Courtesy: http://bit.ly/TVY9Y0
It’s never been a secret to anyone whom I’ve had a conversation with, like… ever… that I’m an involved partner in the chat. I like to be, let’s say, active, in what we’re talking about. And this weekend, I got called out on it.
It starts like this.
Our pending snow storm in Duluth had me thinking yesterday about all the errands I wanted to finish before it hit. The Tiny Dancer doesn’t fare well in snow, so I spent the day running around like a crazy person, spending lots of money on Christmas gifts, a cute dress and four pairs of shoes (Savers, you rule).
In the meantime, I bump into my friend Brooke, whom I haven’t seen in a million years. We decide we have much to catch up on, and what better way to encourage the errand process than by over indulging on an Anchor burger and a pitcher of beer. Right? RIGHT?!
This brings us to Superior, Wis.
We shuffle on up to the bar stools, and we have ourselves a good time. We’re talking, laughing, talking more…discussing boys, shopping, shoes, barfing, baking (truly, those all came up). There are some animated gestures involved. Some whispering. Some squealing. Like a raging house fire, we’re fully involved.
This probably would have continued on for a while, until the gentleman next to me, who thus far has only been silently staring, says this.
“You know, I’ve never seen two people in my whole life who have more to say to each other than you two.” Deadpan.
Awkward laughing.
“Haaa, yeah. We’re longtime friends,” I say.
“Seriously. Nonstop,” he says.
“Well, we’re actually old roommates, “ I say.
“Yeah,” he says, “I mean… you two never take your eyes off each other. You just talk and talk.”
Uncomfortably shifting around on bar stools.
“Yeah… Well… we’re not dudes, sir.”
This is when, for reasons I can’t explain, my hand is suddenly rising in front of me.
What am I doing… why I am reaching to touch him? Why am I compensating for this awkwardness with a warm gesture?! What the hell….. noooo….Not the shooooouuuulllllder!
*Sigh*
My hand is now resting on his shoulder.
“And you don’t look like dudes either, do ya! Huuuuuuuuh huh!”
“Oh, God,” says Brooke.
Awkward silence. Neighbor man looks at me.
“But you. You talk more.”
Great.
I pull my hand back into my own zip code. This conversation is over. As quickly as it started, our friendly friend has dropped a zinger, turned on his heel and left us in the dust.
I guess I’ve always known that I’ve been one to chat, maybe even talk too much. I can over-share, butt in, and even have to remind myself to listen without thinking about what I’m going to say next.
Yet, in an instant, I think I just got served by my own arch nemesis… The Talker.
Humble lessons, no?
