“Did you say something?” My spouse asks.
“No.” I look up from the grocery list I’m compiling. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Yes, you did.” He insists. “You were talking.”
I glance again at the sheet of paper on which I’d been writing. There, in plain black ink, are the five items on my grocery list …green beans…rye bread…baking powder… laundry soap…almond milk. Had I repeated them aloud as I wrote?
“Nah, couldn’t have,” I tell myself, glaring at Dick. What was he talking about anyway? Just the other night, I wondered what the noise coming from the sofa was and looked up to see his lips moving as he read his street rod magazine— aloud. Surely I haven’t been doing that.
But returning to my grocery list, the thought occurs that maybe there might be a teeny-tiny chance he was right.
I forget about the whole thing until the next morning while driving to town. With a jolt, I realize I am talking to myself. I have already yakked about the chores I need to do today. I commented on that other driver and, yes I just slipped out a swear word.
I’ve been blabbing to myself for at least 10 minutes.
Gripping the steering wheel, I make a concentrated effort to keep thoughts in my head. No problem, I think, all that’s needed is some self-discipline. But only minutes later, as I sit at the town’s one and only stop light, waiting for the red light to turn green, with not another car in sight, I lose it. “For heaven’s sake! This is ridiculous” spills off my tongue. Mr. Magoo, who rides shotgun, looks at me quizzically.
“Maybe you should get used to belonging to an old person,” I tell him.
It happens again while filling the car at the gas station. I struggle with the hose, trying to fit it in the exact place that my Jeep Wrangler gas tank demands (or the pump will not start). The young man at a nearby pump gives me a strange look, and I realize I’ve just given a vivid description of the low intellectual abilities of the car’s engineer out loud.
I give a sheepish wave and scuttle inside to pay.
By the time I reach the grocery store, I am humbled. When an elderly lady walks by, holding a complete conversation with herself as she plops items into her basket, I feel nothing but empathy.
Sadly, I remember how as a youth I inwardly scoffed at all the old people muttering to themselves on the 34th Avenue Minneapolis bus. Welcome to the club, Joan, the ghosts of the past snicker. It’s your turn to be that person.
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