Crazy Talk
by Susan Weber
One day, in our wild premarital awakening, he gave me the key to his house. This was a sign of his commitment, had I eyes to see. So it was after a spell of separation that I let myself in by the side door, locking it behind me. He’d be home soon from the steady job, another indication of the man’s reliability. I had on a wrap around skirt—black with tiny rosebuds—and a pale pink summer blouse. Some things you never forget. I nosed around his kitchen and found he’d baked his traditional chocolate chip oatmeal cookies. The place smelled homey. I’d showered after work with a scented rinse through my hair, so I smelled nice too. When his yellow Chevet rolled up the drive, I slipped around the corner to the dining room.
I waited, taking in the sounds of bachelorhood. A key turned, door shoved open, work shoes drumming down the basement steps. Flip flops slapped the stairs on his way back up. And then. Standing at the kitchen sink he sniffed two times and said, “Something smells different.”
The something, of course, was me. I can still hear, faintly now, the baritone scientist’s wonder that the data did not add up. My scent was not supposed to be there, yet it was. I stepped out to say hello and the rest, as we say, is history.
The accumulated evidence of constancy and love brought me home to the place I live in still. Same basement, same three bedroom doubledecker where the die was cast. So he talked to himself at the kitchen sink. Did I find that strange? I hardly let it bother me. Marriage is a flying leap with benefits of many doubts, so who keeps track?
We’re both all in, this man and I, though ashes have been reverently scattered. This news will count as crazy talk to some who are yet to be abandoned. By all accounts he’s in me and I haven’t found the downside to this. If it’s evidence you’re after, well. Not a day or a cool half hour passes when I don’t consult his point of view—and count myself privileged to hear it. We recently agreed that a weekly meal together like the good old days shouldn’t be too big an ask of a reasonable universe. We laughed about dialing back the fantasy. It doesn’t hurt to laugh.
So I’m the one talking to myself these days, sometimes internally, oftentimes aloud. Around the new year, with a nod to sanity, I resolved to stop the out loud version. When I mentioned this to my sisters, they both said separately, “What’s wrong with that? I do it all the time.” One said she tried to be discreet at work in a shared office. She reported mixed success. The other admitted she tells herself jokes and cracks herself up routinely.
I ventured beyond my sisters to measure the scope of the self-talking world. The internet warns it could be a symptom of grave psycho-social disorders with long unpronounceable names. It also reports that scientists in Bangor have determined that talking to yourself out loud may not only be helpful but may indicate a higher level of intelligence. Keep an eye out for talk-among-yourself as the world’s new bight-eyed meme. My niece, a preemie nurse, walks around the unit muttering to herself. She’s got a lot to keep track of and talking helps her think. Her co-workers keep a wide girth. Are they off to find muttering space of their own? A neighbor gets around the taboo with an avatar. “I talk to my dog all day long,” she says, “but I guess we know who I’m really talking to.”
Other friends insist we all have inner dialogues so why not get the vocal cords involved? A swimmer pal confessed to laughing out loud doing breast stroke after some absurd pool-side exchange. Almost drowned, poor gaffer. The digital age, bless its heart, allows me to stroll around chatting up the telephone poles. Passers by must envy my scintillating earbud conversation. Or they just think the neighbor woman’s gone batty. Does any of it matter, really?
As resolutions go, this one was doomed before I gave it voice. People I respect have debunked my concerns, but even if they all said, “That is crazy, girl—get yourself some help,” I’d be blabbing to the cosmos dawn to dusk. There’s no one here to stop me, surely not the man for whom unorthodoxy has always been golden. He’s the one who spoke way back there at the kitchen sink when he didn’t know anyone could hear him. I’m in excellent crazy-talk company. We’re good companions; we listen just as well as we confide. We persevere as we make the best of things. And sometimes we crack each other up.
Photo by Sodacan CC BY-SA 4.0