, Twitter, whatever. That’s public, too. Even an email or text can easily be forwarded.

  Down, Yes, Across, Maybe, Up, No Way

  You can kindly correct someone over whom you have control or influence (like babysitting, coaching or tutoring). Only correct a peer if you HAVE to—they won’t like it (that’s when you’re going to hear, “You’re not the boss of me!”). And never, ever, ever, correct an elder or an authority figure. They may be wrong and you may be right, but unless safety demands it, correcting “up” is just rude.

  Fact or Opinion?

  Facts can be verified. 2+2=4. Always. Opinions vary. They can be supported—but they can also be argued. Be sure that you’re correcting a FACT only. Your opinion, just like anyone else’s, is not absolute.

  Watch the Language

  Statements that begin with, “I may have noticed” or “I think maybe” are a lot less aggressive than “You’re wrong.” Make your observation about the fact, not the person.

  Just Let It Go

  Sometimes, there is a bigger reward for leaving a mistake alone, no matter how uncomfortable it feels to us Aspies. If you know a teacher meant “anecdote” when he said “antidote,” but he’s already begun the story, don’t bother to bring the attention back your way. It’s not worth it, and you may learn something interesting if you can refocus on the larger point being made.

  Leaving Well Enough Alone

  With practice, it gets easier to see the payoff for leaving well enough alone. There are times when we are all glad not to have our less-than-best moments pointed out.

  Have patience if this takes some time to figure out. Learning when, if, or how to right a wrong is something that a whole lot of adults (Aspies and otherwise) still have trouble with.

  Which leads us back to me at the karate studio, where life had suddenly handed me a “do over.” I’m a big believer that mistakes are only mistakes if we don’t learn from them. So I was bound and determined to learn from mine.

  That dang perseverance was perseverating, I promise you. Same word, same misspelling. I couldn’t believe it! Fate was dangling this perseverating perseveration in front of me, daring me to speak up. But this time, I recognized the trap, and held my tongue. Seated in the back of the studio gallery, I pulled out my phone and texted a friend (pressure release!), making fun of my own silly preoccupation with the mistake.

  And then, absolute poetic justice.

  You see, the one guideline I didn’t mention above was the most important of all:

  Before you speak up, be sure you are right.

  As I texted, my spellcheck rebelled. What was this? I went to my dictionary app. WHAT?!

  Ahem. “Perserverance,” it seems, is not a word at all. Here I am, a published author, a grammar lover, a former English teacher, and I have apparently been both mispronouncing and misspelling persevere as “perservere” (and, therefore, any forms of the word) my entire life long.

  Ah, humility. In the end, we all learned a lesson. I learned that there is no “r” in the middle of a word I have been using for ages. And the karate students learned about never giving up, even if they are tired or frustrated or (gulp) embarrassed…something a lot more important than a spelling error, especially a nonexistent spelling error. Sometimes, I guess, it just takes some “perseverance” to know when to speak up and when to be awfully glad we’ve let it go.

  - 6 -

  Perfectly Imperfect

  Congratulations, You’re Human

  Need-to-Knows

  • Wanting to be excellent is good. Wanting to improve is great. Wanting to be perfect is arrogant.

  • Perfectionism makes any amount of success worthless compared to a single failure.

  • Our perfectionism comes across to other people as annoying, smug superiority.

  • Other people want to be able to relate to you. No one can relate to “perfect.”

  Asperkid Logic

  Everyone likes to feel like a success. That’s pretty much a no-brainer. After all, who wakes up in the morning and says, “I can’t wait to fail at everything I try today!” Nobody. We all want to feel proud, smart, attractive, important. And some people put on quite a show convincing the world of just how amazing they are. Oddly, though, the people who seem most convinced of their fabulousness are usually those who are the least convinced of it themselves.

  Still, wanting to improve any part of our lives is a good thing. It can help us strengthen friendships, do better at school, even get healthier. That’s wonderful. The trouble is when “better” stops being the goal, and “perfect” takes its place. Gradually, we concentrate only on what we do wrong, no matter how much we do right. It’s like being a famous singer, performing onstage in front of thousands of cheering fans—and all you can see is the one grumpy kid frowning from the back row. The thousands of other fans screaming their lungs out are powerless and valueless, compared with that single downer. When perfection is the goal, we will always fail. And, sadly, we allow all of our power, all of our worth to be squelched by one, puny blemish.

  That’s our Aspie black-and-white, all-or-nothing thinking. It makes some situations easier and less messy, but all-in-all, it does lead us to be a lot harder on ourselves than we should be. Partly, that’s because we’re awfully afraid of failure. Most people are, but we seem to corner the market. Understandable, really. We’ve usually had more than our fair share of unexpectedly “messing up” in the NT world, leading to more than our fair share of teasing, rejection and insults. Really, it’s no wonder we’re so scared of blowing it! Who wants more of that? Add the creeping awareness that we can’t control very much in the world, and we’re in for a full-blown freakout. Trust me, people, I’ve been there.

