I worry sometimes that I seem painfully simple to the people who deal with me the most.
Let's face it, there's not that much to me, and I'm not even saying that to seem self-deprecating in that cute, humble kind of way that we servers learn to be so good at because it increases our chances that the customer will realize that we're just human and we may still even earn a tip in spite of that. But in all honesty, my brain is so occupied with remembering which organs in the endocrine system secrete what hormones when and why and remembering drink orders for a table of 12 that more often than not, there's not much room left for the big topics and conversations.
I talk a lot about my husband, my furry family (3 cats and 2 dogs in case you were curious), and my continued efforts to train the large muscle groups in my legs to move me forward in a repetitive motion quicker and quicker still. To me it seems I'm just sharing the things that make me happy, but I can see how I tend to make myself seem like quite the simpleton.
Truth of the matter is, I used to have the big conversations. Late at night in coffee shops, with lots and lots of black coffee and cigarettes the words and thoughts would flow from one overly-caffeinated self-proclaimed tortured soul to another. I'm far from those days, and the cancer sticks, but as a point of irony that only I would get, I did dress up as a beatnik for Halloween. Still, I wonder, is there any part of the me then - the part that wanted to know about everything and question it at the same time - left in the me now, or did I run it out, literally?
Or maybe it's the opposite. I suppose with running as much as I do I spend a little too much time with my thoughts and ideas. Too much time inside my own head. By the time I'm not alone anymore I'm about ready to get out, talk about the simple things. Not saying I've got the solution to the world's problem up in the ol' noggin or the answer to the meaning of life, but the creative forces that used to fuel my late nights in coffee shops must be driving me now in a different way. I may not have the energy anymore to write them all down or get up on the mic in a smoke-filled room and share them, but they do move me.
Quicker, and quicker still.