Most of us, at some point or other, have had conversations with ourselves or other people; silently and inside our heads. There are many advantages to this- we can rig the entire discussion in our favour, come up with awesome repartee delivered at just the right moment, rewind, fast- forward, pause and replay on a loop as often as we like. Sometimes these loops take off without our permission and carry on in the dead of night when we’re trying to sleep, but that’s part of the deal.
These in-house discussions can also serve some very useful purposes. Some people sing in the shower- not me. That’s when I set up entire classes in my mind and prepare lesson plans, tweaking them as I go along, based on the imaginary responses of the students. There are many who are seen plugged into ear-phones as they jog or walk in the evenings. But that’s when I solve all the problems of the world; by having endless debates and discussions with panelists of my choice- the ones who agree with me, or else! The Nation wants to know? Get a mind-reader, folks!
Of late, with no domestic help at hand, work from home becoming a regular affair, there are more and more occasions that allow me to have enlightening conversations with the Self. Like while doing the dishes, sweeping and swabbing the floors. Fun times. But now it’s been over six months of this existence and there doesn’t seem to be any end in sight. I’m getting a bit tired of talking to myself and I actually want someone to talk back to me.
The other day, I came across a meme of a psychologist telling people that talking to plants is completely normal. It’s only when the plants start talking back that they should seek counseling. Hmm… no fear of that where I’m concerned. I’m blessed with black thumbs and as for talking to my few surviving plants- they probably cower in fright when I approach them, so they’re hardly likely to talk back to me.
That leaves me with the inanimate objects around the house- furniture, appliances and the like. I can just see myself talking to the furniture while I sweep the floors: I’d snap at the chair to move its legs, tell the bed to move to one side and yell at the fridge to stop making whirring sounds in the middle of the night. It would be a good way to vent my feelings. Thankfully they wouldn’t be able to talk back either. Because the tables would really turn (ahem!) if they did. The dining table would rebuke me for having missed a spot, again. The couch would grumble and ask if I ever intend to sweep from under it and the microwave would remind me that the last time it got a cleaning was over a month ago. The walls have ears anyway so they would store up all these tidbits and mock me when I tried to sleep.
No, I’m fine with one-sided conversations, thank you very much. I may emerge from this lock down riddled pandemic even more of a recluse than I was getting to be, but at least I won’t be a basket case. You know, the kind who has animated conversations with nobody in the room. Although, I must confess that I enjoy my company much more than is good for me. And before I’m accused of being anti-social, let me state that that is Not the case. I’m just getting more and more selective with age.
Which reminds me, it’s now time for me to have a deep meaningful discussion with my bed.
(-What, already? Didn’t you sleep in this morning?
-Oh shut up. So I want a nap, do you have a problem with that? Shh…the walls may be listening!
-Oh all right, all right. Hop in then. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a dozen times- this lock down is really making you lazy…etc etc)
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