I was sitting here, minding my own business, and trying to get some work done when the front doorbell rang. Before I could even get up to see whose car it might be, the visitor walked right in and started going through the house, shouting my name.
I knew who it was. I didn't want to see her. So I hid under the desk.
I forgot that I had stacked a dozen reams of paper into that space, so it was a very tight squeeze. Someday I may be able to straighten out again. I hope.
My husband has begun to hint lately that I am obsessive-compulsive - that I only care to be in the garden write about the garden, or talk to other gardeners. That may be true. When I am talking about gardening I am never at a loss for words. Sometimes I am in a position to give advice; often I am in a position to learn. I am comfortable. I do not cast about frantically in my mind to see if there are any signs that I am boring the other person. There are many people with whom I can converse because I know we share common interests. With a few people I even find it hard to stop talking.
This visitor was not one of those.
I have a terrible phobia about being boring. Being a strangely academically inclined and bookish child the things that interested me didn't often interest my parents and I was constantly warned that I would be better off listening than steering conversation toward my own interests. No one in my family was in the least bit academically inclined; I can see why debating the autobiographical roots of Fitzgerald's 'The Great Gatsby", or the constitutional right to free speech bored them. But it fascinated me. I would wait for an opening and leap in. Someone would remark of an 80-year-old man, "He has an iron constitution." I'd be right there. "Speaking of the constitution. . ." Eyes glazed. People began murmuring excuses and picking up their coats. So I became a quiet child.
I am a quiet adult unless I'm with people who share my interests, or if I am turned loose in front of a keyboard. My monitor never yawns at the words that appear there as I type. Although sometimes I do - but that is another story. . .
 |
 |
 |
 |
