People are always telling me more than I want to know. This happens so frequently that I wonder if my face somehow sets up an expectation of sympathy and understanding that my personality can’t deliver on.
Waiting in line is a particularly hazardous undertaking. The bank, the post office and the grocery store offer endless opportunities to trip a TMI land mine. Like people in movie theaters who forget that they’re not sitting in their living rooms—where they apparently take phone calls during movies and talk back to the screen—something about standing still somehow causes people to forget the concept of social boundaries and prompts them to indiscriminately share their personal lives.
Or maybe it’s just something about standing in proximity to me. Clearly inspired by my utter lack of interest, strangers constantly launch into long-winded stories about their marriages, their relationships, their sex lives (or lack thereof), their aches and pains, their political opinions, their mothers.












