People tell me things. I mean things that wouldn’t come up in normal conversation. The most extreme example is the telephone operator who wanted marital advice. Yes, she worked for the phone company and I had called on phone company business. No, I have no idea how the conversation got personal. It just did. It always does. I know more about my plumber after one visit than the friend who referred him does, and he’s known him for years.
Richard enjoys it. I know he’s grinning right now (despite his car troubles) because he’s been there when it happened and it amuses the hell out of him. Robert is just used to it. It’s what I do.
It happened again today. I was soloing in my back-up gym. One of the employees (i.e. someone who should have known better) stopped my workout to talk. I could have avoided it, as I could have avoided all the other conversations, but I didn’t.
Bartenders, taxi drivers, receptionists – they all get it. But they’re a captive audience, and like the “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” they cannot choose but to hear. I can choose. Maybe that’s why it happens.
I don’t believe much, but I believe that if you can help someone then you are morally obligated to try. Like today, with the gym bimbo. I know information that would help him if he understood it. I don’t think he did, but I did my best to explain.
This is old news to those who have been with Scarycookies from the beginning, and big hugs to you for that. For the rest of you, don’t bother looking up “True Confessions” in the blog archives, because it’s just more of the same. But if you do go back and read it, the good news is that I not only forgot the incident but luckily I’ve forgotten the doctor’s name. That’s “happily ever after” enough.
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