Not Just a Geek, But a Certified, Badge-Wearing, Smart Ass Geek
My Life as a Mensan
by Pamela Miller
2002: Scottsdale, AZ
The dance partners were entwined in a powerful embrace, swaying to “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch” as if it were written just for them. The woman, commonly referred to as ‘being of a certain age,’ lifted her head, looked her graying suitor in the eyes, and sighed deeply. As she placed her head back on his chest, her hands slipped south of his back. There was definite cupping action. He did the same, now squeezing tighter. They mouthed sweet nothings and pressed against each other, oblivious to the rest of the world. It was all over but the humping. Did they not realize they were twenty yards from the dance floor? Did they not understand that “black tie” did not mean “tuxedo t-shirt?” Did they not realize that they were in full view of the largest collection of smart asses in North America?
The dance was on the penultimate night of the 2002 Mensa Annual Gathering, the Who’s Your Daddy Hootenanny of Intelligentsia. The couple performed their dirty dance without a hint of embarrassment. The oft-repeated phrase was if you couldn’t find your Mr./Ms. Right, or Mr./Ms. Right Now at an Annual Gathering (AG) or an Regional Gathering (RG), you were simply not capable of finding a mate. Perhaps the couple was just flaunting their newfound attraction. Thanks to the hot tub and the free alcohol, the pheromone level in the room was close to toxic. The dancing, the groping, and the kissing were equally repulsive and transfixing. It was impossible to turn away from the train wreck before your eyes.
In the back of the ballroom, a casually dressed woman was performing a Richard Simmons routine, Sweatin’ to the Oldies by herself. She didn’t let her lack of a partner or lack of knowledge that she was allowed on the dance floor to bother her. She jumped and shimmied with abandon, not noticing the dumbstruck gazes directed at her. It’s one thing to grope or dance by yourself at home. But who let these people out of the house?
Mensa attracts a wondrous collection of humanity. The only requirement is an IQ score at or above the ninety-eighth percentile. Many people take the test as a lark, decide to join, and are never heard from again. The active members are divided into two broad categories. There are the Sixties/Free Lovers. This includes a rather disturbing collection of dirty old men and women, known to all as DOMs. Then there are the youngsters, roughly anyone born after 1960. The naked person in the hot tub is from the Free Love generation. Those who jump out of the hot tub screaming in terror are Generation X and younger. There is some crossover, but all generalizations tend to go that way.
Mensans young and old gather in a different North American city every year to celebrate their top 2% rating. It’s like the old joke about never wanting to join a club that would have you for a member. There is a hesitancy to announce your membership in the real world. At a Mensa gathering, everyone is on equal footing and can allow their freak flag, or open disgust, fly.
I tested for Mensa in 1994 and was offered membership in early 1995. Too intimidated to attend an event, I was a secret Mensan for a year. The fear was that I’d be the stupidest certified smart person in the room. (The term genius is bandied about, but doesn’t really apply. A genius is someone who achieves an objective, makes a significant contribution in his or her chosen field. A smart person simply has the capability due to opportunity and genetics.) So after a lifetime of being Miss Honors Student/Advanced Placement/Scholar and Professional, I was driven to join a society based on exclusion because all the people I was meeting in my new town were functioning at a marginal level, at best, in careers that did not stimulate or excite them, at best, and still mocked smart people, calling the intellectually gifted contingent brainiacs or geeks. My new boss called me a know-it-all, which was unfair as she asked me questions and I answered them correctly. They hired me for my brain and then tried to make me feel bad about it, going so far as to refer to me as an unemotional computer. When the company insisted I take the Myers-Briggs personality test, they were shocked when the results indicated that I was a feeler, not a thinker. My presentation at work was constricted because I didn’t like the boss. Happily, she left for greener pastures, most likely looking for a non-gifted person to mentor.
No matter how smart I appeared in polite company, I was sure that I’d be nailed at my first Mensa event for not being able to read binary code or count in hexadecimals. Instead, I was rescued, taken under the wing of some nice people. As they taught me to play a speed version of Scrabble, my fears melted away. Many Mensans bond through games.
