Delights Day Five! Guest Post by the Delightful Corey Radman

Not only am I delighted to share this post by my lovely and talented friend, Corey. I am delighted that she is my lovely and talented friend.

Wanna a share a delight? Send me a note 🙂

Here’s Corey!

Positive Self Talk

By Corey Radman

“Where should we put this rotisserie chicken?” I asked Ringo as I put the groceries away. He wagged his tail at me like he had a few ideas to contribute to the discussion. Overruling the canine, I said, “Let’s put this in the way back of the fridge…”

I looked up to see my husband standing in the kitchen with a look that said, Should I make fun of you, or should I make an appointment for you? “Who are you talking to?”

“The dog,” I said, a silly grin creeping across my face. My eyes slid to the side. We both knew I’d be chatting aloud even if I was utterly alone.

So, sue me. I talk to myself. Aloud. I’ve always been this way. As a child, I spoke quietly to Laura, my imaginary companion fresh from her little house on the prairie. “This is a telephone,” I’d explain. “You press the buttons, and it connects you to other people far away!”

I quashed the instinct once I realized it made me “weird.” I spent several decades appearing to pass for normal, but then I started working from home as a writer, and well, the words escaped my shower diatribes and splashed into the living room, into the car, out onto the sidewalk where maybe I’m talking to Ringo, maybe not.

Sometimes I’m practicing a conversation I might have or rehashing one I wish had been wittier. I’ve also found if I talk about the item I’m looking for, I won’t forget between rooms, which is how I got to be walking through the house one day, wondering aloud, “Where are my marbles? I can’t find my marbles!”

Some writing gets talked out first, as well… this essay for example. (So meta.) I’ve gotten to the point where I have to think this way; I don’t really know what my opinion is until I’ve heard it aloud. Often, I’m just spitballing until the truth of a matter comes out of my mouth, and it settles into my gut like warm risotto.

At age 47, I no longer care if my spouse or neighbors think I’m nuts. I’m great company. I crack myself up a lot. Not giving a fuck is delightful. Turning into that dotty lady who talks to her dog is absolutely priceless.

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