Last night at about 11:00, I was sitting at the computer with head phones on (the really big, puffy, circa 1979 ones), listening to a sound file that a friend had sent (there are reasons for both my being obtuse here and for the earphones).

Reg walked in and asked, “What are you doing?”

I said, “_____ sent me a sound file.”

Reg, “Why are you using earphones?”

Me, “Because it’s a secret.”

Reg, walking out, “You guys are real dorks sometimes.”

Friends, he wasn’t even curious because he knows I’m a dork and that most likely, there was a dorky explanation. I am, and there is. But then I got to thinking about all of the things that I’m dorky about…about my personal dorkisms as well as those of my loved ones.  We just kind of learn to accept each other’s dorkisms…like I’ve mocked accepted Reg’s penchant for anything from the vampire genre. And it’s even more fun when we find friends whose dorkiness is compatible with ours.

Aside from the aforementioned secret sound file, here are the ways that I can recall demonstrating my dorkiness recently. 

• At book club,  when I said, “All things Harry Potter make me happy all of the time.”
• When I corrected a Jane Austen sign that was posted outside the English Department on my campus. The sign listed the titles of her works and dates of publication for them, but it failed to list Northanger Abbey. I post-it-noted a correction: “Northanger Abbey, 1817, like Persuasion, was published posthumously.” I didn’t have to look any of this up.
• At a cafe the other day, a group of women were together talking about a book, that much I could tell. I never caught the title, but they were talking about Lucius, and it clearly wasn’t Harry Potter. I took notes from their conversation on a napkin so that I could google the details and identify the book (haven’t done it yet).
• When I realized that one of Gwennie’s dresses was going to stay stained, despite my multiple cleansing agent and brush, ranging from tooth to scrub, system. I felt betrayed by this garment. I let Gwennie paint in it.
• When a woman at the Y stopped by the machine I was on and asked me “How much longer?” and I responded, “when I get to 600.” I always stay on the machine until that calorie counter says at least 600. I refuse to allow into my worldview the possibility that the counter might be inaccurate.
• The other day, Reg got home 10 minutes later than I expected him to, which made me just on time rather than 10 minutes early for work. I was seriously pissed about this. I’m pretty sure I bitched about it to at least two other people.
• When I was watching CNN on the treadmill TV at the Y, spotted an apostrophe error on the crawl, snorted and said loudly, “Uh, it’s plural, not possessive.” An apostrophe error, after all, must always be pointed out, even if no one else cares.

It’s funny to sit back and realize how much we are defined and how much we define ourselves by the things about which we are complete dorks. I have all of these little idiosyncracies (if I have OCD, I don’t actually want to know) that my husband works with or around. And after a little reflection, I realized that I joyfully work around my loved ones’ dorkisms too. For example, one of my people always has to know what other people are ordering at a restaurant before she decides what she wants, and she always has to order last. I completely love this about her.

Why? I think our dorkisms make us more human and more likeable to each other. I know that for my friends, the dorkier they are, the more I love them.