When I was little my nickname was motormouth. I could talk so fast and so long without taking a breath that not only was I hard to understand, I was also at risk for passing out.
My speech has slowed down considerably over the years, my breathing has become deeper, and I try to shut up more. But old habits dies hard, people.
The trouble is that I'm out of practice. Lately it seems as if I spend more time typing than talking. So when an extended conversation does come up, I find myself thirsty, winded, and exhausted before too long. My throat aches. I just don't have the stamina anymore.
The Dol's brother used to do an impression of me. He stopped but only because I threatened his life. He could do the impression, I told him, but he'd better enjoy it because it would be the last thing he would do. Harsh words, yes, but effective.
I feel I should mention that the impression was quite good and, according to the Dol, the funniest part is that I would stop her brother mid-impression to correct his technique. Really, I didn't much mind the impression, I kind of took it as a brotherly compliment, until Mr. Poppins came along. Then I got concerned that the whole thing was just too unflattering and might lose me a husband.
So here I am, wondering if I could take a vow of silence. Thinking that each person might be born with a limited amount of talk in them and that I might have burned too bright, too soon with my natural flare for gab. Maybe I can get through the next fifty or so years with just nodding, shaking my head, and shrugging. Because really, people, the motor on my mouth has sputtered out.
I'm not claiming I've run out of opinions, or ideas, or questions. I've got plenty of all that left, plus some unsolicited advice and unwanted answers, too. But I think I'd like to stick to typing them. And maybe utilize a little copy and paste.
I've heard a lot of my own voice over the years, people, and I like the sound of the clacking keyboard far better. There's something soothing about hearing the rhythmic click-clack-click of the keys. Something downright lulling. And it's so much easier to remember to breath.
For that matter, there isn't a day that goes by when even the beautiful music of the keyboard is enough to persuade me that I am all that enamored with hearing. Oh I like birds singing, and waves rolling, and brooks babbling as much as the next person but don't you ever just wish for quiet?
My ears are tired, too, and my head is full. So full that sometimes it doesn't seem as if the thoughts have room to move around in there, so my thinking just get stuck, and I start to forget where I left my keys, how I got into the room I'm standing in, or whether or not I had a reason for walking into the room in the first place.
Maybe it's old age, or old habits, or old times piling up and catching up. Or maybe it's just time to take a nice long bath, go to bed early, and start fresh again tomorrow. I certainly can't stop talking yet, I've got to place an order for pizza delivery and my restaurant of choice doesn't take orders online. Yet.
It wasn't just that you would interrupt him to make corrections, it was that you would reinforce the whole imitation by sounding just like him sounding like you. Like, he would do his Rhode Island bit, with the weird made-up factoids, and you would interrupt with real, weird factoids, in the same breathless reporter tone of voice.
God, I miss that imitation.
Posted by: The Dol | August 17, 2007 at 03:36 PM
Dol, I hope you keep missing that imitation, too. Really.
Posted by: Polly Poppins | August 17, 2007 at 04:11 PM
Ohh, I would pay to see that impression!
I feel like my ears are tired and my head is full, too. Maybe it's a mother thing. I think we can feel talked-out as easily as we feel touched-out (and perhaps a bit thinked-out if we're having a particularly challenging day, or listened-out around a chatty preschooler, etc.).
Or maybe it's an introvert thing, and sometimes maybe instead of retreating into your head you need to retreat from all stimuli, including your own stimulating thoughts. If that makes any sense.
I guess that's the theme in either of my hypotheses -- overstimulation. It's not just for toddlers anymore.
Posted by: The Model | August 18, 2007 at 12:53 PM
Overstimulation it is, Model. And no, you won't ever see that impression.
Posted by: Polly Poppins | August 18, 2007 at 01:18 PM
I can totally relate to the overstimulation. Don't touch me, don't talk to me, don't shriek at me, don't ask me to do anything for you. Just leave me alone is all I ask by the end of the day most days.
Posted by: Diosa | August 19, 2007 at 07:08 PM
Poppins - I never wish for quiet. Total quiet is too calm for me, it makes me nervous. I like a little noise, always. Something to focus on. A sleep machine with the white noise turned halfway up, for example.
I'm surprised you like total silence, very surprised. And I don't even know you.
Posted by: Liz | August 20, 2007 at 06:17 AM
While I've never seen the actual impression, I've seen Polly doing Dol's brother doing the impression, and that alone was hold-your-stomach funny.
Posted by: Bookgirl | August 20, 2007 at 07:43 AM
Diosa, true dat, woman.
Liz, it's never quiet in my head. Sometimes it's nice to be able to hear myself think uninterrupted thoughts.
Bookgirl, I'm damn funny aren't I?
Posted by: Polly Poppins | August 20, 2007 at 07:56 AM
Ha! My thoughts are always crowding the space I have in my head for them.
Talked-out? Touched-out? Listened-out? I guess I can understand these ideas theoretically, well enough. Huh. An abundance of stimuli originating with people, at all levels relating to the personal, with a certain distance suggesting lack of practical and emotional help in one package?
Posted by: Ichimonji10 | August 20, 2007 at 10:25 AM