This AG was my first opportunity to meet national and international Mensans. Greater Phoenix Mensa is a sizable group with a small percentage of active members. That is the norm around the country. Due to the proliferation of DOMs, a rigid schema of badge identifiers was established over the years. A green sticker told the attendees you were open to a hug. This was practically an invitation to be mauled. A red sticker signified that a hug would be a viewed as a serious violation of personal space. A yellow question mark meant you needed to be asked whether you were willing to have all the air squeezed out of your lungs by a total stranger. Then there were the stickers to signify if you were single or if it were your first appearance at an AG. I started with the blue ‘I’m Single’ sticker and the red ‘Don’t touch me’ sticker. According to friends, this combination gave off the wrong signals. To appease them, I was soon sporting four stickers, a contradictory display meant to keep everyone except my nearest and dearest at arm’s length.
Responsibility was hoisted upon me quickly. My friend Tony and I were asked to run the Encore Tournament. We accepted, not realizing it was a game taken VERY SERIOUSLY by a team from Florida. All we had to do was pay attention while a couple teams sang old songs to each other. However, it was scheduled simultaneously to the lecture on Tantric sex. This didn’t bother me, but Tony reacted quite negatively. Why oh why did we have to volunteer? Why oh why were we in the Scottsdale desert in July? Why oh why did they pit Encore against Tantric sex?
A major convention takes months to prepare. This was a tremendous undertaking. Even my small efforts limited my ability to scope out the full range of lectures, dances, day trips and bondage demonstrations. My own modesty kept me from either viewing or participating in the Isaac Asimov Wet T-Shirt Contest.
THURSDAY
It was the Fourth of July. All my life, I’d had unrealistic hopes about this holiday. A supervisor from my summer camp counselor days told me the romantic story of her first meeting with her husband. At 19, I clung to a belief that my own iceberg of a heart would somehow melt on this magic day. Year after year, I faked a smile and attempted chatting up the young men. There were never any romantic fireworks to match those in the sky. Now old and cynical, I haul out the old dreams one day out of the year.
I arrived early that day to hear my friend Naomi give a talk on Low-Carb diets. She did a nice job. She had a few hecklers, including an elderly woman adamant that no one should ever touch trans-fatty acids. Though this was a belief I share, it was not my podium. More to the point, it was off topic, as were the heckler’s three other interruptions. Naomi finally had to tell her to very nicely to sit down and shut up.
I’d heard about Dr. Abby Salny, the consulting psychologist for American Mensa, through various publications. She was giving a talk entitled Dumb Things Mensans Do. The large meeting room was filled to capacity. Somehow a first row seat was vacated for me despite so many people standing in the back or sitting against the wall. Without being obvious, I looked around at the audience, trying to locate the blue “I’m Single” stickers on the badges of eligible bachelors. The talk was framed like a stand up routine. Many stories were funny, based on the premise that Mensans think too quickly, often skipping steps that turn into major pitfalls. It was something I readily accepted I did daily. It was a nice talk, and I left feeling I wasn’t the only certified idiot with a high IQ.
This was Encore day, and I was prepared with the sign-up sheet. However, the Game Goddess did not trust me to put up the notice; she’d taken care of it despite my promise that I wouldn’t forget. Encore is a singing game. Two teams are pitted each other, attempting to recall as many songs as possible with a certain word or with a certain theme. The game can take all night with certain players. We had two hours to fulfill our obligation to the Game Goddess. There were four teams playing the 45-minute elimination rounds. The winners of each would play for the championship. The prize was a mug from Casino Arizona. You would have thought there was a cash prize, such was the earnestness and the competitive spirit in the room.
While we were setting up, a red haired woman approached me, her eyes narrow slits of distrust. She said: “I don’t want to say you don’t know what you’re doing, but my husband has run Encore at AGs before.”
“Well, uh, we’ve played Encore before at Games Nights and RGs.” I didn’t sound very convincing.
