THE SONIC BOOMER
I’ve begun talking to myself. Out loud. Shamelessly.
I mean, I always used to mumble in frustration or giggle at something one of the kids did, but now I let myself carry on whole conversations. I argue with myself. Sometimes I even win.
This started in earnest while my husband Mark was on his Big Boating Adventure. As the months slipped by, I missed having someone to talk to. Then I thought, “Why does it have to be him? Especially when I’m right here?” So I started being more free and open about it. I let it “all hang out,” to use one of the more colorful phrases from the 1960s. I would go through my day in relative silence, except for the occasional musing…
“Why am I still using a vacuum cleaner that needs bags?”
“Am I out of milk already? I thought I just bought some on Thursday!”
And the universally popular, “Where the heck is that remote?!”
It was as I was remarking aloud to my mailbox (“Why is it they can put a man on the moon but they can’t make you rain-proof!?”) that I realized I should probably keep my new hobby away from the neighbors. I’ve already got prying eyes next door using binoculars to see if the grass in my backyard has been mowed. I can only imagine what they’d surmise if they heard me talking to someone with Mark out of town.
Maybe I’ll get some ear buds, make it look like I’m on the phone. Yeah, that’s it.
Back when I was a kid watching The Jetsons on TV, we all assumed we’d be riding in flying cars by the year 2000. But even George Jetson used a TV-like videophone to call his wife, not a handheld computer that could take pictures and play music as well. Worse, his videophone sat on a desk, had a cord and antennae! What was this, The Flintstones? George Jetson would’ve killed for ear buds.
Actually, Mark’s boat tour ended a while ago, and he’s back home, so I’m trying to stifle myself. (And good for you if you recognized my Archie Bunker reference! Long live television!)
As I was saying, I’ll start up a sentence, realize I’m talking out loud, and hastily try to turn it into a song. (“Where is my… flowers gonnnnne, lonnnng time pa-asssing… Where have all the flowers gonnnne, long time ago?”)
So this is our lives now — me talking to myself and him thinking I was starting to say something but “realizing” I’m only singing. Interesting.
Oh, and here’s an update for persistent readers: The police found the guy who broke into my antiques shop. A few weeks later, he broke into another business a couple of blocks away where the owner surprised him — with a gun. “Unfortunately, I won’t be able to interview him,” the detective told me. ’Nuff said.
