Sometimes I Talk to Myself

 

Sometimes I Talk to Myself

By G. E. Shuman

 

Do you ever find yourself talking to yourself? I do. Well, I don’t actually talk to myself out loud, but do occasionally have bits of conversations between the ‘me,’ and the some other ‘me’ that both seem to rattle around in my brain, fighting for prominence. It isn’t really a good versus evil thing; it’s more that my mind sort of weighs things in the balance that way… as I said… occasionally. When that happens, it often goes something, but not exactly, like this:

Me #1: “My memory isn’t what it used to be. I guess I really might be getting older.”

Me #2: “You ‘MIGHT’ be getting older? You’re already ‘older’! You haven’t seen a mirror for the past twenty years or something?”

Me #1: “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just feeling my age lately. Like that time one of my fellow teachers heard my age. He came to me later and told me he didn’t realize I was such a ‘pup.’”

Me #2: “That means you looked older, George. Besides, that was YEARS ago.”

Me #1: “That’s my point, Dummy!”

Me #2: “So, who exactly are you calling Dummy?”

Me #1:  “Some of the recent comments from my granddaughter Nahla have me thinking that way, too.”

Me# 2: “Like what comments? She’s only six, you know. And you are pretty old lately.”

Me #1: “Like what? You’re right here in my head, and I have to remind you what? Wow. Like when I told her I was going to start teaching a few English classes again. Remember that?” She laughed and said: “Papa, you can’t do that! You’re WAY too old!”

Me #2: “Oh yah… I remember that. That was SO funny! I laughed so hard I almost fell out your left ear.”

Me #1” “And remember the time we were sitting on the front porch, and I asked her if she would still come to visit her Grammy and me when she was all grown up?”

Me #2: “How could I forget? That one stung a bit. But it was hilarious when she said: “Well Papa, I guess I’ll come visit Grammy, ‘cause you’ll be dead.”

Me #1: “Hilarious? Remember, when I’m dead, you’re dead.”

Me #2: “Oh yeah.”

Me #1: “Now I’ve got those two stupid doctor’s appointments next week to think about too.”

Me #2: “I know. But you’ll be fine. If you’re worried about seeing doctors, maybe you should try to get in better shape.”

Me #1: “I probably should. Maybe I should get a fit bit to keep track of my exercise.”

Me #2: “Don’t do that. Then you’ll start getting junk emails from the local funeral parlors. Ha! Ha!”

Me #1: “Oh, funny, very funny! Anyway, I like my doctor. She’s smart, and young, and pretty, and easy to talk to.”

Me #2: “Yes, she’s all the things you aren’t.”

Me #1: “I just hate the things they make you do, and all the questions. First, they put you on that awful scale which always shows your weight ten pounds over what it is at home. Like I need to see that. Then they take your pulse.”

Me #2: “That’s to see if you have a pulse, George.”

Me #1: “And then they always start going down the list of meds I take, as if I have any idea if I still take them or not. Lorna isn’t usually with me, and I usually realize that, and usually don’t care and just smile and say yup. They’re working fine.”

Then they ask the really embarrassing questions:

Are you exercising? No, but I plan to. How's your diet? I just started a new one this morning. It's going great. (I wonder how many times she’s heard that one.)  Do you ever smoke? Naw. Do you use alcohol? What do you mean by ‘use’? How about illicit drugs? Nope. Just a lot of caffeine.

Me #2: “Wow. No wonder you don’t like hearing all that stuff about you… I mean us.”

Me #1: “I’d rather get back to thinking about the stuff Nahla says, if you don’t mind.”

Me #2: “Yes. Me too. Like the time she told you she saw hair in your nose, and in your ears. You should have seen the look on your face!”

Me #1: “Or like last week when it was my turn to put her to bed and I sat on the floor beside her while she said her prayers?”

Me #2: “I remember.

Me #1: “Then she said: ‘Papa! What are you doing? What if I fall asleep and you can’t get up?!”

Me #2: “Out of the mouths of babes.”