Diary of a Professional Overthinker – Entry 5.

 

Have you ever asked a question to be polite and regretted it instantly? 

I have. Multiple times. In fact, it happens so frequently that I’ve begun to suspect I possess a rare and largely useless superpower. Something about me encourages people to skip normal conversation and dive straight into their deepest darkest secrets. 

I see myself as a dapple-shaded sun lounge on a hot day. People are invited to settle in, take a load off… give me a recount of their latest prostate examination. 

A young teenager frantically knocked at my door once — his father had collapsed. I rushed outside to find the incoherent man lying in one of the garden beds, curled up between the hydrangeas. When I called Emergency and gave them a description of his disposition (hyperventilating, in foetal position) they said he was in shock, not a priority, and that an ambulance would be called out… soon.   

I waited with the teenager. I wanted to help him, at the very least to stop him gnawing his fingernails off. He had no idea why his father was experiencing shock, or what triggered the panic attack. I’ve never been good at small talk, instead of discussing the weather I asked. ‘So, what did you get up to today?’

‘I had day surgery.’ 

‘Oh right.’ I said, as if he’d just told me the mode of travel he’d taken from school. ‘What did you have day surgery for?’

He became fascinated with his shoes as they scuffed the ground. I knew immediately I’d asked the wrong question. I wanted to redirect the conversation back to boring and conventional, like traffic jams and peanut butter sandwiches, but it was too late!

His voice cracked, ‘I had an undescended testicle.’ 

I didn’t know what to say, I couldn’t go with, That’s nuts! Instead, I made a sound like a person who had just remembered where they’d left their car keys. ‘Ah.’ 

A couple of weeks ago, I was waiting with a few other students for our teacher to show up and let us into the classroom. I got chatting with a man who I’d never spoken to. It started off plainly, he asked what my nationality was — pretty standard question, especially given my dark features which are not ‘Aussie’ typical. So I told him. Then I asked his.

‘Latvian… You ever had one of those DNA tests done?’ he asked. 

‘No, you?’

‘Yeah I did actually…’ the seconds ticked. I waited for him to elaborate, expecting him to say something like he’d found out he was part Viking from Scandinavia. Instead, he said, ‘I found out I had a daughter.’ 

‘Jeez!’ I left it at that, I wasn’t going to say, How did that come about?. 

He continued, ‘It gets crazier.’

I wanted to say, I doubt it!

‘She actually went to school with my daughter.’ 

‘So you have kids you know about?’

‘Yeah.’ 

He said it like I’d asked a stupid question. 

At lunch I told my gay friend Dom who said, ‘At least that’s one thing I’ll never have to worry about.’ 

There is definitely such a thing as being too comfortable with sharing. I’ve wanted to relay this to certain people, like the mum from my son’s school who I’d only spoken to a handful of times. I had arrived early for pick-up one afternoon and so had she. We got talking. For some reason, she decided I was the perfect candidate to tell about her boob-job.

She showed me before photos of herself in crop tops from her phone and I nodded politely, feigning interest, all while praying for the bell so I could make a timely exit. ‘Best decision I’ve made, I love my new breasts,’ she said. Apparently my politeness came across as genuine enthusiasm. Her gaze intensified, ‘You wanna see them?’

I’ve been in other unsalvageable conversations that could only be rectified by escape. About three years ago, I took myself to a 90’s dance party event in Wollongong. When Daft Punk came on I started bopping on the edge of the dance floor. A man approached me. I smiled politely. He shouted over the music, ‘I’ve never been here before.’ 

I don’t have a naturally loud voice. I wasn’t going to point out that none of us had been here before — to the present. Instead, I smiled and nodded in return. Somehow this signalled to the guy that he should speak his mind.  

He leaned in. ‘I’ve come here tonight to find my future wife.’ 

I had not long been separated from my husband. 

He grinned at me. I felt like a clownfish facing the welcoming smile of an incisor-jawed shark. I chuckled nervously. Flammable conditions developed in my gut. 

‘I’m Vlad… Can I kiss your neck?’ 

The shark morphed into a vampire. 

A Corona song started up as I made my frantic getaway. The lyrics followed me out, This is the rhythm of my life. 

I’ve stopped trying to understand why people tell me things. While some people possess public speaking or leadership skills, I seem to have been gifted with the ability to make strangers feel comfortable enough to reveal what should remain between themselves and their therapist. If this is my superpower, fine… If you want to tell me about a secret daughter, cosmetic surgery or your reproductive organs, so be it… But just remember, once something has flown — there’s no putting it back in its box.