Perhaps you’ve been there, smack in the middle of a roomful of folks you didn’t plan on spending the evening with. You feel out of place. But you are expected to be there—it’s an obligation. Endeavoring to bridge the discomfort gap, you find yourself attempting to create interesting small talk with a woman whom you’ve never met before. She asks how you like your job and your boss. Fishing for a scintillating response, you turn a phrase that goes to the edge of your comfort zone.
“He’s a good guy to work for,” you suggest, “even though his three-way bulb seems stuck on ‘dim’ most of the time.” It’s a mild dig that many an employee might utter, out of their boss’s earshot.
She laughs at your cleverness; you secretly crow at your ability to charm.
Only later, as you drift awkwardly around the currents of the other partygoers, do you discover—in horror—that the woman you were trying to impress with your clever comments is your boss’s wife’s best friend. Your life passes before your eyes. You search for a rewind button, but there is none. Your head feels like exploding. You feel broken, inexcusably stupid, and prepare a vow that you will never again flirt with stupid small talk. You consider cutting out your tongue.
In the far corner of the room, four women are remarking over images on a cell phone—pictures of a baby. The women gush over the child in the customary, “Oh, how cute!” and, “So sweet!” vernacular. Linda offers an expression intended to trump the small talk of the other women.
“Look at the cute nose!” Linda exclaims, “Why, it’s just like Allen’s!”
The comment is met with dead silence. Finally, “Linda, who is Allen?”
Too late, Linda realizes that she’s the only one who knows about the existence of Allen, and Allen’s relationship with the “oh-how-cute” baby’s mother.
Linda feels the temperature in the room spike, turning her head to hide her face’s fierce scarlet color. “Hello, Joan!” She pretends to recognize a friend across the room, her means of escape. Behind her, and not trailing off quickly enough, Linda hears her soon-to-be former friends, who don’t pretend to be fooled: “Who’s Allen?”
I’ve never tried blowing up a tomato in a microwave, but it must be the same explosive temperature that our heads reach when we realize we have just said way too much. The ears blaze. The throat seizes as if attempting to swallow a small grapefruit.
Moments later, the blood abandons the head as quickly as it arrived, leaving the cheeks pale. Below the eyes, faint veins just beneath the surface paint the skin a sickly green pallor. Depression creeps into our lightheadedness. Knees twitch and wobble.
We have committed an unpardonable sin. How can we recover? We feel shipwrecked, marooned, and without the means to express our sudden and agonizing torment.
“When will I just learn to shut up?” we agonize.
Days later, a work associate pulls up a chair and queries us about our apparent declining condition. As our world comes unglued, it becomes increasingly difficult to disguise our demise. We agonize as we wade through the muck of our fallibilities, ashamed and embarrassed.
After our gut-wrenching confession to our workmate, the friend offers only unanticipated silence.
“Well?” we demand, “How can I ever put my life together again? The shame!”
The patient friend on the chair finally offers an unexpected response.
“I used to be like you,” he explains. “I agonized over the things I’ve said and the length of time people would remember my inappropriate comments.”
He pauses, then finishes. “I know you feel lousy over what you think you’ve communicated to others.
“But don’t worry about it. Nobody ever really listens to us as much as we think they do!”