What is it about me that attracts people who want to talk, especially when I do not?

Now, don’t get me wrong – I can hold my own in a yak-fest. Put me in social situation in a room full of strangers and in 10 minutes, someone will be telling me their life story. Maybe that skill comes from being a consultant or an internal auditor and having to ask a lot of questions to get to what you need to know. Or working for the government for decades and having to answer the phone with “good morning, you’ve reached ABC department, this is x speaking, how may I help you?” But those were my choices.

liveshort

Last week, my orthopedic surgeon in Mexico looked at the x-rays and MRI of my zig-baggy spine and said I have to start swimming every other day and doing core strengthening exercises. After he lay face-down and spread-eagled on the examining table demonstrating a raised arm-opposite leg exercise, I stared for a while at his shapely bum, and I figured well, he knows what he’s talking about so I’d better comply. Then I had a flashback that gave me pause.

I used to swim three times a week at the Community Centre close by. I stopped because in an effort to save money, the powers that be reduced the water temperature to what felt like just about fridge cold, and I hated the shock of jumping in.

The alarm clock would go off at 6:30 a.m. I’d be dressed and out the door by 6:43. Breakfast was a piece of fruit scarfed down as I drove. At the pool by 7 and in the water five minutes later. Sweet.

Usually, I was the only one in the dressing room, which suited me just fine. On some days, tough, there’d appear a gaggle of older ladies preparing for an aqua-fit class. They usually chatted among themselves – about the weather, vacations, medical treatments. But for a painful while, one woman kept trying to draw me into their conversations. I studiously resisted. My excuse was that when I took off my glasses, I couldn’t see who I was speaking to. Well, I can’t, that’s true. What’s also true is that I don’t like speaking to anyone in the morning. Ask Hub – he’ll agree that I’m monosyllabic. It has nothing to do with being grumpy or not having coffee, either. I like to keep my thoughts to myself until I get my body warmed up for the day and my brain revs up.

One time, the woman actually reached over and gave my elbow little shake and said, ‘Hi, my name is Gwen/Joan/Ruth”.

I know it was one syllable but since I had no interest in her, I didn’t pack it into my memory drawer. Plus, she’d breached dressing room etiquette: if one or the other of you is nearly naked, you avert your eyes and don’t start a conversation.

“Hi,” I said, picking up the bag with my snorkel and flippers. I tried to ease around the other side of the bench but was slowed down by the butt-block of one of her buddies. I’d never spoken with her, either. Hmm, tag team? “‘Scuse me.”

“What’s your name?” She’d raised her voice like I was hard of hearing.

Geez, I felt like I was in grade four again. Or in Costco when some precocious toddler wants to chat as you’re waiting to cash out. What to do, what to do? Do I give a fake name, like when proselytizers ring our doorbell asking, “have you found Jesus” and I reply, “I’ve never lost him.” I mean, if I’m going to see her every few days in the dressing room and she calls out my fake name and I don’t answer, wouldn’t I look like a rude a**hole?

Still not making eye contact, I mumbled my name. Maybe I should have whipped up my hands and used sign language. Of course she got it wrong when she repeated it, so I didn’t correct her. I stomped to the pool deck, slipped into lane three and pounded out 30 minutes of breast strokes, fuming at how helpless I felt and annoyed that I’d almost given her my name, a piece of me that I limit to people I want to interact with.

Life lesson – you’re never too old to feel cornered, especially when you don’t control the situation. My mother would have approved of my politeness, though. I was just pissed. But next time…