It’s said that women on average, speak 20.000 words per day vs. men who might just speak 7,000. I, for one, am like an eager little puppy with the dawn of each day. Wake up, wake up! It’s time to play! The rule doesn’t apply if I’ve had a little too much wine the previous night. In that case- puppy can’t be spoken to without first consuming two cups of coffee. You get the gist though.
If I’m allotted only 20.000 words per day, it’s only natural to assume that sleep has robbed me of some of them. I talk in my sleep, so I guess that helps curb any speechless withdrawal symptoms but it doesn’t alter the fact that my mouth motor is set in to auto drive in the mornings. I just feel the need to make up for lost time. Ya know?
If words are like vacation days, I’m determined to use them all up before the calendar rolls back to 1.
I had the craziest dreams last night. D gets bombarded with this statement daily. I have inordinately vivid dreams, which are often lucid. It’s not uncommon for me to recall almost all of the details of five-seven dreams per night. I have to tell someone about the lady ghost who was trying to steal my cookies!
D does his best to act engaged but he has ADD. Everyone says they have ADD but his case is bonafide. Recounting even the simplest of stories to him is sometimes drawn out for days because of all of the stops and starts. I’m a person who needs eye contact in order to know the other person is truly hearing what I’m saying, and he is often incapable of that. He honestly can’t help it, and I try to not let it hurt my feelings but often my feelings get hurt.
Watching him flit from space to space while I’m just trying to use my words is often maddening. It’s like watching a tennis match with only one player. I imagine myself being the ball girl in that match, and with each retrieved ball I’d get a few more words in. As I was saying, the ghost lady tried to steal my cookies but I really didn’t care because they were oatmeal-raisin and ghosts can’t eat cookies.
I find myself stopping my story and restarting it, only after I’ve received what I’ve deemed as appropriate eye contact. That sounds insane in my head too. It’s not you; it’s me.
I honestly don’t know why it feels so vital to give detailed descriptions of both my sleeping and waking moments. It just does. I guess I just don’t want for my brain to write a check that my mouth can’t cash.
I’ve affectionately (I think) been referred to in the following ways: Chatty Cathy, Motormouth and The Mouth From The South.
I’ll leave you with this video from my girl Ellen.
The Mouth From The South