I don’t know about ya’ll, maybe I’m the only one who does this, but sometimes when I’m doing a brainless task, like, you know, something that you don’t have to think about, I talk to myself. For me, it’s at work in the accounting office when I bind people’s returns. You know, make them into this nice little booklets, and put envelopes with it, and label it all really clearly, and then I scan their documents and basically, I do a lot of stuff that once you’ve learned what you’re doing, you don’t have to concentrate at all, it’s just hand work.
For you, maybe it’d be taking out the garbage or when you’re mom makes you do the dishes or something. Whatever it is, I basically start talking to myself. Weird, I know. But admit it, you’ve done it too—made up a random scenario, and then pictured yourself making snappy comebacks and awing everyone with your razor-sharp wit.
So maybe I am the only one.
You know, it’s really embarrassing to have someone walk in on you as you’re saying something in that imaginary world, and they clear their throat and you whirl around with that mortified look on your face so that, if they didn’t know for sure before, they sure as heck know now that you were doing something weird. Maybe like talking to yourself.
My imaginary scenes are usually along the lines of an Indiana Jones movie. I was a big fan when I was a kid. Still am. A big fan, that is, not a kid. Well, yeah, maybe I’m still a kid too, but the point is, I picture myself in some Indiana Jones-like situation, with some good-looking-but-scary indeterminate Russo-Germanic dude holding a gun or knife or something else threatening, waving his arms and saying in his accented voice (although I’m still not sure if he’s Russian or German) “You do not take this seriously! You American! Don’t you understand what I’m telling you?” and although my hands are tied behind my back and I probably haven’t eaten or drunk anything for days, weeks even, I say (as my hair, which is in that messy-but-fabulous falling-out ponytail, with my bangs flipping exactly right over one eye, and gently brushing my cheek, and it's slightly longer than real life, so it actually looks good), “I’m an American, we don’t take anything seriously.” And just then my sidekick sneaks in and probably knocks him out, and I rip off the ropes (which weren’t really holding me down anyway), and we pick up the gorgeous antiquity that he just dropped, which is jewel-encrusted and solid gold, and as I toss it to my sidekick and say, “thanks,” we saunter out of the tent (which was where the bad guy had me, of course, in the middle of a desert somewhere), and you see us launch ourselves gracefully onto some horses or camels and we ride off into the distance with heroic music playing in the background. (Dum-da-dum-dum, dum-da-dum, da-da-dum-dum, da-da-dum-dum-dum!)
And that is when my boss comes into the room and says, “What aren’t you taking seriously?” and then laughs as I turn bright red, and she knows what an idiot I really am.
Oh boy.
Isn't life ironic?
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