“This is an AG. It’s not the same as a Games Night.”
She had me there. And thus, she began to tell me everything we were doing wrong ten minutes before we started playing the game. Tony was not in on this conversation. He was wistfully looking out the door.
After a few business notes, the game started. It was so incredibly boring. I had two hourglass timers to rotate every minute. These players actually cared about the game in the same way others care about the Super Bowl. The team from Florida won. The second round teams were not quite so organized. A hunky Belgian man named Luk came to play. He was casually dressed in a Princess Resort bathrobe and a towel wrapped around his neck. He reminded me of the cover of a cheesy romance novel, his long black hair glistening against the stark whiteness of his robe. His team won. When it was time for the final round, a Florida player had a suggestion.
“Since the music trivia game is about to start, couldn’t we just wait until the evening for the finals?”
Tony looked up for the first time and said: “No. I missed Tantric sex for this. We will finish now.”
The Florida team easily won, beating the team with Luk and my red-haired critic. Tony had his hands behind his head, bobbing to a song only he could hear. Since he had no interest in time keeping, and was informed by the red haired woman he wasn’t needed as a judge, he had long ago tuned out. I thought it might be nice for him to participate. So I said: “Tony, why don’t you announce the winner.”
He shook his head and raised his hands. He finally said, “I have no idea.”
I announced the winner.
The next major event was the Singles Meet and Greet. My best friend Jamie arrived while we were trapped in the Encore room. She decided to attend the session on first dates, but a last minute room change proved to be confusing. Instead, she walked in on Tantric sex just as a slide of a vagina was projected on the screen. Her first thought: this doesn’t seem to be about first dates.
Thus, free from our odious burden, Tony and I entered the Singles Meet and Greet with renewed vigor. The goal was to meet someone to love and cherish until death do us part. Boxed wine flowed as the lubricant of love chatter. I savored my glass of water, finding hydration to be preferable to intoxication. And so we watched Jamie work her magic on the eligible men. Tony and I stood by her, eventually joined by others in our Phoenix based group. A gentleman named Bob wandered over. Large and imposing, he cleverly affixed the article “the” in front of his name. This was a conversation starter. Why on earth would he want to be known as The Bob? His response: it made him different from other Bobs. I would think his size would have set him apart from all the shorter, smaller Bobs.
Jamie spotted a gentleman by the wall. He was a more handsome version of Tom Arnold in a smaller, more compact body. Jamie looked over at us and said: “Time me.” We knew it would take less than five minutes of flirting to capture his heart. As promised, she got his attention. Not on the agenda was the older woman openly gawking at their exchange. Jamie and the Tom Arnold look-alike were fully engaged in what looked like an engrossing conversation. The older woman was like a close range peeping Tom.
My comfort level was decreasing with every new person who entered the room. It was my dearest hope to meet my Fourth of July sweetheart. Instead, The Bob left due to agoraphobia. A guy name Steve was boring me with a work story. I excused myself to fill my water glass, only to see a very tall blonde man sporting an “I’m with Stupid” t-shirt.” The arrow on his shirt was pointing directly to his genitalia. This I found very funny. We started talking, wherein I discovered this man was a David Sedaris fan. We gushed about the lovely Mr. Sedaris. As is my wont, the topic then turned to the Amish. I told him I was a Jewish Amish wannabe. He sized me up and said: “This may necessitate a complete lifestyle change, but have you considered becoming a Jewish Amish lesbian? We could call you Jamish.” That was really sweet. He thought I would be a hoot in the gay hospitality suite, the only place where one could get mixed drinks, the only place where my free form conversation would be considered witty or erudite. I explained that I had some allegiance to the heterosexual world, but thanked him for the compliment. Later I learned he was straight, too. He simply preferred the cocktails to the box wine.
