When meeting someone for the first time, I’ll often ask their name and immediately tune out, hopping back on my train of thought heading straight for the clouds. I utter the words “Sorry, remind me your name” too frequently. It’s easy to ask questions, but sometimes I forget these questions have answers and that these answers can be longer than just “Stacy.”
I fall victim to manners. Being polite has become a routine that I’ve been performing since I could form sentences. Though I’m grateful to have been raised well, I find myself saying things that I don’t actually mean, or, more often, I ask questions with answers I care nothing about.
As a post-grad whose acquaintances are other post-grads, all my questions have to do with degrees or jobs or apartments. “So what’s next for you?” I ask, like a very normal person.
They start to reply; “Oh, well, I just got my degree in [some major] with a focus in [some subject], but I’m not sure I’m gonna use it. I wanna move to [some city] but I’m gonna stay in my hometown, [some town], working at [probably a restaurant].”
When I’m finished staring at the bypassing corgi that proved to be more interesting, I blink, coming back to Earth. “Oh, wow, that sounds so cool!” I say. Maybe it is actually cool; I will never know.
When they ask me about my future, I answer depending on my state of mind. If I happen to be having an existential crisis that day, I might come up with something pseudo-witty, like “Well, it looks like there’s a new season of Orange Is The New Black, so that should keep me occupied for the next few weeks.” But occasionally I’ll feel together enough to spit out real plans—plans I might actually be proud of.
There’s that saying, “God laughs when you tell him your plans,” but I never told God anything. Does God expect me to tell him things? Why is God so nosy? Perhaps, when I tell someone my plans, God is listening in, like a kid listening in on a landline call his mom is making. Get off the phone, God!
Or maybe I should be more like God (hear me out); maybe I should listen more and care about people’s plans—enough to laugh at them.
Perhaps laughing at people’s plans is better than the generic responses I have been giving, and perhaps this covers more ground than just plans. People tell me their problems, and I am delighted that my friends trust me with their baggage, but I often find myself giving lazy feedback; “You should think about what will make you happy in the long run.” It’s not bad advice; it’s just not very personal. The same way I should laugh at people’s plans, maybe I should react harshly to people’s problems. Though I’m reluctant to self-identify as a proponent of tough love (because I’m afraid I would only be able to dish it out), I do believe in honest feedback. Sometimes the only solution is to just “get the fuck over it” or “delete his number and stop whining.” What’s the point of a friend if all they say is “follow your heart.” Fuck your heart; follow your mind.
Before I go into a whole diatribe against the heart, I must remind myself that this essay is about talking. Forgive my digression.
There is small talk, there is deep talk, there is no talk. Traditionally, I save small talk for people I’m not close with—people I’m catching up with or people I’m meeting for the first time. This is where the “What did you major in?” question pops up. If you and I were to meet, reader, you should know that I majored in Psychology and English. You will thank me for at least decimating our impending small talk.
Deep talk, usually, is reserved for close friends or maybe family if I’m drunk enough. The quickest path between points A and B is a straight line; if point A is small talk and point B is deep talk, then the straight line is alcohol. Having my inhibitions lowered can lead to meaningful, unfiltered sharing, whether about love, family, or my obsession with One Direction. This is tricky, though, because if the topic is love, and this love is lost love, and if this lost love was lost in late March, then the deep talk mostly consists of my drunken sobbing. But nothing brings two people closer than guttural sobs between sips of Moscato.
I recently went sober. I say this as if I’m a thirty-eight-year-old man in the midst of a divorce—I also say it as if I’ve been sober for more than one day—but I look forward to not losing control after midnight and calling my ex.
Do I plan on being sober my whole life? No. Do I want to prove to myself that I don’t need alcohol to feel alive? Sure. I started drinking every night when I ended an eighteen-month relationship, and yes, I will continue to bring it up in my writing. Drinking gave me an escape route, something to look forward to when my dread swelled, like waves crashing in the dead of winter. But the dry, winter air would occasionally freeze my emotions and tame the waves. This, paired with a chalky, blue pill held me together, but the warm liquor sliding down my throat reminded me I was human. I only cried when I was drunk; the heat in my throat would swim to my chest, like blood pumping through my frigid body. Only then, when I felt human enough, would I talk.
And I too thought I would be above wave analogies, but apparently I’m not.
Just like I’ve been trying to exercise more, I’ve been trying to talk more, not excessively, but just enough to let out a steady stream of consciousness so that I don’t release it all at night, when I bombard my journal, my friends, and my ex with my baggage.
And scattered between each expression of my grief or passion or delight will be pauses in which I will listen. And because I will have unleashed much of my inner monologue, nothing will distract me from hearing and maybe even from caring.
