Controlling Myself
Masen lives in another city but commutes to work in our office, staying a few nights in the company flat every week. I don’t know how he finds being alone.
We ran into him about two weeks ago in a Chinese restaurant at about 11:00 at night. He had clearly just enjoyed the traditional “few drinks down at the pub after work”. When I saw him he said “Hi, Kelly,” and I let him get by with that.
The next day he stopped by to apologize for being a little funny the night before, and I asked him if that’s what he did on his own every week; get drunk and go out for Chinese. He laughed which means yes, so I offered him some company next time.
I also asked him if that’s why he called me Kelly instead of Amy. Again he laughed, which means yes.
Today when I saw him he called me Mrs. Worrell. This means that he has forgotten my name again, but he knows it’s not Kelly. I let him get by with that.
My grandma uses the same trick. When she forgets your name she calls you Miss Priss or Slim or something else appropriate for a woman her age to call you.
Am I the only one who over-analyzes everything?
When someone starts to add to a lively conversation and gets interrupted, I count the number of times they retry before they give up. In less than 60 seconds I am speculating what sort of childhood they must have had.
I pay attention when people say the same things to different people in different ways, and I wonder how much they prepare. Or do lying and self-preservation come so easily?
I can spend hours supposing what that person meant when they said “you’re addictive.”
You can imagine what a challenge it is to gain control of this prideful mind. Oh, for a simple lustful thought that I could easily capture!
We ran into him about two weeks ago in a Chinese restaurant at about 11:00 at night. He had clearly just enjoyed the traditional “few drinks down at the pub after work”. When I saw him he said “Hi, Kelly,” and I let him get by with that.
The next day he stopped by to apologize for being a little funny the night before, and I asked him if that’s what he did on his own every week; get drunk and go out for Chinese. He laughed which means yes, so I offered him some company next time.
I also asked him if that’s why he called me Kelly instead of Amy. Again he laughed, which means yes.
Today when I saw him he called me Mrs. Worrell. This means that he has forgotten my name again, but he knows it’s not Kelly. I let him get by with that.
My grandma uses the same trick. When she forgets your name she calls you Miss Priss or Slim or something else appropriate for a woman her age to call you.
Am I the only one who over-analyzes everything?
When someone starts to add to a lively conversation and gets interrupted, I count the number of times they retry before they give up. In less than 60 seconds I am speculating what sort of childhood they must have had.
I pay attention when people say the same things to different people in different ways, and I wonder how much they prepare. Or do lying and self-preservation come so easily?
I can spend hours supposing what that person meant when they said “you’re addictive.”
You can imagine what a challenge it is to gain control of this prideful mind. Oh, for a simple lustful thought that I could easily capture!
posted by Amy at
11:40 PM
1 Comments:
I found your blog on 'everyone is messed up but me' interesting, especially the comment someone made about how much they loved being analyzed by their friends! :)
My obsession with people is likely a symptom of my pride, but it troubles me that I might somehow be trying to conquer everyone, or prove they can be understood in order to reduce them and elevate myself.
Surely the Holy Spirit wouldn't let me get by with that.
By
Amy, at 6:38 PM
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