The question is: Can I?
I know I’m a chatterbox. I even was dumb enough to believe I was a stupendously enjoyable blabbermouth. Funny. Pithy. Educational, even. I thought the Lord & Master and Sassafrass enjoyed my tidbits from Vanity Fair or whatever book I’m reading. I thought my hilarious bon mots were a pleasure for them.
I thought wrong.
Lately, after the umpteenth time Sassy has flailed her arms and said, “Oh my God, her monologue never ends,” my sweetheart of a hubby replied, deadpan, “Welcome to my world.”
For the first time, I heard them. And now I can never un-know what I’ve heard.
Holy crap. I’m the problem. They don’t want to hear what I’m blathering on about. They’re praying I’ll shut the hell up.
Is this why I’ve seen parents from Sassy’s elementary school cross the street when they see me coming? Am I that long-winded bore everyone’s trying to avoid? Am I Daddy? Whom we loved to kid about his ever-ready jokes? For years we had a caricature someone drew of him standing at the bathroom sink, looking into the mirror, asking, “Hey, buddy, did you hear the one about…?”
I’m not embarrassed. After you’ve shoved an entire human being out of your vagina in front of strangers, albeit ones with medical degrees, you don’t embarrass easily.
I guess, like Barack Obama tweeted after being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, I’m humbled. Just not humbled for quite so wonderful a reason.
So, as I bump up against 60 years on the planet, I must consider an entirely new way of being. A quiet way. It’s gonna be quite the adventure. Unlike my previous embrace of Oscar Wilde’s advice: Be Yourself, Everyone Else is Taken, now I must not be myself. Lest I drive my family stark raving mad.
Stay tuned for updates on how I navigate this fine mess.
P.S. This place is like a morgue without me talking.