The event dragged on for some, but not for Jamie. She was in her element. Tony had also reached his limit, so we gathered in the lobby for picture time. Our friends were dressed Phoenix casual, one step above slob on the street. Naomi introduced me to some friends from Philadelphia: a well groomed woman named Sarina and a man who bore a striking resemblance to a Chia pet. His facial hair needed to be combed, if not eliminated entirely. His hairstyle was last popular in 1978: parted down the centered, feathered back, a bit too long for his own good. We posed for several snaps before we were dragged in different directions.
We later regrouped in the hospitality room, enjoying the free food that flowed day and night. Tony and a nice man bonded as they discussed their military experiences. (Tony retired after six years in the Navy; his discussion partner revealed he was a Captain in the Air Force.) Tony didn’t want me to be left out of the equation, so he told him I was once an Israeli commando. This isn’t true. My stint in the Israeli military was as a volunteer, not a soldier. I worked on tank engines and sorted uniforms for a month in 1989. That was good enough to rouse his attention.
The costume contest/dance was scheduled for later that night. Flyboy wanted to continue the discussion about my life on an Israeli army base. He also wanted to change for the dance. There were two choices: 1) To tell him I’d see him later, or 2) To follow him to his room while he changed his clothing. Visions of Mike Tyson flashed into my head. Common sense took a back seat as I followed Flyboy to his 4th floor room. He was a gentleman. He tried to get me liquored up, but that was a point of courtesy. We were after all at a convention. I took two sips of a margarita and enjoyed the conversation. He said all the right things, including the fact that he liked petite women. I said all the wrong things, like the fact that I’d noticed him earlier and wanted to meet him. (It might have sounded desperate rather than truthful. At least I hadn’t brought up my two other first/last date topics: circumcision and suicide. My ability to edit myself is so poor, two friends actually compiled a list of approved subjects. In an effort to keep the wolves at bay, I often start with the verboten list.) Then he told me the greatest story I’d ever heard at an AG or otherwise. It seemed four years ago, a post operative transsexual friend learned that women who don't lactate have a higher chance of breast cancer. To counteract this unfortunate possibility, his doctor put him on lactation drugs. The disturbing element was twofold. During his stint as a virtual wet nurse, he was still in possession of a functional penis, albeit one trapped in control-top panty hose. He enjoyed demonstrating his squirting powers; the milk landed eight feet across the room.
My response: “Where have you been all my life?”
From that moment on, I was his, heart and soul.
We went to the ballroom, having missed the official costume contest. The costumes were based on royalty themed puns (Triple Crown, The Queen Mum...). Naomi was a judge. These were not costumes haphazardly thrown together in the afternoon. These were labor intensive creations meant to grab the attention of all present. Not a punner at heart, it took a few minutes for me to pick up the joke behind some of the outfits. I never quite figured out why a man dressed like the spokesman for Jack-in-the-Box. (Wouldn’t Burger King have been more on target?) Naomi and her husband Cezar merrily danced the night away, her judging duty completed.
FRIDAY
My friend Lacey and I arrived at the AG hotel around noon. We decided to have lunch in the hospitality room, accepting the dictum there is no food quite so tasty as free food. As we headed to the buffet line, I told her I never knew when anyone was interested in me; I never could read the signals. Just then she nearly knocked me over to get my attention. Flyboy had been loudly calling my name; I walked right past him. Slightly embarrassed, I wished him a good afternoon and asked whether we could join his table after we got our lunch. There were no available seats, but Flyboy suggested I might be comfortable sharing his lap.
My response: “But where will Lacey sit?’
We filled our plates and sat in the back of the room. Then I proceeded to stare at Flyboy, wishing I had accepted his lap as a suitable seating area. I continued my “I can’t read the signals” talk with Lacey, when Chia Pet came over to say hello.
“Hi, you know yesterday when you were talking to Naomi, I got the feeling that you had something to say to me,” he said.
“Uh, no.”
“No, really. When we were all talking, I really thought there was something you wanted to say to me.”
I mentally flashed back to the scene. Unless it was something about getting rid of the beard, there was nothing I wanted to share. So I feigned confusion and repeated, “No, I don’t believe so.”
“Uh, what’s going on with you and Tony?”
