I mentioned talking to myself at the grocery store briefly in a post the other day. Perhaps it was to slip something through the cracks to see if anyone would take the opportunity to tell me I am crazy, secretly wishing they would instead nod at the computer screen in agreement with a “been there done that” electronic hug.

I think there’s a fine line between those who talk to ourselves and are aware of it and those of us who aren’t. You’ll notice I have included myself in both categories. And yes, having a mini-me sidekick at the ready lets me off the hook nine times out of ten conversations with the wind because people just assume I am talking to the baby and not in an argument with the air.

Last night, I was washing dishes in the kitchen and I felt someone staring at me. From the family room, I heard my seven year old ask, “Mom, who are you talking to?” Yikes. This is when you know you might have a problem. I had no idea I was talking and didn’t really know what I was even talking about. She said my lips were moving (and didn’t conclude with “but all I hear is blah blah blah”) which should probably send me directly to the Nuthatch but I don’t recall what or to whom I was speaking.

I saw a girl singing along to her ipod this morning while walking down the street. She appeared to be belting out lyrics while motioning some sort of dance number with her arms. Having the ipod securely affixed to her ear wax made it okay for her to be carrying on this way but what if we took the ipod away? Isn’t she just another crazy girl screaming in the street? What if the ipod was a prop, not playing any music at all, just giving her carte blanche to act like a nut while dancing her way to the bus stop. She may have been shouting racial slurs while dancing to the funky chicken but that ipod shell pulled the scene together nicely making it all okay.

I guess if you’re going to talk to yourself, sing in public, dance like no one is watching, you might as well go all the way. The people we stare at most intensely are the ones we can tell are dying to sing but too embarrassed to let it out. Their lips move like a second-rate ventriloquist with the occasional, corner lip quiver, their bodies swaying ever-so-slightly to the beat, not enough to know if they were once a competitive break dancer, just enough to barely shake-up a straight line walk.

Finally I can hear the baby stirring through the monitor which is a relief, I think I’ve been talking to her for a while now. Thank God for this ipod.