On TalkingPosted: April 28, 2013
I was considering starting this post off with a fancy introduction that compared me to Gretchen Weiners not just because we both got this, like, really expensive pair of white gold hoops for Hanukkah, but because we both start talking and don’t stop. I am yet to rant on Caesar (although I did say a few ridiculously stupid things in my World History West class) but I have come very close multiple times. Wait… literally, case-in-point, I digress. I didn’t want to include some sappy and satirical opener because I thought it would be ironic to start an essay about talking too much with, well, talking too much. Yet, I managed to do it anyway. Is that an accomplishment or something to be ashamed of? Idk. Should I move on to the next paragraph? Yes.
I have this theory that I’ve had for a really long time when I started to realize how stupid some of the conversations I’ve had with certain people are. The theory goes as follows: people talk to hear the sound of their own voice. I know, I know, totally original, right? But actually–it is. I think we want to hear the sound of our own voices for reasons deeper than just, well, hearing it. I think we talk when we’re afraid of something, and when we want to distract ourselves. Sometimes we speak and after a few minutes, we have zero recollection of what we were even saying. This is what I’m talking about (no pun intended, since that was like a half-pun).
The best, and most classic, of these situations occurs when you speak to someone you generally 1) never, ever speak to or 2) really effing hate. Sometimes I’ll start a really motivated and intense talk with a totally rando person. And we’ll both be getting super into it, like rapid fire back and forth and back and forth. Even worse, we’ll be speaking about the most mundane things too. In the moment, we don’t realize how mundane they are so we instead have a 5-minute bonding sesh over the fact that we have this thing in common, which, in reality, every babe has in common.
For example, we’ll speak about how horrible it is to go to the gym, and how much we want to go to the gym, and how much we wish we were better at working out. And then… BOOM. OH MY GOD, we BOTH hate working out. The tones of our voices will just rapidly raise until I sound like my eleven year old brother who has one armpit hair tops on a good day. At the end of our conversation, I will turn away smiling and feel oh-so productive, happy, and meaningful. That’s right, like I have a place in this world after my conversation about going to the gym with a girl I thought I always probably strongly disliked, likely potentially hated.
Last weekend, I ate at a Mexican restaurant with my camp friends on the Upper East Side. I hadn’t seen them since some devastating events may or may not have happened in my life, and they demanded that I give them the whole enchilada. I don’t really know how that relates to the grand scheme of things, but it was a punny moment I could not leave out (pun credit: Char Levy).
And I’ve gone through all of this for what trouble? Because I’m trying to distract myself from the seven books on Holden Caufield I have waiting for me at my desk at home and other silly things like arguments about credit card bills with my mom, the fact that I have only 4% battery on my iPhone, and my wretched fear of the future of my romantic and social life and the fact that yes, there is a 68% chance of everything going down in flames. But it’s really no big deal. Totally.