I am a social person and I can really chat it up with the best of them. I like talking with friends, visiting with fellow shoppers and commandeering a fine after-church conversation.
In fact, sometimes I throw a party just to have the opportunity to verbalize every thought I ever had.
There’s an art to being a good talker. One must choose her subjects well, pair things up with a good listener and then look for signs that perhaps she’s gone on too long.
For example, if your listener is looking around the room and avoiding eye contact, it may be time for a break. If he yawns deeply and struggles to stay awake, you might want to draw to a close. If his eyes roll up in his head and he falls over backward — that might be a definite sign that you are going to need to wrap things up.
Yet, there are some fine folks in this world who don’t recognize when they have said about a billion words too many. Generally speaking, these folks can speak 300 words straight without drawing a breath and don’t seem to notice that your eyes are glazed over or that they have talked your ears off.
I’ll never forget the dinner party when my husband, Pat, and I encountered such a person. She was beautiful, she was witty, and she could rattle out those words like a high-powered nail gun.
“Did I ever tell you about what I went through to deliver my third baby?” she started with great enthusiasm.
Knowing we were going to be in for the long haul, we debated an answer that would dissuade her, but we didn’t get it out there quick enough and suddenly she was off and running.
She started with the first twinge and 20 minutes of real time had passed before she verbally covered the five-minute lull between her first contraction and the next. Then she pulled it into her chronicle of the third contraction and without taking a breath, she was on to round two.
Talk about a verbal assault. We were trapped. Pinned like a couple of dead butterflies. Bound by rules of politeness.
As the woman droned on, my mind wandered. I thought up a shopping list, anticipated the new spring line, and wondered if I remembered to turn off the coffee pot. When I came back to the present, another 10 minutes had passed and she was only into the second day of a three-day birthing process.
Not wanting to spend an entire evening trapped in this woman’s verbal clutches, I tried to think of an exit line. I snuck a peek at my husband and saw that although he was doing his best to feign interest, he was mentally gone. I knew that glossy-eyed look and figured he was mentally at work, calculating timbers and setting trusses.
Although I love that man dearly, I had to convince myself that Pat would be OK if I left him there. Think of me what you will, but it had become painfully obvious that I would not be able to save us both.
“I really like your hair,” I interrupted the woman out of the blue. “You do?” she asked as she finally took a breath. “You dang betcha!” I exclaimed as I mentally patted myself on the back for my cleverness. And before she could go into a 30-minute dissertation on her last haircut, I touched her on the elbow and said, “Speaking of which, I should go and check mine.” With that I was gone.
Not since the break from Alcatraz has there been such a great escape. Yet, sadly enough for my dearly beloved spouse, there was only room for one on my lifeboat.
Although he has forgiven me for leaving him at the mercy of that interminable monologist, he never lets me forget it.
In fact, during a recent trip across the state with a carload of friends, I was entertaining the group with fun facts and statistics as I told a fun-loving story about cleaning out my closet.
“Hey Lori,” Pat interrupted, “I really like your hair.”
You know, sometimes one’s own resourcefulness can really come back and bite one in the posterior.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].