Eh?

I'm a great talker. I learned from the best; my mom used to spend no less than an hour after evening church services visiting with friends (and, oh, the social drama that occurred on the playground while she was yapping...). Anyway, I can talk.

But I can't talk on the phone. Unless, of course, it's a dire circumstance, like when a best friend moves to Michigan. But in general, phone talking is just not my thing. For years, I attributed this to the fact that I didn't like "small talk," but I don't really think that's it. I think the reason I've developed such an antipathy to phone conversations is because I often have so much trouble hearing what the other person is saying - whether it's a bad connection or simply the lack of lip movement and facial expressions causing the break in communication, I constantly find myself having to ask, "What was that?" (Or, if I were being honest, "Do what?" Yes, Michelle, very annoying. I'm trying to break the habit, but it's hard.) There have been times that I've asked for so many repeats that it's as if I had a permanent echo installed. And that's got to be pretty annoying for all involved - not least of which the one doing all the extra talking. So I try to avoid the phone. You're happy, I'm happy, and no one's asking, "Come again?"

But yesterday, I had a truly unique experience on the other side of the issue. I was sitting at a certain coffee shop, waiting for a friend to arrive for a "chai date," and I'd purposefully chosen to sit in an area that has four (rather well used) overstuffed chairs facing each other, in case my friend brought anyone else with her. I didn't think it'd matter that a small, elderly woman was tucked into the seat diagonal to the one I chose (in fact, I actually considered the fact that she'd probably move as soon as she heard the ruckus we'd make with our loud voices and overly enthusiastic conversation).

So I cozied into the chair to read my book in such a position that I might watch the door for my friend's arrival; I guess I looked up from the book too many times, giving the impression that I wasn't really interesting in reading, because before I knew it, my little old neighbor began talking to me. And then I made my first mistake: I looked up. From that point on, I was fettered to a one-sided and wholly unintelligible "conversation."

Thanks to the overloud coffee-shop-tunes and the lady's soft voice, I had to ask her to repeat her first question three times - and even then, I wasn't sure if I was hearing correctly; it had something to do with some people fighting just outside the door. No, I didn't see that. And then, she proceeded into a 10-minute monologue that must've started out of something to do with the fight (maybe it was about domestic disturbance) and, judging by her vivid facial expressions (lots of raised eyebrows and scowls) and lively hand movements (swiping at the air, crossing arms in disgust), involved a personal experience of hers. At first, I really tried to understand something of what she was saying, but failing completely at that, I just decided not to try at all, but to nod my head, imitating whatever emotion she herself was showing, and at every opportunity afforded by a break in the "discussion," stick my nose immediately into my book and put on my best "I'm so involved with what I'm reading that I'm not able to hear you" face. That didn't work. Instead, I was forced to feign understanding for what seemed an eternity, at first worrying whether or not she could see through my act - and then realizing that, in spite of her intense eye contact throughout, she probably wasn't paying the least attention to my own nonverbal signals (otherwise, she'd have picked up on one of my reading-my-book hints).

I was so relieved when one of the baristas came over to sit in the chair next to me on her ten minute break. She seemed to know the soliloquy lady, and shocked me completely by communicating effectively (and kindly) that she wasn't interested in any conversation. And that gave me the courage to just keep my head down and my eyes locked on the pages of my book until my friend arrived.

It's funny that this caused me so much trauma at the time; it was just such a weird experience. But now it has me wondering how much of what we say is really important enough to be heard? I tend to be the type that wants to understand every word, but is that really necessary? Lots of people out there are at this very moment working hard to improve their listening skills; maybe mine are too good - maybe it'd be healthier for me, once in a while, to just not hear it all. . . sure would make life a lot easier - and perhaps interesting, too, like watching a foreign film without reading the subtitles.

No. Just kidding. I'll keep trying to hear everything that is said to me - unless, of course, it's from that little old lady at the loud-music coffee shop disturbing my reading time with inaudible chatter!