Don’t get me wrong. I like being me. Yes, I know I’m loud. (My coworker just said, “Oh don’t let the ‘loud girl’ [yours truly] near the sleeping baby!”) But even though my “voice carries,” I still think I’m pretty fun. True, unlike my genius husband I’m not a phenom at anything, but at least in this down economy I haven’t lost my job (well not yet). I know I’ll never be the skinniest girl in the room, the star of the choir, let alone the star of any sports team, but I’ll make you a cupcake if you’re sad, and if you’ve just had your heart broken I’ll cry with you and tell you you’re pretty. Overall, I’ve worked hard at being OK with who I am. It has taken years and countless positive mental affirmations, but day by day I’m getting closer to acceptance.
However, there are still a couple of involuntary things I tend to do that are, I guess, part of the Alison Faulkner Package. And whenever I do these things I want to run to the nearest mirror and yell, “Why the hell do you do THAT!?”
One of these “Why the hell do you do THAT?!” things in particular that I have noticed as of late, is my tendency to make comments. Yeah, just comments in general. I’ve got a freaking comment for everything. EVERYTHING. Generally I try to make these comments witty or funny, but usually they are just awkward and overly obvious.
I have realized I have a complete inability to let anyone walk by me without making a dumb comment of some sort. For some reason I have taken on this weighty responsibility as “life commentator” but the thing is, I’m not very good at it.
This morning my coworker Doug walked by with a drill. Let’s see, what does Alison say?
Is it “Good morning Doug!”
Is it “Hey Doug, what’s the drill for?”
It is even, “What you up to?”
Or heaven forbid it’s just a smile or a low controlled “Hello.”
NO! No. It’s none of these perfectly normal things. I have to say, “Whoa there!!! Hey buddy, you’ve got a drill!”
Yeah, YOU’VE GOT A DRILL. Because Doug doesn’t know what that cold heavy contraption is that he’s clutching in his hand. Thankfully I’m there to give him a heads up.
And then there was the other day when my neighbor was walking out to his car, and I was just about to get into mine. He was far enough away that I didn’t even really have to say hello or make any comment at all. But my brain spasms when I see someone I know, and after that, all is lost. So from my car, yards and yards away, what do I unnecessarily scream?
Is it, “Hi!”
Is it, “Have a good night!”
Is it even, “Yo! Take care!”
No. Because I don’t yell anything concise or coherent. I shout, from across the street,
“Wow! It sure is treacherous out here!”
Treacherous. Seriously? Treacherous. I couldn’t say icy, or cold, or snowy. I had to say treacherous. Because, duh, it’s one of those words that is so easy to understand over passing traffic.
And of course there’s not enough time for someone to respond to a comment like that. It takes at least 15 seconds to process that kind of crap. And by that time we’re both long gone. The other person is left scratching their head, and I’m running to my reflection to chastise myself.
The worst part is, it’s not just people I know. The woman filling up two 32 ouncers at the soda fountain in 7-11 got a, “Hey there! Hope those aren’t both for you!” And the guy standing next to me in the grocery aisle looking at tea got a, “Hey there! Sorry I’m a tea hog!” I kid you not.
I tried to keep track of more comments, but it’s like trying to count breaths. There are just too many of them.
Thankfully I have all of you to share all of my OTHER thoughts with otherwise I’d probably just have to sit on a park bench all day making obvious comments to pigeons and scaring any person who happened to stop at the trashcan near me long enough to hear what I had to say about all things they’re throwing away, wearing or carrying.
Yes, ladies and gents, it’s rough being me. And I do try to keep things in perspective. I don’t have cancer, I’ve got a roof over my head, a sexy husband, and a family that loves me. But for the love of all that is holy, I wish I could just, in the words of Craig Faulkner to a car of screaming children, “Keep my fat face shut!”