Too Much Information. Something I have always been accused of giving. I have always been puzzled by those that are a closed book. A poker face and no back story. I mean we all have one, a back story. Our meat and bones the reason we are the way we are. It seems there are some who don’t just vomit it out the way I do. I assumed all people were like me, “ life story vomiters” turns out there are those who keep all that juicy info to themselves.
If I really think about it, my kindergarten teacher is partly responsible for giving me the nickname “chatterbox” which at the time I thought was a compliment. 40 plus years later I have learned this chatterbox is is more like a runaway train and a compliment may not have been what “what’s her name” meant. I can picture my kindergarden classroom ,but if you held a bright light on me and questioned me for hours I could never remember what that kindergarden teachers name was.
However, I do remember the pride I felt from my pink bow barrett to my black mary janes. I was the chatterbox. As I got older realized I was an open book.
I would see the other girls who were quiet and it seemed as though the boys were over anything I had to say. I was an information hore I gave it all way too early. The other girls would sit quietly in class, and the boys would wonder what they weren't saying these girls of mystery. The boys would basically talk over me to get to those girls of mystery. So each new year I would decide this would be the year I going to keep this chatterbox shut. I would be silent and concealing and of course full of mystery, in hopes that they would flock to me to learn the wonders of ME.