The other day I was getting up from my office desk to get an eleventh cup of coffee while muttering to myself. Just as I got to my office door, a co-worker passed by and glanced at me, and I was pretty sure she could see my lips moving. Embarrassed, I laughed explosively. “I was talking to myself,” I said to her as we walked down the hall, “and you caught me. I’ve always been afraid that this might happen.”
She laughed. She’s a cool one, very wry. “Loren,” she said, “you are always talking to yourself.”
O dear me.
Yes, I suppose I am. I talk to myself during the entire walk to work, which is anywhere from fifteen to thirty minutes. I know I wave my arms when I talk, too; I’ve caught myself doing it.
It’s useful. I recite information, and list things to myself, and practice difficult office conversations, and tell myself jokes, and run the my day’s agenda. I sing, and I pray (which is especially interesting, given that I’m mostly an atheist). I have conversations with Partner, although (obviously) he isn’t there to speak for himself. I recite poetry.
Obviously I am losing it. It’s getting worse; I used to pretend that people didn’t notice, but I can’t make that assumption anymore. I am a crazy old geezer who talks to himself, that’s all.
But maybe it’s useful. Most of the people in the office are under forty years old; a good percentage are under thirty. They’re wary of old folks.
Maybe I’ll start muttering to myself even more than I do now.
If it alarms them: good. Anything to keep them off-balance.
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