When people meet me for the first time, they're often surprised to learn that I have Asperger syndrome. "Oh, my," they say, sometimes slowly and clearly, as though they're now addressing a child. "It is really remarkable how well you're able to handle yourself socially."
So begins today's guest blog, from my friend and fellow author David Finch. Like me, he has Asperger's. In this essay, David writes movingly about how his Asperger's affected his marriage, and what he's done to build a good life with the typical female of his dreams . . .
So David's story continues . . .
As compliments go, it's not so bad. Still, I can't help but feel a little like an unfrozen Neanderthal when I hear comments like that. "You mean to tell me you're only thirty-four years old and you managed to come here all by yourself?" The implication is that two minutes ago I was just another dude standing around in a sport coat, smiling unexpectedly, but now that I've outed myself, I'm Asperger Guy, and it's a wonder I haven't been yapping the whole time about pygmy fruit bats or the history of the shoe.