“We’re just friends.” And then I paused. “We’re very close friends.”
Chia Pet seemed to get the point. He said goodbye.
Lacey looked at me. “You realize he was hitting on you.”
“Yes, I picked that up.”
“And now he thinks that you and Tony are having an affair.”
“We’re just close friends,” I offered. Then I laughed. “We’re just very close friends.”
As I was there to nurture my mind as well as body and soul, I attended a lecture on the universe. I’d heard this astronomer lecture before. It was my favorite type of science: pretty pictures, no math. He packed the large conference room with fellow astronomy buffs.
Later I met up with Tony. He wanted to know why people thought we were a having a torrid love affair. I explained the nature of our very close friendship.
Thanks to Jamie’s impassioned belief that I was weak in this area, I attended the “How to Flirt” discussion. It was crowded, so I sat on the floor in the back. Luk joined me. Within minutes, he was flirting with me like a champ. He clearly did not need this lecture. At least I left with a smile on my face. During the evening’s pub crawl, I sat with Luk. I told him for the formal dance, I planned on wearing a fancy dress, pointy heels, and applying makeup to my pale cheeks. He brushed the curls away from my face and said, “Not too much make-up, Pamela. Make-up should only enhance your beauty, not cover it.” This man should teach the next flirting seminar. Although I knew better, I blushed at his attention.
SATURDAY
After a full morning of lectures, Tony, Lacey and I walked into the Game Room. We sat at a back table and were met by the Game Goddess. She’d been so busy, she hadn’t had time to enjoy the AG. Every day her brow was more furrowed. She told us the oft-repeated line that only the most undesirable person could make it through an AG without hooking up with someone. This did not sit well with us, the lonely ones. After she left, Luk came to join us. He wanted to go to the spa. It featured a waterfall massage, as well as a sauna, a whirlpool, and a steam room. He asked if I’d care to join him.
“Well, I kind of wanted to attend the FBI agent’s lecture on identity fraud. I’m wondering if the agent looks like Mulder.”
Lacey and Tony shot me ‘are you crazy?’ looks. I didn’t get it. What had I said wrong?
“Oh, but Pamela, you would really enjoy this. The warm water falls on your back, loosening all the knots. It’s so relaxing.”
Tony looked like he was ready to slap me.
“Well, maybe. I did bring a bathing suit today. Oh, all right. I’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes.”
After he left, Tony said, “The guy is asking you to get in a bathing suit and sit in hot water with him, and you bring up Mulder?”
Lacey just giggled.
“Well, I said yes, didn’t I?” I walked away, smarting from the realization that my friends were much smarter than me and should quite possibly take over all my future decision making.
The spa charged $25 for a non- hotel guest. The ambiance was amazing. Guests received a free water bottle. We were given robes, towels and slippers to clop around in. There was fresh fruit and lemonade in the lounge. Luk planned to spend half an hour in the whirlpool before meeting me at the waterfall. I checked out the eucalyptus room, the steam room and the sauna. I was already relaxed by the time I joined Luk. Now my muscles were unknotted by the firm pressure of the waterfall. Luk really enjoyed it. I was in heaven. Then we went upstairs to the private pool for a cozy swim. He told me about Belgium. He told me about chocolate. I told him I enjoyed chocolate. Full sentences probably were not coming out of my mouth. I had entered the state of watery bliss.
All good sauna visits must end. I hauled myself to the shower and used the fancy shampoo and conditioner provided for guests. Then I returned to the land of the living. The lobby was empty. It was 6:30 pm and there wasn’t a Generation X Mensan in sight. A man named Paul was taking many of my friends out for a birthday celebration. Everyone else was seated in the ballroom for the formal dinner. I sat outside on a bench, fighting the urge to fall asleep in public. I stared out into space, uncertain whether I would have the strength to make it back to my car for my fancy dress.
I sat there for twenty minutes, watching the birds land near the fountain, hearing the revelers discuss dinner plans. It felt odd to be lonely in the middle of a 1500 person convention. My defenses were temporarily down thanks to many gallons of hot water. When I became too hot, I walked to my car for my formal clothes. It didn’t take long to transform myself.
