There are many things I will never be.
I even wrote a post about it.
One of these things is a talker.
I know that those of you who know me probably just guffawed out your morning coffee or afternoon doobie (I’m not here to judge, people) because really, I talk a lot.
But I do it out of awkwardness. In the interest of filling silence. I forget what movie it is that talks about how it takes being comfortable with someone to be able to just shut the hell up and be quiet.
Whatever movie it is, that’s totally right.
Because there aren’t many people I can just sit with for any length of time without telling some sort of story or just yammering until I convey far too much information for any decent person’s taste.
Like in an elevator. When we lived in Jackson, I worked in a huge hospital complex. I was on an elevator multiple times a day. If I was just going a floor or two (I probably should have taken the stairs. But it was hot. And I was pregnant), then I didn’t really have time to get uncomfortable, but many times I was in the tiny space for nine floors or so.
Most of the time my riding companions would be a gaggle of doctors or nurses. They would make their own noise, chattering amongst themselves.
But sometimes it was a patient. Once it was a little old lady who was completely lost. There is just so much of me that screams out to make people comfortable (and by people I mean, of course, me) that I made conversation about anything. Everything.
Even when I could tell I was with someone who didn’t feel like talking and I tried to be quiet, it was torture. Like being naked in a locker room with someone with an….interesting body. Or politely dismissing the Jehovah’s Witness at the door.
So what I’m trying to say is that I really lack in the small talk category.
Which is probably why I have a blog.
Why I feel compelled to share my life with the world. And pretend they care.