Years ago, I went to a Crosby, Stills and Nash concert. I love their music, but this was the worst concert experience I’ve ever had. They did not acknowledge the audience at all. They didn’t even look at us. We may as well have been sitting behind a two-way mirror. I could have saved myself the price of admission and watched them on TV.
In contrast, the last concert Dear Husband and I attended allowed for a great deal of participation. It was a local band called Princess Guy. They could have gotten an entire football stadium to do the wave, such was their charisma. We were left feeling as though we had been a part of something bigger than ourselves. I hope we get to see them again sometime. (Check out their YouTube channel here.)
During the performance, there were, of course, plenty of opportunities to clap. When seated, I often did so by slapping my thigh. While standing, I’d slap the palm of my left hand with the fingers of my right one. That’s pretty much how I’ve always done it. But this time I saw DH give me a funny look.
That’s when my newly acquired autism radar kicked in. Was anyone else clapping in this fashion? No. Have I ever seen anyone else clap in this fashion? No. (Well, I have seen the finger to palm gambit, but it only seems to be done by pretentious Victorian-like women, and I can hardly be accused of being one of those.)
I’m beginning to realize that if I’m an outlier, it tends to have something to do with my autism. Having only just been diagnosed a year ago, I’m finding out that I’m an outlier more often than not. Discovering this has been a relief, because it allows me to practice better self-acceptance.
You see, for the previous 57 years, I never really looked outward enough to take note of social norms. I assumed that everyone saw and navigated the world as I did. I just thought that everyone was somehow “better at it” than I was.
The upshot is that I have yet another thing to add to my list of sensory quirks. I don’t like to crash my bony fingers against each other. At all.
That made me wonder if I have any other quirks related to my hands. And I have concluded that yes, yes I do. Too many to count.
For example, I hate wearing gloves of any kind. For some reason they make me feel like I can’t breathe. I hate it when my nails snag on anything, so I keep them cut very short. I also can’t stand to touch or have anyone else touch my navel with their fingers. (Wash cloths? No problem. It’s just a no fly zone for the digits, is all.)
Another weird quirk I have is that I can’t stand looking at my cuticles. If I was ever forced into a nail salon, I’d probably pass out cold. If I were being tortured and someone made me stare at my cuticles, I’d confess everything. Strange, huh?
You’d think, under the circumstances, that I’d love gloves. But no. This cuticle madness of mine makes it awfully hard to hold a book, but I’ve come up with a few “hide the tips of my fingers” workarounds which make me look like a toddler holding books in my fists.
I’m not saying that all people on the spectrum have these quirks. Not by a long shot. But it’s quite common for us to be outliers in one way or another. Most of our quirks probably wouldn’t even be noticeable were it not for the fact that this planet is not set up to accommodate the neurodiverse. And discovering that has been as irritating as the sound of nails down a chalkboard.
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