  So You Want to Argue With Universal Laws…

  My mom was a pretty average student. According to her, if she did really well on a test, it was a celebration, and if she didn’t, it wasn’t the end of the world. Then there was me—self-confessed major perfectionist. If I smeared the ink on my homework, I rewrote the entire thing. I couldn’t even count sheep to get to sleep—know why? I got way too stressed as I counted down from 100…every number mentally translated into a possibly-less-than-perfect grade. 98? “Argh?!” I would cringe, “Where did I go wrong?”

  I know, I know. Kind of annoying, right? Not to mention ulcer-causing. But I’ll bet you are equally hard on yourself—perfectionism is a lot easier to recognize in another person. And Aspies are notorious perfectionists. We see the world and ourselves as right or wrong, all or nothing. Then, we beat ourselves up in the process—because trying to be perfect is the most imperfect goal imaginable. It’s not achievable. It doesn’t exist. It’s like insisting you will be a success only if you become the next Santa Claus. Not going to happen, folks. If that’s the only thing that will make you happy, you might as well decide to live a life of misery now.

  On the other hand, imperfection is completely natural. Ever hear of Brownian movement? It’s the imperceptible, random movement of the tiniest microscopic particles. Even when things look “perfectly” calm and smooth, there’s actually a whole mess of chaotic, haphazard jiggling going on. That’s just the way the universe works: thermodynamic laws say so. It’s entropy, or naturally occurring disorder. Just try and argue why you (or we) are above universal laws, and I guarantee you’ll come up stumped. Although we Aspies are, in many ways, very different than the NTs around us, we are also the same in one important way: every mortal person that has ever existed—Aspie or NT—is imperfect and always will be. Depressed? Don’t be. You’re in good company. Einstein. Gandhi. Mother Teresa. Each and every one was imperfect, too. So be careful of the all-or-nothing trap. Imperfection doesn’t mean utter failure.

  Sabotage

  Which brings us to another way perfectionism sabotages us. It turns out that in our quest to be perfect and avoid public humiliation, we end up being incredibly irritating as well. Perfect.

  “Kids like you used to make me furious,” my
mom told me once, much to my surprise. Earlier that day, I’d gotten a test back on which I’d made a 96 percent. Most people, I now understand, would have killed for a 96. That’s a totally solid “A” or “excellent” grade. But not me. I was a wreck. In class, my face had fallen, and all I could think about was the stupid mistake I’d made on one lousy question that I should’ve gotten right in the first place. Now, hours later, I was still upset.

  What never occurred to me was how that reaction looked to other kids. Or what I was doing to myself in the process.

  Don’t get me wrong—it’s good to want to be excellent. It’s great to want to improve. It’s the whole “how you handle yourself” bit that’s tough, especially if you’re not really thinking about how you come off to the people around you. Perfectionism is really just a nicer-sounding word for arrogance. It’s the belief or expectation that we should be above making mistakes. Be better or more special than everyone else around us. Basically, that we are above being human. And that, I tell you from personal experience, is not going make people invite you to sit at their lunch tables.

  Here is what I didn’t realize back in high school: to most kids, my worst grade was better than their best. So my complaining was sort of a high school version of Marie Antoinette. “Let them eat cake” and all. I had meant to criticize myself. But others were, of course, watching. Without even thinking about it, I had sent the condescending message that I believed myself superior to everyone in the room. I’d been disappointed in myself—but from any other person’s perspective, I was insulting them, too. My pouting perfectionism didn’t just hurt my own self-esteem. It also made other people feel lousy about themselves, then jealous of and completely irritated by me. Meaning, of course, that they would treat me as if I were vain and self-centered. Which, not meaning to be, I guess I was.

  The weird flip side is that if a friend had gotten an “A” on a test, I would have congratulated her. Been proud of her. And I should have been proud of me. Being smart, or kind, or fast, or creative is something people admire. Being annoyingly perfect (or even worse, thinking or acting as if you are) is, well, annoying.

  The Tightrope and the Shoebox

  Life, it turns out, is a bit like a tightrope act at the circus. You are the aerialist, balancing on a skinny little wire—and you think everyone is there to watch you glide amazingly, perfectly from one end to the other. But the secret is…that isn’t at all what the world wants. The world loves to watch arrogant people fail and fall. Just check the tabloid papers.

  To win the crowd’s love, people need to see us bobble on life’s tightrope. Be relatable. Be imperfectly human. And you know what? We need those moments to remind ourselves of our human-ness. And to make everyone around gasp with us and cheer us on.

  Really, no one else cares about your success or failure as much as you think they do—it’s your reaction they will notice. Do you freak out like I did? Will you take yourself too seriously (which translates as: I am sooo much better than you)? Or will you just be happily, humbly human like everyone else? Imperfect, but real. If you would congratulate a friend had he accomplished what you have, then congratulate yourself. Sometimes good enough IS good enough.

  Imagine putting any mistakes into a shoebox, shutting the lid, and placing it on a high closet shelf. It’s still there, if you really need to revisit it. But it’s not in your face. Now, find a specific thing you did well—like you played great defense in the second half or you completely nailed that essay question—own it, and move on. You’ll like yourself a lot more for it, and so will the people around you.

  - 7 -

  But I Wasn’t Laughing

  Laughing with You vs. Laughing at You

  Need-to-Knows

  • It can be hard to tell the difference between playful teasing, mean teasing and accidental hurts.

