I promise I have delightful and witty blog posts that in the pipeline with pretty pictures and everything. This past weekend, however, took a vile U-turn, and my ability to crank out candy-colored awesomeness has temporarily ceased. However, my fingers are still able to type out complaints and snark and aggravation!
And instead of turning that negativity on the individual who made my life so awful recently, I shall turn my Dark Journalistic Eye on a trend that has me bothered: that of the yakkety yakking neverending blabby talky talker.
I mean, it’s pretty common: you stand there, beverage getting warm and eyes glazing as the Wall of Words surrounds you. The conversationalist who has you cornered will not — can not? — stop, story after pointless anecdote after go-nowhere blahblahbery.
I don’t know if I have had more than my usual share over the past few months, or if my pain threshold has plummeted, but I can feel my well-being status bar blinking red as I try to fathom why, oh why, can’t this individual ESS TEE FUCK YOU?
This summer, it was a friend of a friend at a party. It started off promisingly — he had just gotten back from attending the World Cup in Johannesburg (and brought back vuvuzelas!) but his narrative quickly veered from interesting anecdotes to rapid-fire, non-stop blathering about airplanes and airports and conditioner and beer and and … I literally left the party to escape the words, words, words.
Not long after, it was a lady after my dance class at the Y. She saw my slight grimace of pain and inquired about it. Apparently my utterance of the magic phrase plantar fasciitis unlocked the Pandora’s Box of bossy, unsolicited “this is what you have to do” advice. She did not pause for breath as she careened from orthotics to ice to acupuncture to killmenow.
I’m not being oversensitive or impatient — these types are above and beyond. They did not pause for question nor comment, and had a blank-eyed obliviousness to any and all social cues — including backing away, stifling yawns, and miming the “pulling the trigger at one’s temple” move.
How about a nice yoga class to soothe yourself, Becky? Why, okay! Hello, substitute yoga instructor, my name is… uh huh. Uh huh. Yes. Huh. Uh. Sigh. This teacher (I had the misfortune to have him again last night) was a blatherer. Granted, the delivery was slower, and gentler, and full of caring eye contact, but seriously — he talked about every detail pertaining to the importance, history, and technique of the fucking balance pose, while we shifted from foot to foot, waiting to do a fucking balance pose. Our class went a full 20 minutes overtime last night. From the talking. Twenty extra minutes of talking. Oh my god! All I’m trying to do is get some damn serenity, buddy boy!
It doesn’t stop there (talkers have infected my life all over the place), but I’ll stop here. I’ve been so deprived of regular-style, give and take conversation, that I fear that I’m becoming the yakkety one. If I’ve ever gotten this bad, this Asbergers-y bad, I am so, so sorry — I have a huge fear that I am going to lose my self-awareness, and will slide the slippery slope to nonstop talk, cat collection, and singing loudly to myself in public.
Anyway. How do I deal with these people? Pocketbook ball-gag? Always carry my phone for the “sorry I have to get this” escape? Start chanting OM while my fingers are in my ears?
Excuse me, off to dab the blood out of my ears.