The Completely Unreasonable Level Of Emotional Investment I Have In Strangers' Conversations
Some people collect souvenirs from their day. I collect fragments of stranger conversations and carry them around indefinitely.
I don’t know when this started.
Maybe it was journalism.
Maybe it’s because I was raised by a preschool teacher who could learn a family’s entire life story from one sentence muttered during pickup.
Maybe I’m just nosy.
Whatever the cause, I have a serious problem.
If I accidentally overhear part of your conversation in public, I am now emotionally invested.
Not in a creepy way. In a deeply committed way. A ride-or-die way. A way that suggests I should probably be receiving regular updates.
It doesn’t even take much. Just enough information to get me hooked.
A woman in Target recently said, “Well, if Kevin thinks that’s appropriate, then Kevin can explain it to my mother.”
That’s it. That’s all I got. No additional context. No follow-up. No explanation.
And now I think about Kevin at least twice a week.
WHAT DID KEVIN DO? Why is his judgment being questioned? Why is someone’s mother involved? How bad was this decision? Did Kevin survive the conversation?
I deserve answers.
The worst part is when people walk away before finishing the story.
I once heard a man at Dunkin say, “No, that’s not why the police came.”
And then his coffee was ready. The conversation ended. The universe moved on.
But I did not.
I spent the next twenty minutes inventing possibilities.
Maybe a misunderstanding. Maybe a raccoon.
Maybe Kevin called the police. I don’t know. At this point Kevin seems capable of anything.
And don’t even get me started on airport conversations. Airports are the Olympics of overhearing.
Everyone is stressed. Everyone is talking too loudly. Everyone is sharing details that should absolutely remain private.
You learn things. Terrible things. Things you never asked to know. Things you cannot unknow — like the fact that Cheryl from Gate B17 is apparently dating her ex-husband’s golf instructor.
Good for Cheryl. I support women’s rights and women’s wrongs.
The problem is that once I know, I care. Now I’m sitting there hoping things work out. I hope Cheryl is happy. I hope the golf instructor appreciates her. I hope the ex-husband develops a mysterious inability to find his seven iron.
And this isn’t limited to negative situations.
If I hear someone celebrating something, I’m all in.
“I got the job.” YES YOU DID! LET’S GO! I don’t know your name! I don’t know what the job is! I’m not sure you’re qualified! But I’ve heard enough! I’m Team You now!
I once overheard a teenager tell her friend, “He texted me back.” The joy I felt was honestly disproportionate.
Look at us, teenager. Thriving. Growing. Communicating. I hope these crazy kids make it.
I think the real issue is that human beings are stories. We’re wired for them. We’re curious. We want endings. We want resolutions.
We want to know if Kevin explained himself to the mother.
We want to know why the police came.
We want Cheryl and the golf instructor to beat the odds.
But public life doesn’t provide endings. It provides trailers. Tiny previews. Single scenes from movies we’ll never get to watch. And somehow that’s worse. Because now? Now I have thirty-seven unfinished plots running simultaneously in my head.
Some people collect souvenirs. I collect partial information.
And if you’ve ever had a conversation in public and noticed a woman nearby suddenly looking intensely interested in a display of paper towels while listening with the concentration of an FBI negotiator...
First of all, mind your business.
Second, please finish your story. I’ve been through enough.
At my last Boston Marathon with RW, as things with work were getting funky, I suddenly learned the beauty of talking with strangers. An introvert at heart, social interactions were sometimes overwhelming for me especially in group settings. But I realized that one on one was a completely different experience. So a conversation while waiting in the Jamba Juice line with a man who had bought his wife a book which led to a lovely narrative about what an incredible woman his wife is, chatting with a street musician on Newbury St who had a rich jazz background, and just the sweet humanity of seeing people and engaging in a way that acknowledged our shared humanity. It was a soothing balm that my heart and soul needed especially at that time, and opened a world of kindness that I received and reciprocated without the burden of the so-often emotional complications of our relationships. Guess that is how I found my happy spot in retirement working in an historic, old-timey General Store—now enthusiastically chatting up the customers. My new-found super power creating connection and warmth in a world that has gotten quite unkind and divisive. These little things matter. Thanks for sharing your story and reminding me of mine.
"Please finish your story." When hub and I are out and we hear a story unfolding we text each other questions or replies as if we're part of that table/line talk. Once in a while I do interrupt in solidarity. Hasn't gotten me in trouble, yet. I love this post!