I joined my friends in hospitality, posing for photos. Then we made our way into the ballroom, now cleared of chairs. The gropers were enjoying a private moment in a public place. Dances With Self was lighting up the back of the room. I wished I could be that kind of an exhibitionist, but knew that ship had sailed. A man named Carl asked me to dance. I worried about all the right things: being uncoordinated, wheezing, not being able to keep in time to the music. Carl was too polite to notice. After the dance, I thanked him and shook his hand. Chia Pet saw this exchange.
“Someday you’re going to make someone a wonderful wife,” Chia Pet said in a mocking voice.
“Why would you say that?” I asked.
“Because someday you will. You’re so formal.”
Puzzled, I sat down. It was better to watch the crowd than to be part of it. As an extroverted introvert, I knew my true place was sitting in the unlit part of the ballroom, noting the actions of all the participants while doing very little myself.
After the last song ended, Tony made it clear that it was now hot tub time. I wanted to go home, yet felt compelled to stay. He persuaded me to meet him in our new friend Valerie’s room, the place where he planned to prepare the drinks. It was 1:30 am, and he was very loud, completely oblivious to the time. He used the blender, ignoring the fact that he was probably waking up the hotel guests in adjacent rooms. Tony said: “It’s a nice place. It’s probably sound proofed.”
“Have you ever been in a sound proofed hotel room?” I asked, as Valerie tried to pick up the ice that landed on the carpet. The blender was missing its lid.
Carrying enough liquor to intoxicate the freshman class at a mid-sized university, we entered the hot tub area. As there was someone smoking in the pool, I sat far from the tub, doing my best to breathe in unpolluted air. Because I couldn’t go near the smoke, several friends joined me: Tony, Greg, Lisa, Valerie, the Tom Arnold look- alike. Tony told Valerie she was two notches above the level of a pick-up line. (Only a Mensan would want an explanation of how the notches were to be quantified.) We sat and talked about our favorite memories. The Tom Arnold guy liked the bathroom talk. They spent 45 minutes in the ladies rest room, uncovering our secret shoe flushing technique. Tony’s memories were of the hot tub. We teased Greg and Lisa about the Tantric sex talk. I sleepily made it home at 4:00 am, knowing I would have to be up in a couple hours.
SUNDAY
The next morning, I looked a fright. I came back to give blood, but there was an error on the registrar’s part. The blood donations were on Saturday, not Sunday. Bleary eyed, I staggered into the lobby. Then I saw Tony, making his own uncertain way into the hotel. He’d been at the hot tub until 7:30 am. Flyboy approached. He said he was glad to see me; he wanted to know if he could take me out to dinner. I accepted. Then I bounced over to Tony to tell him my good news. Suddenly I was wide awake.
Tony and I settled in the hospitality room. There was a formal brunch for those willing to pay for it. The cheap people picked at the leftovers from the past three days. The crew stumbled into the room: Greg, Lisa, Luk, Valerie, Sarina, Flyboy, Naomi, and Cezar. Pickings were so slim, Sarina drank her coffee from a soup bowl. Naomi and Cezar, deciding the prices couldn’t be beaten, invested in 30 lbs of cream cheese and 10 lbs of Velveeta. Valerie purchased three large bottle of Tabasco sauce and a package of buns verging on the moldy. Nothing could convince her she should try to get her 50¢ back. So desperate were the organizers to recoup their investment, they went so far as to raffle off a pen. A man at another table was making a house of cards out of leftover beer mats. To show our maturity, we started throwing marshmallows at his creation. Then we threw marshmallows at Luk and Flyboy.
We shared the many things we learned. We spoke of the socially inappropriate behavior we witnessed. Lisa suggested a t-shirt be awarded. On the front it would read: INTELLECTUALLY GIFTED; on the back it would declare the bearer: SOCIALLY RETARDED.
