Anyone who knows me in real life should not be shocked by the title of this confession. Truly. (I’m looking at you, Dan.)
I talk. A lot. All the time in fact. My Mama says I shot from the womb talking.
In kindergarten, I was sent home with a little note that said “Miranda is a delight to have in class. But she’s quite the chatterbox.”
That note got me a spankin’ from a step-dad who didn’t understand. And a “go to your room,” too.
That spankin’ and “go to your room” didn’t stop me from talking though. Not even. And those “chatter box” notes kept coming home with me until I graduated high school.
I just kept on talking. And talking. And talking. And I didn’t stop.
Until I started teaching.
Sometimes the entire day is spent talking to my students. Discussing whatever novel we’re reading. Instructing them about thesis statements and topic sentences. Talking about upcoming assignments. Chatting with former students on their lunch about what they’re up to and where they’re planning to go to college in the fall. Calling the occasional parent, or making appointments on my lunch break.
Sometimes, when I come home in the evening, I don’t talk much. I am talked out and my throat is tired.
I do not want to do anything that requires sounds to come out of my mouth. I think this is why I turn on the television. There are words without me having to say them. (Mama Fail, right there.) Sometimes I don’t even want to read books because I don’t want to say words. (And yep, Mama Fail again.)
I’ve noticed in the past year or so that my ability to have a conversation in the evenings is getting less and less…able?…every year.
I think that’s why I love Twitter and Facebook. I can have a conversation with people without actually having to TALK.
So if you ever see me in the evenings and you try to strike up a conversation and I am less than conversational? It’s nothing personal.
I probably just used up my words for the day already.