Body-language-spotting a no, before you even know | MARK HUGHES COBB

Watching coffeeshop patrons ask for straws via semi-phallic, somehow-missed-the-whole Shake Weight-is-comedy-gold-until-your-local-morning-show-anchors-milked-it-dead era gestures makes me wonder:

What's the hardest-to-lose body sign?

I still point at my wrist when asking for time, though I haven't worn a watch in 25 years, and though I rarely care what hour it is, as the answer pretty much will always be "rapidly approaching deadline."

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Watches died for me after they stopped being fun, aka racheting in full-on calculators, alarms for several time zones and languages, good to a depth of 100 meters should you be snorkeling while Nerd, flip-pop tops, nasty rubber straps that made you smell like someone who'd wear a watch with a keyboard on it, and no, I don't want to hear about "smart watches," because you've trapped yourself. Always in touch.

I'm talking about watches that could either serve as fortress-strong bulwark against losing your virginity, or, alternately, convince naive others you must possess shattering confidence and fathoms-deep hidden charms, because who else would have the altimeter to walk around sporting such a maladroit apparatus?

As we've begun routinely pocketing enough palm-sized computing power to casually rescue Tom Hanks, Bill Paxton and Kevin Bacon from outer-space explosive duct-tape doom, the visual allure of sleek, or even clunky, futurism has deflated concurrently. Who honestly thinks even the finest ― superior in tech, safety and comfort ― autos of today can approach the streamlined sass, funky muscle and great-googly-moogly pizzazz of the '57 Corvette, '57 Thunderbird, '64 Aston Martin DB5, '34 Cord Sportsman, '62 Ferrari GTO, '61 Jaguar E-type, '70 Chevelle SS, '54 Mercedes Gullwing, '38 Bugatti Atlantic, '57 Chevy Nomad, or you name it?

Even Oldsmobile, with that silver-lead monniker, once produced chooglin' Chitty Chitty Bang Bang contraptions, Ma Barker riding shotgun on the running boards rocket stars, droptops a noir private dick wouldn't be shamed out of motorvating through a long night smoggy as a pawnbroker's soul. It wasn't until the dread that '70s Olds started churning out Wagon Queen Family Trucksters in metallic pea, about as sex machine as moldy potted cactus.

"You think you hate it now ... but wait'll you drive it!" and as always, all deities bless Eugene Levy.

I'm speaking with full weight and authority of someone old enough to recall early James Bond but young enough -- on first watchings ― to think the high-tech gadgets were hotter draws than Ursula Andress, Jill St. John or Martine Beswick, alligator submarines, flame-throwing bagpipes, rocket-launching cigarettes and laser-gun jetpacks, oh my.

I've largely submerged the time tick via Janeane Garofalo's "What bone is this?" gag, but still manipulate a weird habit of self-hanging pantomime for "No!" or "Stop."

Comes in handy, puns always intended, while directing The Rude Mechanicals in "Twelfth Night" ― cheap plug to come see a free show 8 p.m. June 28, through July 1, in the Allen Bales Theatre. For real, though, teaching body language is part of the gig. I'm not sure what it says about These Kids Today that I've had to show several undergrad women how to entice a man. On stage.

Anything around my neck ― ties, collars, fingernails coated with wet blood-red paint, attached to someone who treats servers poorly ― presages this claustrophobe's idea of hell. Most muscle has been more or less purposeful (to stay upright) but this neck wasn't intentional. Who wants to go from a reasonable 16 1/2 to 17-inch collar to 21s?

Not much selection in that range, unless you count beige tent-shifts of fabric that don't seem to have been tailored so much as churned out of a mill. You'd suspect better from a college town where I can get visual confirmation, on any campus Publix visit, of three dozen linebackers who suffer similar constraints.

The neck expanded when I began swimming laps: side-to-side breathing. Yes, I add meat via pretty much any movement ― though tragically, cannot cut fat as easily ― which is why, as I type and play guitar many of my waking hours, don't test me in a hand-crushing contest, and definitely not that thumb-and-forefinger Made you look! Now you can't break my O-ring! sign-game so, well, popular is a word, in pubs, back at the turn of the century.

Body language has long been a fascination, as middle child in a large family ― five boys, Mom and Dad -- and one of the youngest in a Dothan suburb teeming with tons o' older kids. When you're smallish ― even XL for your age ― folks tend to talk over your head, literally and figuratively.

To address the former, I read dictionaries and the encyclopedia, beginning with M, then A, because Mark.

Call me rogue.

For the latter, I read the room.

Of course, as with literal words, body language can lie. A person with feet turned toward you, arms and legs comfortably sprawled, eyes wide and glistening, may indeed be inviting your company.

Or they might just be stoned.

While ago, I dated a woman with zero grasp of body language. She perceived physical signals not as language so much as a series of boops and clicks stemming from a crystalline lifeform, arisen from an orb composed primarily of flatulent gases and regret.

Imagine how the early flirting went. I was on stage. Eye contact was made: That much, at least, seems universal. When she approached with a compliment for the show, later, at a bar where rafts of tragically alone people played thumb-and-forefinger O-games, or caused all to recoil as they approached the juke with wrinkled mitts-full of dollar bills and visions of movie-style spontaneous sing-alongs juddering in Jagermeister-sloshed noggins, I suavely thanked her by asking "Wanna make out?" I read her: Direct approach required.

I should add this was not so long ago as to be effective. There had been a period of early-adult years, while a mostly fit, mildly amusing (given generous states of mind) fellow that I stalagmited love-experience into a robust stratum of cockiness, but from room-reading, rather than, oh, charm, wit, or capability. It's 98.4% true I've never been told "no," because I know before "no." Mostly. Missed a couple flags and signs, early on; wishful thinking. But such urged me deeper into observation and interpretation.

Though I sometimes overlook Yes, I'm spot-on with No-spotting. For this woman let's call C because it's a letter in her name, I pointed out folks she should avoid. C would act as if I'd pulled a magic trick when that person would get fired for spitting in the cappucino machine, or pop up in police reports for more heinous offenses. One creep I pointed out to C turned out to be a double murderer, though he looked eerily like every accountant/bank teller/comic rendering of a harmless goof ever. Did I know the murder thing, literally? Nah. No more than whatsername from "Poker Face," you know, the female Nick Nolte, can tell why somebody's lying; just that they are prevaricating. Thin show premise, but I digress. I can sniff "No" from across crowded rooms.

Why it's a no, I may never know, or only find much later, on the news. Once I overrode an instinctive "no," on a mutual pal's urging. That took years to bubble up, but when it did, I found the No had more than once spoken to a woman I was dating, warning her from me. Each came to me: "Hey, that guy? Not your friend."

That this dude ― Who we'll also call C, for confusion ― thought backstabbing might carve a jagged pathway to a woman's heart should earn a smattering of sympathy, for his socially-diseased delusion.

That he was semi-accurate in assessment ― I would not stay forever, and was probably, Heaven Forfend! only interested in dating for the time being ― should not. Probably.

Every sign of no is a learning opportunity, even if you see it in the mirror.

Reach Tusk Editor Mark Hughes Cobb at mark.cobb@tuscaloosanews.com.

This article originally appeared on The Tuscaloosa News: Studying body language can tell tales othewise missed MARK HUGHES COBB