Thursday, July 12

Chatty Cathy.

My name is Carrie Stevenson, and I am a talkaholic.

I've always had this problem, ever since I was little. It runs in my family, you might say.

So many things to discuss, so little time...

I can control it in polite company -- in fact, sometimes strangers or acquaintances think I'm a bit shy! (Maybe -- I think someone told me that once, although it's hard to believe).

But get me around a few of my favorite folks and/or a few glasses of wine, and look out Betty -- my mouth cannot be stopped. It has a mind of its own, I tell you. One that is not connected to my brain, sometimes, unfortunately. The words just bubble up and pop out of their own accord. I have very little control over the sheer volume of my speech. I can't be held accountable.

Kyle, bless his heart, is generally a man of few words (though, with his occasional pal Jack Daniels, he too can get a bit verbose). While driving to and from work, especially, he treasures the sweet, sweet sounds of, um, nothing. It gives his mind time to prepare for the day ahead, or to decompress and anticipate the evening.

When he used to carpool into work with a good buddy, they were pretty much mutes (I know, because we were a party of three for a few months, and I sat in the car and tried not to shatter the magical mixture of silence and Jay Z, mixed in careful proportions, that wove a healing spell over these guys and their workaday cares).

But now...

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

Now that I have him all to myself during the morning and evening commute, the flow of chatter has taken on epic proportions. There is so much to talk about during these drives!

In the morning, a small sampling of what I might want to discuss includes the wacky dream I had last night (in vivid, overly-explanatory detail), or what meetings he has that day (tell me every single thing about them!), or what we are doing for lunch (because he surely wants to spend that hour with me too, right?), or what exciting/depressing things might happen in the next eight hours (imagine the possibilities).

Post-work, the topics are even more limitless. How was your day?! Pssssh, let's not stop there. How is your boss doing? Were the meetings productive? What projects did you make progress on? Can you explain what it is you do to me again, exactly? Are you happy with this career path? Do you think we should ever move down south? No more work talk? Okay, what should we make for dinner tonight? Were you hungry this afternoon? Too many questions? Okay, let me just tell you all about my day then, and every good and bad thing that happened.

Talking like this relaxes me, but funny thing is, it seems to have the opposite affect on Kyle.

So, as a kind of compromise, I make a real effort to hold my words in until we walk through the front door, at which point he fully expects the floodgates to open.

Usually, I don't last. But I try, and that counts for something, right?

"Maybe someday she will run out of words..."

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