We were all too tired to make sense. While Flyboy suggested I could nap in his room, I knew that wasn’t the best solution. Before departing, we arranged to meet in the lobby at 6:00 pm. I went home, rested, showered, groomed, and tried my best to look like an attractive young sophisticate. I entered the lobby at exactly 6:00 pm. He was nowhere to be found. I waited for 15 minutes before taking a little stroll. Then the Game Goddess approached. I told her I was waiting on someone.
“Is it someone you met at the AG?”
“Yes. He should be down here any minute.”
“How late is he?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“You’ve been stood up. It’s happened to me, too. The first time I told him it was his fault. The second time it was my fault for trusting him.”
“I really don’t think...”
“No. It’s too bad. You’ve been stood up.”
She walked away before I could kick her. I went over to the Mensa Boutique people and asked for change for the phone. Then I called my house. He did call. He asked for me to call his room.
I wasn’t stood up. He was waiting for me in his room. And suddenly everything was lovely in my world.
2003: St. Paul AG
My friends secretly put vanilla vodka in my water bottle. This was to assuage the pain from my break-up with Flyboy. I spit out the vodka, preferring to face the world sober. The only man I spent time with at the AG was “I’m With Stupid, “ a man I now called Doug. In too much pain to stick around, I left on the Fourth of July.
2004: Las Vegas AG
All the same characters were present; I was now dating Doug, but he was planning on breaking up with me once we got home. He left before the Fourth of July, leaving me to celebrate with 1800 other Mensans. Flyboy approached me, but I was incapable of looking him in the eye. The happiest time of that AG was the lunch I shared with ten of my closest friends. A restaurant offered 25¢ martinis with the purchase of a lunch entrée. My friends polished off 28 of them. There was friendship, there was alcohol, and there was loneliness.
2005: New Orleans AG
Naomi asked why I bothered to attend these gatherings. It couldn’t be fun for me, what with all the emotional traumas. I told her they still provided the opportunity to spend time with my own kind. Despite my break up with Doug, we were still close. In fact, I bid $325 on him at a date auction. (The money was earmarked for the Mensa Education & Research Foundation, a scholarship program for college students.) Rather than avoiding Flyboy, I finally approached him like a lady. He hugged me. He said he cared about me and felt terrible about how things ended between us.
On the final night of the gathering, the Generation X group rented out a bar a few blocks from the hotel. It had a sand volleyball court in the back. Strangers were handing me hurricanes. Others were coming up to me, wanting to know why a sane person would pay $325 to date an ex-boyfriend.
The answer is simple. I’m a geek. I have trouble fathoming normal relationships, even in my late thirties. I spend all my time with Mensans because I don’t have to apologize for not presenting as “normal,” a term I’ve come to loathe. So my friends quote Yoda, dress up for science fiction film premieres, discuss fantasy fiction minutiae, and break codes in their spare time. My geekiness has a different form, but is of the same ilk. I love my work and all the challenge it provides. My knowledge of show tunes is close to obscene. I have no self-filter and often bring up sex, medical procedures, toys and my crush on Hannibal Lecter. It’s only with Mensans that I can be myself.
The shirts vs. skins volleyball game was hilarious. It wasn’t a display of athletic prowess; no one cared who won. Any volley longer than two passes was worthy of applause. While I stood on the sidelines making smart ass comments, I was surrounded by my relationship failures. Flyboy was to my left; Doug was to my right. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It just felt right. The only thing missing was an “I’m With Stupid” t-shirt with the arrow pointing to my head.
The Future
The World Gathering will take place August 2006 in Orlando, FL. No longer a spectator, I’ll be giving a talk on protecting your brain from dementia. No longer a secret Mensan, I do my best to promote the organization. My face has graced the cover and interior of local newsletters and the national magazine, The Mensa Bulletin. I’ve traveled to Mensa gatherings in California, Florida, and Sweden. Mensa has given me an identity, a society of friends, and wonderful stories. It took some time, but now I wear my geek badge with pride.
Copyright © 2005 Pamela Miller.
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