No such thing as small talk

You look great!”

“Thanks.”

“Really, you have that glow!”

“Thanks.”

“No, really! I’m not saying you didn’t look good before! But you really look good now!”

“Thanks.”

“That glow!”

“Thanks!”

“Gotta go! Keep that glow! It must be the long hair!”

Unless I looked like a strobe light there was no way a glow could be visible in the dark crevices of the club where I was being clubbed with heavy flattery. As to the relationship of my newfound wattage to my long hair, it was worth exploring.

Small talk is painful. I know.

The other day the joke was again on me. Jessica Zafra came over to say hello to me at the STAR Journalism Awards. I got so nervous. I looked around to check if she was actually saying hi to me. I trembled. Me?

“Hi, we’ve never been introduced, I’m Jessica.”

“I read your articles a lot”

“Thanks.”

“I mean, I’m Celine. You make everything seem fascinating. Even toasters.”

Around this time my big right toe and big left toe were already French kissing as my knees shook.

I mean, what do you say to someone like her?

“I don’t have a life. This is all I do.”

Self-effacing, confident and friendly. She had the traits of a genius gone right.

“I have no life, too.”

Trying to keep my pace too, you know.

We talked about the upcoming STAR anniversary issue — well, she was talking about it and I was just stammering.

“It was nice to finally meet you.”

I giggled like an idiot.

I stood there and wondered why I was — oddly — sometimes called a socialite. I’m a social disgrace. It was painful.

I saw Jessica from across the room and bravely went up to her again. Hoping to at least regain some dignity. She probably forgot about my hypothermic experience with her cool and effortless small talk. I didn’t. It was time to stop being awkward.

“I’m sorry I was so nervous. I’m so intimidated. I am glad I met you.”

What the hell was coming out of my mouth?

She smiled at me kindly and hopefully just edited what I said.

You can learn a lot from small talk. I learned about a website that gave the cheapest hotel and airfare packages in Asia. I learned that aspirin is good for heart problems. I learned that putting garlic oil in your ear boosts your immune system. I learned that you can break in new shoes by having them stretched in Besa’s. I learned where you can get the best letter press stationery locally. I learned what organic truly means. I learned who was gay. I learned what the best cleanse was (sea salt).

Some people are so good at it that they might as well be presidential speechwriters. So seamless, so slick, so good. They make everyone they brush feel special. Not stalked.

It’s an art. A fine mix of genuine flattery, true interest, a thoughtful awareness of one’s surroundings (no talking about auras in a club!) wrapped with a tone of self-possession. Blow. Me. Away.

The true socialite is the chick played by Julia Roberts in Charlie Wilson’s War. She charmed her way into helping Afghanistan and stopping the cold war. Now that’s networking.

It’s not about wearing Pucci and looking like the menu for some Cuban restaurant and hauling around a very determined Birkin. It’s not about being in every page of a magazine or newspaper like you’re a fugitive on the loose. It’s about being the woman who looks in people’s eyes and pats people’s forearms while actually listening, making one feel like the most important person in the room. Not everybody can be that. Those who can become stars.

Socialites have gotten a bad rep. They are human. They get dumped. They get their hearts broken. They are always handsomely groomed but never like a show pony. But there’s something more to them. They read FT. They know how to connect people. They know how to make things happen. Like a party. Like a fundraiser. Like stopping world hunger. Like unicorns in a land of ordinary people, they are almost mythical, but a true-blue one can make you feel good about writing away half your savings for a good cause, just because they’re that good. It’s not about what they feel — it’s how they make you feel.

They are good listeners. Not everyone is a good listener. God knows how often I cut people off while they’re talking (along with my other charming habit of pointing with my finger like a loaded pistol). All my disarming social skills runneth over my cup. 

I guess putting yourself out there requires work. But as Cocteau says: “Don’t mistake gravity for seriousness.” At the end of the day it’s a party that will perhaps be fondly remembered in Style Bible. Small talk will be there, along with people who were not really invited to the event. Deal with it.