I am the most horrible person I know at this moment.
(And no, I’m not trying to steal pldennison’s steam. And yes, I know I’m exaggerating about being the most horrible person. Just bear with me, kay?)
There’s this lady who volunteers in my lab. Nice woman, really. She makes cookies for us graduate students and always has a smile and a compliment ready when you need one. And that’s why I feel so guilty right now.
You see, she has this little problem. Or at least, I think she has a problem. She talks TOO much. I’m talking, all you have to do is say a key word and she starts. Like, I’ll say, “My wrist is itchy” and she launch into a monologue that begins with, “Really? My daughter Elizabeth had an itchy wrist yesterday and she thought it was a spider bite but it turned out to be a bee sting. Isn’t that horrible? And she’s allergic to bees. I used to know a man–his name was Arnold Zeller and he works in the zoology department at NYU. He was my friend’s cousins’ next-door-neighbor’s friend for awhile. Nice looking man, too. Looks like Mel Gibson, except he has a white beard and bushy eyebrows. He works with bees and he says they will only sting if you are wearing Suave hair conditioner. Isn’t that strange? And Elizabeth doesn’t even wear Suave. She wears Prell. What conditioner do you wear? Blah-Blah-BLAH-BLAH!!!”
Goodness! She talks so much that I think I’m going to throw up sometimes. I’m deeply introverted (even though sometimes I’ll have my moments when I’m talkative…depends on what the topic is). So when I have to listen to this woman–or at least pretend that I’m listening–it drains me psychologically. Sometimes it takes every grain in my body to keep from screaming, “SHUT THE HELL UP!” I’ve started hiding in my office to avoid her, but I eventually have to go back to the lab to work.
I’m not the only person that finds her annoying, but I think I’m the only person that’s having such a visceral reaction.
Friday, she read out loud a long-ass paragraph from book about Seth Boyden, a famous inventor from New Jersey. Halfway through, I blanked out, her voice fading into the ambient noise of the room. If she had asked follow-up questions, I would have been screwed. But it was Friday, my brain was fried, and I couldn’t give a rats’ ass about Seth Boyden or his patent leather!
She also nags me. She’s in her fifties; I’m in my twenties, close to her daughters’ age. She asks if I’ve eaten, if I’ve taken my vitamins, and she tells other people that I’m anemic, as if it’s their business. She also showers me with unsolicited offers of help and advice. If I’m yawning in front of the computer, she’ll tell me to go lay down in my office. If I’m exerting any effort with something, she’ll insist that she help me, even if I insist back that I’m fine.
And this is why I feel so bad. She’s so nice and my thoughts are so horrible and mean, and they are only getting meaner. Sometimes I think she can tell that I’m getting tired of her by my lack of response when she talks to me. I try to sound interested but it’s tough, man. Really, it is.
The pleasure I get from coming into work everyday is lessening considerably. There’s a dread factor that wasn’t there before. I know people will suggest I talk to her, but what do you say to someone who’s being so nice and friendly? And what if it’s not she who has the problem, but me? Why can’t I be a more tolerant, friendly person? Why can’t I accept her talkativeness as eagerly as I accept her cookies?
Is it easier to be mean than nice? Why does one seem to come so naturally to me than the other?