  • Aspies tend to take ourselves super-seriously. That’s not the same as being “too sensitive.”

  • Ask yourself: Do I trust the person who is teasing me? Would they really want to hurt me? Perhaps we’re mis-communicating.

  Asperkid Logic

  I was six years old, I think. We were lined up in a row facing the mirrored wall and a bevy of visitors in folding chairs. It was Parents’ Observation Day at Skip Randall Dance School, and when the music began, we all did our best to show off our new tap routine. When we got to the part when we wagged our fingers and popped our hips like sassy little ladies, the whole audience giggled adoringly. “How cute!” they all laughed. Only I didn’t want to be cute and funny. We were supposed to look grown-up! I was insulted and embarrassed…and MAD. And I started crying. Later, my mom explained that the grown-ups weren’t laughing AT us, they had thought we were so precious that they were laughing WITH us.

  I looked her straight in the eye and said, “But I wasn’t laughing.”

  Fast-forward to middle school. I was on an overnight hotel trip with my dance company in New York City. Out of the dozen or so girls, I was the youngest by a few years. I was also the best dancer…something which hadn’t won me a lot of friends within the group.

  The morning of the dance competition, I got into the shower. A minute or two later, the bathroom door opened—and a huge bucket of ice water came raining down over the shower curtain onto my head. The door slammed, and shrieks of laughter echoed from the bedroom. Absolutely alone—and shivering—I sat down on the tiles. I decided not to say a thing about it until I saw my parents later…when I did, their answer was that I was being too sensitive. The girls were probably just kidding around with me.

  But I hadn’t been kidding around.

  Laughing with You vs. Laughing at You

  We Aspies have a particularly hard time reading body language and tone of voice. Which is, I will admit, a total bummer for us, as reports say that anywhere between 55 and 80 percent of all communication is nonverbal. That’s how much of the picture we may be missing in any face-to-face meeting.

  It’s no wonder that two things seem to happen as a result:

  1. We learn to take ourselves very seriously. Sometimes too seriously. And sometimes we really do mistake friendly teasing or unintentionally hurt feelings for bullying. Why? When you can’t tell clearly who is “for” you and who is “against” you, it doesn’t take long before you walk around with your guard up—all the time. (That’s what happened to me at the dance practice. The adults really WERE delighted by the bouncing bunch of adorable little girls. No one meant to insult us.)

  2. Other people don’t trust us when we say we’re being laughed at—no one else heard or saw it. So, adults often assume, it didn’t really happen. Or kids say we’re too sensitive (no such thing exists) or can’t take a joke. After a while, you wonder why you should bother defending yourself. (By the way—that’s what happened in the hotel situation. I was being bullied but my parents thought I was just overreacting.)

  Everyone makes bad jokes from time to time, or says things they wish they could take back. So, how do you distinguish playful teasing from accidental “ouches” or even hurtful teasing?

  Ask Yourself this Question: Do I Trust the Person?

  Do you? Do you feel safe being yourself with him or her? Is it your mom or a long-time friend, a teacher that you like or your favorite cousin…is this someone who loves you, who cares about your feelings? In other words, based on everything you know about this person, do you think he or she would really WANT to put you down? If you do trust the person—the hurt probably wasn’t on purpose.

  Even though our hurt is real, we Aspies often give meaning to actions or words that wasn’t intended. Might this be a misunderstanding? It’s possible that the person didn’t realize he was getting too close to a sensitive topic. Or, it might help to remember that laughing at your own actions shows that you accept yourself as imperfect—like everyone else. So, are you the joke? Or, if you can take a step back, is something you did or said actually quite funny?

  Teasing is even one way some NTs show affection. In my husband’s f
amily, teasing you means they like you—they trust you to know that they are kidding and mean no harm. That took me a while to get. It might be tough for you, too.

  A Quiz

  If you’re not quite sure what someone’s motivation is, take this little quiz:

  Do I feel liked by this person (in general)?

  A. Yes

  B. No

  C. Not sure

  Has this person hurt me before?

  A. No

  B. Yes (on purpose)

  C. Yes (but truly by accident)

  Is the joke on a topic about which she knows I am insecure (e.g. weight) or passionate (e.g. vegetarianism)?

  A. Nope

  B. Absolutely

  C. Yes, but she doesn’t know that

  If I say, “I don’t think that’s very funny,” and she realizes I’m serious, what would she say/do?

  A. “I’m really sorry.”

  B. Keeps laughing and teasing

  C. Is perhaps surprised, but stops

  If You Chose Mostly As: Playful Teasing

  Odds are this is someone who cares about you and was trying to laugh WITH you—not AT you. This is a person who respects you and will stop if you say you don’t like what’s going on.

  But—do ask yourself honestly if maybe you ARE taking yourself too seriously, because that just takes all the fun out of life. Is there really some truth to the teasing that is actually a bit funny? If yes, laugh. It takes the pressure off of trying to be so perfect, makes you seem more relatable, and will probably make for a great story (“Do you remember that time I was trying to talk to that girl and fell flat on my face? Literally?”).