Alone and Unobserved

You know, that thing where I agreed a month ago to work a closing shift but I forgot this morning and so I dragged myself out of bed and all the way to work only to find out I’m not supposed to be here for another couple of hours and I could have slept in?

Yes.

On my way to work I made the mistake of having a thought while still in my not-yet-awake, overtired, uncaffeinated state, which is always a bad idea for me. Because then that thought—or part of it—echoes in the hollow space inside my skull FOREVER, or until I get coffee and wake up, whichever comes first. Some mornings it’ll be a snippet of a song (“I can’t stop loving the MAAAAN of mine. I can’t stop loving that MAAAAN of mine. I can’t stop…”). Other mornings it’ll just be a phrase, or a word (“Biblioteca. BiblioTECa. BIBILIOTECA. biblioteca.”). This morning it was “pourquoi ils auraient fait ça” (“why they would have done that,” in French). Not even a complete sentence. So I walked to the bus, accompanied by a regular refrain of “pourquoi ils auraient fait ça, pourquoi ils auraient fait ça, pourquoi ils auraient fait ça, pourquoi…” This got a bit boring and repetitive, so I mixed it up: “pourquoi ils auraient fait ça, pourquoi ils auraient fait cela, pourquoi ils auraient fait ça, pourquoi ils auraient fait cela, pourquoi…”

So you see why sleeping in might have been a good idea this morning.

[Note: I am aware that "Pourquoi ils auraient fait ça?" can be a complete sentence in French. You'll just have to trust me that the intonation of the phrase that repeated itself over and over and over in my head this morning ruled out that possibility.]

I wasn’t hungry at noon today, so I spent my lunch hour exercising in the library’s tiny workout room. Afterwards I was changing in the likewise tiny locker room, feeling a sense of manly accomplishment, when I heard a noise from the bathroom stall. My immediate reaction was to think, There’s someone else in here. How long have they been there? What have they overheard??? Oh, right, they heard me holding forth at length about my underwear.

You see, I have a slight problem. I talk to myself, out loud, ALL THE TIME.

If I’m in a room with you but think I’m alone, I may treat you to:

• A monologue on my views on the state of health care in the United States, possibly compared and contrasted with the health care systems of other countries
• One half of a conversation with a person who is not physically present about how they have failed me personally in the past and what I will expect of them in the future if they are to return to my good graces
• A lengthy discussion of the circumstances under which I dropped a glass jar of instant coffee on my foot, and what the resulting lump looks like, and whether I think it will ever heal (I change my mind on this point hourly)

Or, as today, you might hear a one-sided discussion on whether I think my undershirt is too sheer to serve as a workout top (I decided it was, but I wore it anyway).

Some of these bizarre little soliloquies become blog posts, or inspire blog posts (like this one!). Some become stories, or ideas for novels. And some serve only as further evidence that I am a tool short of a shed. Fortunately, it turned out that I really was alone today in the locker room. So, while my secret is still safe and I won’t be committed to a mental hospital yet, I’m starting to hear noises on top of talking to people who aren’t there. Maybe there is a medication I should be taking?

[Photo of painting "LABYRINTH: Maybe I am Crazy" by Emin Sinanyan.]