After lunch (Dim Sum!!!!) with a friend yesterday (Happy Birthday, Mark), I resolved to go Christmas shopping... for my parents... at the Market.
Shopping for my parents, whatever the occasion may be, is always a bit difficult and mind-boggling. On the one hand, they will enjoy whatever I get them - simply because it is from me. on the other hand, they will not like what I get them if it is something they don't want. Doublethink at the Family Level.
It is an especially perplexing and mentally-taxing task for me to undertake because I have the particularly naughty, passive-aggressive habit of purchasing gifts for others with the hopes of buying forgiveness or acceptance for any personal quirks (Jamesisms) or social mistakes (James-is-a-foolisms) I have made, will make, or am currently making. Past-present-future (summer-fall-winter-spring). I buy forgiveness of my deleterious traits with gifts. Even for my parents. So sue me.
(Yes, I'm trying hard to break myself ot his habit.)
Wow. I didn't intend for this post to evolve into a commentary on gift-giving. (athousandpardons)
Anyway, the point: the Market, to shop, for parents. The aforementioned doublethink difficulty in shopping for my parents necessitated a solo trip. I dodged crowds, ate piroshky (of course), shopped, negotiated prices, smiled, photographed street musicians, dodged running children, wiped the drizzle off my glasses, drank coffee. Victorious, I departed with shopping for mom and dad almost-complete, as well as holiday gifts for two other friends. Such a victory, and an overwhelming desire to read the book I'd brought with me, led to a 2-hour Bremerton-and-back voyage on the Kitsap. The sun had already set (it was, after all, approaching 5:00PM), so my camera was useless. I read, people-watched, ate, napped, listened to music, meditated, enjoyed the evening scenery of the Puget Sound.
All-in-all, I spent a good five hours pretty much alone. In the company of others (fellow Pike-Place-Marketers, fellow Kitsap passengers), but still largely alone - no friends or acquaintences to converse with, no one to sit next to. I'm not complaining at all, mind you. I quite enjoy Jamestime. Me and my shadow. My book. My music. My life. Jamestime. But, I realized one aspect of Jamestime that has (and continues to) perplex me - my vocal cords hardly get a work-out.
I'd like to think I'm not a huge talker to begin with. But, I'm surprised when, while spending a lot of time alone, or just abstaining from talking, my larynx begins to feel... well... neglected! Every saliva-swallowing or throat-clearing grunt I utter becomes a treat - a chance for the Adam's Apple to stretch its legs and sigh and smile and remember the good-ol' days where James-would-talk and James-would-laugh. Memoirs of vocal communication.
Given more opportunity to talk (paying for my ticket on the Kitsap, buying coffee in the galley, negotiating prices for the prints I bought for my mother), the larynx runs wild. Simple phrases such as "Mmm-hmm" become "Yes, I think I would like to purchase this one" - "Thanks" becomes "Thank you, ma'am. Have a good one." I crave each and every word - eliminate contractions, and damn the colloquialisms... they merely shorten the number of sweet, pure words I can speak. If I'm that enthralled to exchange friendly greetings with a few strangers, just imagine my elation in running into someone I actually KNEW... a friend, a co-worker, someone I occasionally pass in the hallways of the Hutch, a neighbor I nod to walking to bus stops, a person I've seen on TV - I'd talk them all into the ground.
I suppose the take-home message here is that, alas, no matter how often I try to deny it, I am a social primate. I crave social interaction as much as everyone else. Looking back, I can notice this desire-to-speak (this larynx lust) in past instances where I've spent hours and hours without speaking (like last Thursday, in which I had the house to myself for the evening). Does this mean I must now reconsider my career goal of become a hermit? Ha! Fooled you! That never was a career goal. Does this mean I'm addicted to the sound of my own voice? Doubt it. As you know, I'm not a fan of the sound of my voice - espeically audio or video recordings. But I suppose this means that I am a fan of conversation. No big surprise to you. Big surprise to someone with asocial tendencies, such as myself. I guess I must get used to it.
Does this mean that, if I'm ever left alone for an extended period of time, I'll begin to talk to myself? Probably. Will I carve alternate personalities in my psyche to converse with when the room is empty?
Who says I haven't done so already?
(Insert evil laugh, akin to Mr. Burns from The Simpsons.)