A Brilliant Conversationalist

I talk to myself. Not like an insane person (I don't suddenly rise out of a reverie on a train and scream things, and then quiet down again). But I'm a bit of a mutterer, and it gets worse when I'm anxious about work or have too much going on in my personal life. Which is just about all the time.  

I tried to trace back when it started, and I think I was around 27. Or 21. Or 15. It started simply, maybe with me saying, "Now where did I leave that jacket?" and has evolved into entire conversations that go way past the location of a missing garment. 

I don't always realize when the dialog that's happening in my brain finds its way out into the world. Like when I was traveling with a colleague, and she called my hotel room (she was next door) to ask who I was speaking to. Or when I thought I'd finished a cell phone call with my sister while we both were driving (before the crackdowns), and she and her passengers listened to me continue talking for two minutes (yes, it would have been nice if she had shut off HER phone, but reverse the situation and I absolutely would have eavesdropped, too—how delicious to catch your sibling in a lapse of normalcy). Or in the ladies' room at work, which is especially tough to carry off—sometimes I find myself speaking (to be fair to me in this confession, I'm just listing the things I still need to address that day, and not reciting lines from Monty Python or wondering aloud how many miles are left before I need an oil change) and—gasp!—I hear someone else come in.  Then I wait behind my stall door so the intruder can't identify me. Like they would never recognize my voice, or my shoes, or my name on the datacard I left on the sink.

I know that this was cute 20 years ago, is mildly concerning now, and will be de rigueur if I make it to 90. Provided the actual chatter stays at a minimum, I can keep the crazy at bay. But to be safe,  if you ever see me on a train, you might not want the seat right next to me. Just in case...