A. Jenson

Sweet Nothings

There's hearing loss—and then there's hearing loss paired with nature's most humiliating, twisted, aural-dyslexic scourge; Audio Processing Disorder. And this pairing—unlike candles and impromptu slow dances—makes for truly horrible dates.

"So I bet you miss Leonard Cohen," becomes a wildly out of context "Wet, wet. The hens have a show you missed,” and for a few seconds I'll stall by taking a contemplative drink. I’ll attempt to work through the bar noise, match the movements of my date's mouth with the incongruous syllables, and formulate—by means of trial-and-error syntactical reconstructions and contextual projections—what the actual hell they just said. (I must accomplish all of this quickly, while looking gorgeous and relaxed.)

This date will go badly, as too many of them do these days. Reasons may include any of the following:

1. I stare at their mouth every second, without flinching, lest they say something while I’m not ready.

2. I appear to be a bit slow, a little spaced out—and not in the widely accepted, I-was-so-nervous-to-meet-you-that-I-had-an-edible-beforehand kind of way.

3. I rattle my date by mispronouncing multisyllabic words and foreign names. (In my brain they are spelled out in their pristine, familiar characters and organized in aphonic perfection.)

4. My attempt to construct meaningful dialogues out of scrambled and acontextual sounds fails; making me laugh at an auntie's cancer diagnosis or nod gravely, solemnly, at an unexpected (Read: Requires hasty improvisation.) "You look great, by the way."

Any of this can tank the rendezvous before we even get past the smallest of small talk.

"Just tell them about your hearing thing right off the bat," a sweet, fully-abled friend suggests.

Have you ever gone on a first date and opened with: "Before you say a word, just know that my brain doesn't work the same way as yours, and everything you say will sound like something else. Sometimes I can't even pick up on inflection, which is wild, when you think about it. Oh and please, for the love of whatever gods you hold dear, do not cover your mouth. Ever. Even if you aren't talking. It’ll just put me on edge and make me more uneasy than I already am. Which is very. Alright? Understand? I absolutely need to see your lips and teeth.”

Oh, you haven't? Well. You're missing out on a lot of anti-chemistry and walked-back flirting and expressions that exquisitely mingle both pity and deflated expectations, let me tell you.

I'd love to report that things improve eventually; that friends are understanding and accommodating, and relationships blossom in the auditory confusion as surely as lilies in a morass; that it only takes perseverance and a stout heart opened to the promise of intimacy, etc.

In truth, invisible disabilities are treated like casual disabilities; half-disabilities; disabilities-lite. Coworkers will still have some laughs at your expense, family can scramble up their sentences on purpose just to see what you'll do, friends will get bored with clarifications and revert to endless "Never mind”s, and "It wasn't important"s. All of this must be taken with good humor and serenity, no matter the sting. What's more: year-after-lonesome-year will pass by and you're still sitting at a sticky table, trying to see through someone's fingers, parsing out what could possibly be "What to drink, now? Corona? Bud Lite?" or "'Sinner man,' Nina Simone? Am I right?" or "When can I take you home? Tonight?"

The answer never seems to be "Whisky," "Not originally, actually," or "We'll see soon enough." Almost without exception, the answer is: Pour your own glass, put the needle in its groove, and stay at home.

At home you’ll find plenty of candles, a living room dance floor, and all of the words written plainly on the record sleeve. What date could be sweeter than that?