When passing a person in the hallway that you know, but don’t know that well, do you wave? Do you ignore them? Do you stop and say hello? I’m talking about the guy that sits next to you in psychology, but you’ve only talked to him once when asking for a piece of paper. Or that chemistry professor you had six semesters ago, who may or may not remember you as the girl who lit her hair on fire during an experiment on water. Or your project partner from a grueling English project freshman year who made you do all the work. You get the idea.

Recently I adopted the strategy of pretending I don’t see these acquaintances when passing by them. Why do I want to pretend not to see my acquaintances? Because I never know what could happen if I do greet my acquaintances. They could not recognize me (embarrassing), forget my name when I’ve remembered theirs, or vice versa (embarrassing), ask me the dreaded “what’s up?” which no one on the face of the earth knows the proper response to, or they could challenge me to a fight of the death which I would accept out of pride but ultimately lose resulting in my untimely demise (embarrassing). Pretending I don’t see my acquaintances in order to avoid interaction sounded like an easy strategy. Until I tried it out.

 Last week I saw my friend’s boyfriend’s friend walking down the hallway the opposite way of me. It was inevitable that we would pass by each other. I quickly scanned my mind for more info: this man and I had spoken twice in a public setting for less than twenty seconds each over six months ago. Acquaintance status activated! As we got closer and closer to one another, I carefully trained my eyes straight ahead of me and attempted to look very caught up in my own thoughts. When we were right about to pass one another, I glance to my left to see if my acquaintance is taking the same strategy as me—and BAM! Eye contact! Oh, no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Now we’ve passed each other. I’ve made eye contact and not said anything, the ultimate jerk move. 

I don’t know about you, but acquaintances are a big issue in my life. It seems the halls in which I walk are filled to the brim with them, and my classrooms are clustered with them. They pop up unexpectedly in bathroom lines, behind me at the vending machine, and in my nightmares. I hear them calling from outside my window when it’s dark and stormy: “Looong tiiiiime no seeeee, uh, what’s-your-name-agaaaaain?” 
In order to escape my acquaintance-themed living nightmare, I decided to become a recluse. I grew a long white beard, took a small rubber lifeboat to a deserted island off the coast of Massachusetts, and started my life anew. At first it was difficult, learning to find my own food, learning to light a fire, struggling to entertain myself with the wooden chess game I’d brought with me (I forgot chess required two players), warding off the ravenous man-eating crocodiles, and trying to find the meaning of existence. But overall, I was happy because I was finally rid of the stress of seeing an acquaintance and not knowing how or if I should greet them. Well, happy until yesterday, when a crab I had seen (and considered buying) at the seafood market crawled up onto my deserted island and waved one claw at me. “Long time no see!” It said. “Do you need a partner for chess?”