I have a problem. Some people might not consider it serious, but I’m pretty sure lots of folks find it annoying. I tend to explain myself a lot.
I don’t just explain things that need explaining, like telling hubby why the fender on the van has a new dent, or telling my sister why her birthday card is a week late (every year), or even telling the doctor why I can’t seem to drop the weight I so desperately need to lose.
I tend to expound on things that no one else cares about. I feel like I am Lucy Ricardo and the whole world is my Ricky shaking his finger and admonishing, “Luuuucy! You have some splainin’ to do!”
But I doubt if the kid sacking my groceries really cares that five years ago, when he was a mere fourth grader, I found raw hamburger in the same bag as my bananas and that’s why I am carefully eyeing his every move.
And I don’t think the lady in the next stall at the movie theater restroom really wants to know that I got a refill on my large coke and that is why I had to leave the movie at the most exciting part.
I don’t even think that guy in line behind me at Wal-mart cares if my card was declined because I forgot that I had already charged up my limit two days prior when I bought all those clothes on clearance for next season. And the cashier probably isn’t the least bit interested in the fact that if the clothes don’t fit my kids next year I am just going to send them to Haiti….the clothes, not the kids.
In spite of the fact that no one is truly concerned with hearing all the details of my life I am inexplicably drawn to explaining my actions.
One day I was leaving the grocery store and the just emptied cart got away from me. My purse was still in the front of the basket as the wind started blowing it across the parking lot. I began to run after it, but it was several car lengths away when I finally caught up. I removed my purse, put the cart in the corral, and headed to my van.
But then I noticed a woman tooling along in her car, looking for a parking space. Her driver’s side window was slightly cracked and I felt compelled to explain to her why I was out of breath.
I walked alongside her car, jabbering like an idiot through the crack in the window. “You see, it is rather windy and when I was putting the last sack of groceries in my van, the cart started rolling across the parking lot. Well, my purse was still in it and…..”
I never got to finish the story. She looked at me with wild fear in her eyes, rolled up the window and gunned her engine. I stood looking after her, clutching my purse to my chest. I don’t know if the tears welling up in my eyes were from the pain of rejection or the sudden burst of exhaust fumes.
Sometimes my explanations embarrass hubby. He quit taking me out to eat until I agreed not to explain to the waitresses why I am hungry for particular menu items. He said they don’t really care if I want French fries with extra salt and a Double Fudge Brownie Delight because I have PMS.
He also pointed out that the folks sitting across the aisle from us probably aren’t interested in knowing that I feel guilty for eating out three days in a row instead of cooking for my family. And that I haven’t been cooking because we are remodeling and everything in my house is such a mess and I can’t really focus when things around me are messy. And if I could focus I wouldn’t keep forgetting to take the roast out of the freezer and my kids would be eating a healthy home-cooked meal instead of dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets for the third day in a row.
Now that I think about it, hubby probably has a point. So, I have resolved not to unnecessarily explain myself anymore.
When I scrape my tires against the curb while trying to parallel park, I am not going to explain to the guy standing on the corner that when I got my driver’s license in Tennessee 16 years ago parallel parking wasn’t on the test.
I am not going to explain to the greeter at Wal-mart that I usually wear make-up but today I left the house without it because I have a sinus infection and my face hurts when I touch it. And since it is early I probably won’t see anybody I know anyway.
I am not going to explain to the teenage girl at the video store that my washing machine has been broken for a week and that’s why my kids’ clothes are mismatched. And I could go to the Laundromat but I hate it because it costs so much, although if I only washed my clothes there and took them home to dry, that wouldn’t be so bad because my dryer isn’t broken.
When I take my kids to the park I am not going to explain to the mom pushing her son in the next swing that I had to wear my old tennis shoes with the hole in them because I stepped in dog doo with my new ones and didn’t have time to clean it off.
When I am sitting at a stoplight with my windows down I am not going to explain my van’s condition to the guy over in the BMW by slowly mouthing the words, “NO AIR CONDITIONING.”
When the UPS man delivers a package I am not going to explain to him that he has to wade through three feet of junk piled on my porch because I am sorting stuff for a yard sale that I may or may not have depending on the weather. Besides, that’s the excuse I gave him last time.
When a telemarketer calls to sell me vinyl siding, I am not going to explain to her that my voice sounds funny because my nose is stuffy and I might be coming down with the cold that my kids picked up from their cousins and have been passing around for two weeks.
When my mother-in-law drops by for a visit I am not going to explain to her that the dust on the coffee table is an inch thick because….well, I guess there really is no excuse for that now is there?
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