Monday 5 July 2021

Talking to inanimate objects

On my weekends away from home I've noticed some peculiar behaviour on my part. You see, I've been surrounded by dogs pretty much my entire life, and I talk to them. As it turns out, I apparently talk to them quite a lot, because when I don't have a dog close by to share my every thought with, I turn to whatever else is handy.

"You made quite the fuss," I told the coffee machine yesterday morning, because it had been sputtering and hissing like an angry cat as the coffee dripped into the small, one-person carafe. "Don't be like that," I admonished it a moment later, when it spilled coffee down its rounded belly while I poured myself a mug. It's a cheap coffee machine that I bought at the dollar store, and it always does that - so annoying.

"You're my MVP," I said to the kitchen sponge a moment later as it mopped up the mess. Kitchen sponges play such a vital part in the kitchen, and I feel that they don't get the recognition they deserve; I'm just doing my part to change that.

I also ask the food in the fridge which one of them I should eat when I look inside and can't decide. It's always nice to get a second opinion, you know?

It doesn't feel as weird as you may think it does. On the contrary, it feels completely natural. I'm not one of those people who can't stand silence and always has the radio or TV on as background noise. I like silence, usually. But it's also nice to hear the sound of a human voice, and I quite enjoy talking to someone (or something) that doesn't talk back. That's why I will never get Alexa - she's too chatty. If I want a reply or a discussion, there are plenty of people around who are more than happy to tell me what they think. I don't need my inanimate objects to do the same. 

And I've found that I can sort through my thoughts only when I take them out of my head in some way: by writing them down when it's something more complicated, and saying them out loud when it's something easier. 
Talking to my coffee machine and sponge aren't signs that I am lonely. Loony maybe, but not lonely. 
As much as I miss my dogs and husband when I'm away, I love those weekends by myself. It's the perfect getaway for an introvert to recharge her batteries. I catch up on my sleep, watch TED talks, find new inspiring people on Instagram, and read and nap. 

My bed becomes my life raft in the sea of life that can feel scary and uncertain. It's the only time where I spent hours in bed during the day without being sick or exhausted - there's always too much to do at home. 
But here, my only job is to wait for calls from the hospital. The simplicity of it is beautiful; it's like taking a holiday from the rest of my life. 

Sometimes I wonder if these weekends might be a little glimpse into life 30 years from now. I can see myself living alone with my dogs and cat (I will have two dogs and one cat), talking to them as I make myself breakfast, putter around the house, make plans for the day. It will be a life filled with friends and purpose (I hope), but also with quite a bit of solitude. I think I will like it.

But not yet. Now it's Monday morning, and I'm eager to return to my normal life with all its chaos and people and animals. I can't wait to hug my husband and then complain about the mess and the dirty floors and the empty hummingbird feeders. 

See ya in two weeks, coffee machine. 


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