I have this feeling, real or not, that a lot of people find me standoffish. I think that it’s because I refuse to get entangled in the daily office American Idol chatter or personal discussions related to the lancing of boils. I’m really not that standoffish, nor am I unconcerned with the well being of others, but I just don’t like inserting my self in to other peoples’ conversations – and I’ve learned not to ask questions unless I, a.) already know the answer or b.) have an exit strategy on standby.
This is not where I was going, but there’s a guy in our office that can’t stand to be in the break room, the bathroom, or the hall with some one without saying something. I passed him in the hall a couple of weeks ago and he was carrying some files in one hand. He looked at me, looked at the files, looked back at me and said, “More files good.” Yep. Hall talk bad.
Monday of this week he saw me leaving with my running clothes on and he asked if I was going running. “Yes. It’s too nice to be inside”, or some such, was my reply. The next day, when I ran in to him in the break room, he asked, “You finish running?” No, no I’m still going…
Anyway, I think where I was headed is that I don’t make a practice of inserting myself in to a conversation. I rarely eavesdrop on purpose – unless I think that I can try out a new one liner or glean some Waffle House Wisdom – and I rarely gossip because, well, I just don’t. I’ve decided that most things are really not any of my business.
Some one in the local insurance association that I belong – the Chapter o’ Dorks, if we have to call it something – was telling another dork about her new boyfriend. Like me, the girl telling the story is 36-years old. Based on the paragraphs above, I should have just buried my chin in to my chest and concentrated on the chicken on a bed of something that is always the offering at The Club. In describing her boyfriend, though, she said, “He’s my age. He’s 40.” I think I startled them both with my reaction.
No, no, no ma’am. He’s not your age. That would make him my age, and I am not 40.
Now, I’m not disgusted by 40. I’m not afraid of 40. Given the option of turning the big 4 OH or filling in the second half of “Jammy 1970 - ____”, I’ll take 40. Visually speaking, I think that 42 is a better looking number than 36, 37, 38, 39, 40 and 41, but I’m in no hurry to get there.
Let’s face it, unless you want to be President (QUIZ TIME: What is the minimum age for the President?), after you turn 21 you have all the rights and privileges thereunto appertaining adulthood. We could really stop counting. The end.
That really wasn’t a good article. I’m sorry. Despite her kind comments, I’m still feeling a little pressure from MarshaMarshaMarsha. (Like Page Six, I will take your money in exchange for not writing about you.)
Here’s a little bonus. While I get off of them pretty easily and rather frequently, I’ve never seen a bandwagon on to which I was afraid to hop. So, I’ve decided that I’d like a pair of designer jeans. I’ve vowed, however, not to purchase said jeans until I get back down to at least 170 pounds. There. It’s in writing for the world to see. No going back now. If you see me in my GAP Easy Fits, you’ll know that I haven’t reached my goal. Or I got off the bandwagon.
Ahhh, confession. It’s good for the soul. So is the weekend. Have a nice one.