I was talking to a friend the other day and he expressed his distress (is disgust too strong?) at strangers who suddenly become really chatty. It happens all the time: in line at the grocery store, gas station, movie theaters, etc, and I realize more and more as I get older, that he’s talking about ME.
It’s like I can’t help myself. Maybe it’s a manifestation of my need to talk to other adults–make a connection–that compels me to strike up conversation with anyone. Maybe it’s because my lack of sleep over the years has worn down the connection in my brain that recognizes appropriate social behavior. Most likely it’s my father’s fault.
When my brothers and sisters and I were growing up (5 of us), my dad was “that stranger.” He can strike up a conversation with anyone about anything, and he always does. As a kid I always pretended I hated it (there was a lot of eye-rolling on my part), but secretly I loved it. I loved that he was so friendly and outgoing, but mostly I loved the looks people gave him. The reactions were the best to watch. People were so relieved to be talking to someone who was interested in THEM. They were excited that someone else was interested in where they were from, or what they must be thinking: Yes, this line IS taking forever, or yes, customer service really isn’t what it used to be. . . Others were horrified, expecting my dad to try to sell them something at any minute. These were “shy people,” a rare and perplexing group of people we had read about or seen on TV, but were totally confused by. They couldn’t wait to get away.
My dad’s secret weapon is suddenly speaking Spanish or Portuguese to strangers he suspects speak Spanish or Portuguese. He’ll even change his accent to fit different regions (The Argentine accent is by far my favorite). He did that with monumental success throughout the big Valentine family trip to Disney World in 1986. From China to Italy to Space Mountain, we made friends all over the world. All seven of us. In matching shirts. My mother made. (Can we still be friends?) I can’t speak Spanish fluently, and, try as I do, I just don’t seem to have the ease and confidence he has in talking to anyone about anything. But it doesn’t stop me from doing it.
Last week I found myself commenting on a song playing on the radio while I’m in line at the gas station. The words are coming out of my mouth, but I don’t want to admit it’s me.
“Oh, Cat’s in the Cradle! Good one.”
“Yeah, it’s a. . .good one. . .” the timid cashier replies.
(Most people would stop here–but I can’t. Why can’t I!?) “Yeah. Nice and depressing–Remember to play with your kids!”
Blank look from the cashier.
“‘Cause they grow up fast! (sarcastically) Thanks for the reminder!” People are waiting in line. Just leave it there. Leave it at that! “I have a house full of kids. I can’t escape it!”
“Here’s your change.”
(Under my breath) “I’ll just. . .go now.”
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