“Hey, I have this funny TMI story for you. Don’t say you can’t handle TMI because I know you can.”
The impromptu story continued as she tugged me by my coat sleeve past the time clock into the parking lot. Shannon is one of those chatterbox types, someone who seems to accept everyone who has wandered into her scope of existence. I like her energy, tell her I know when she is approaching by the quick little steps she takes. And it was with that energy that she led me along across the parking lot, enthusiastically telling me about the little stage her husband is building in the basement for their daughter. He was up late, the drill vibrating up through the wall as she tried to sleep in the upstairs bedroom. The sound changed but she kept hearing a buzzing. It sounded too familiar, she said.
For some reason, maybe because she has spent enough time around me to experience my sideways sense of humor (you’ll have to trust me on that claim), Shannon has confided little tidbits about herself to me before. I listen to her and I laugh. Really I don’t think it takes much encouragement for her to share anything with anyone she is even relatively comfortable with.
And I wonder if she slaps her forehead when she walks away. You know what I mean. One of those SMACK why did I just say that forehead slaps.
“Well, guess what. The buzzing wasn’t his drill that I kept hearing. It was my dildo in my nightstand.”
Umm, yeah, that probably crossed the TMI line. Funny thing is that it just, well, seemed natural coming from Shannon.
Of course, maybe she feels comfortable telling me something that, ummm, personal because I a bit of the TMI type myself. Don’t expect me to be telling dildo stories any time soon, though. Until now.
“You know, I don’t know what this says about me, but my first thought was that you were going to tell me it was your dildo.”
“Yeah, those Duracell batteries really last a long time.”
“Good night, Shannon.”
Guess with some people there just isn’t such a thing as TMI.
My forehead hurts.