Things I Do When You’re Not Looking
I.
I listen to other people’s conversations. Not in the eavesdroppy way that some people do it — listening for something interesting and giggling within at my naughtiness — but in a very concerned, involved way. I listen to people talk about the most mundane things, and then I form huge bubbles of perception around each person, and then I worry about them. In fact, I don’t even need to hear people talk in order to do this. I’ll see someone on an elevator — the look on her face, her body language, her clothing — and I’ll suddenly know way too much about that person. And I’ll worry. “She needs to quit worrying about her kids,” I’ll think. Or, “I hope she has enough money saved for her retirement.” Or I’ll think about the kind of man she might be happy with, and then worry that she’ll never find him. I get way too involved, and then I’m tired and frustrated with the world at the end of each day, and I wonder why.
II.
When I meet someone new and their personality type isn’t immediately recognizable to me, I’ll become semi-obsessed with working out the details of that person’s personality. My secret curiosity about that person is insatiable, until I learn enough to feel I have them all worked out.
Sometimes I will teach myself to mimic the person’s voice. Sometimes I’ll take my interactions with and eavesdroppings on that person and fashion them into quick stories with beginnings, middles, ends… and punchlines. Always punchlines. Then, I’ll tell the stories to my friends.
Some of my friends have their favorite characters. “What’s Olga doing today?” my friend Ashley will ask. And I’ll tell the latest story I’ve collected about Olga. If it’s someone who continually yields good stories, then I will start to love that person, secretly. I’ll love them so much, and know them so well, I’ll be able to make stories about them long after I’ve ceased to know them in real life.
I don’t think my favorite characters know the way I feel about them, or that they could ever guess. Either that, or they’re already my friends, and they’ve learned to put up with me applying creative license to their lives.
III.
I explain things to my kids. I got this from my dad, I know, because he used to answer our questions with long, round bubble strands of beautiful tangents. But I try not to do it like my dad did. Whenever my kids ask a question, I form a mini lesson around it. As succinctly as possible, I tell them the truest answer I know, then give them examples from their own lives, then talk about how the answer could affect them when they grow up.
I like to think that I’m good at this; we have long conversations in which all three kids share their perceptions of whatever topic we’re on. Normally, this occurs in the mini van on a long drive home. Sometimes, we supplement our discussions by looking things up on Wikipedia when we get home. The other day, our topic was cologne. We talked about the purpose of cologne, signature scents, skin Ph levels, and our own (my boyfriend’s and my) philosophies on just how much cologne a person should wear. (My boyfriend and I agree that your cologne should only be detectable by someone who knows you very well.)
When we got home that night, I let the kids smell various colognes I had, and test the most gender-neutral ones on their own skin. Since that night, we’ve gently pointed out to my youngest that the Axe spray deoderant he likes is not serving any of cologne’s higher purposes.
I feel like there are hundreds of things I’m responsible for teaching my kids before they grow up and move away. I want to cover all the things I should have known before I left home. So far, we’ve talked about cologne, credit scores, the stock market, renting vs owning, sex, sexual orientation, healthy vs unhealthy relationships, insurance, checking accounts, interest rates, politics, religion, and morality. But there’s still so much more I should tell them. I hope I have enough time.
