Usually when people naturally have an unenthused expression on their face (read: RBF), strangers do not want to approach them. So why in the world does that not apply to me?

I will be straight minding my business, and then someone will come from left field with a question or comment that turns into a full-on conversation, usually ending in a divulgence of way too much information by them.

Don’t get me wrong—I’ve always been a nosy kid. But something shifted around the time I was in middle school that catapulted me from a kiddie eavesdropper to a pseudo-therapist.

The first time I can remember being pulled into a full-blown adult conversation was when I was babysitting. I had to have been about 12 years old or so. A couple from church had four kids, and they went on a date night every week. They really had no other options, so they gave me a try. 🤷🏾‍♀️

Since I wasn’t old enough to drive, they had to drive a good 20 minutes to pick me up and take me to their house. And let me tell ya—that can be a long and awkward drive when done in silence.

“How’s school going?” “What’s your favorite subject?” “Any extracurricular activities?”

“Fine. Anything without homework. Volleyball.”

That took a whole two minutes to answer. Eighteen minutes to go!

I had to participate in the conversation as well. Besides, journalism was starting to peak my interest, so I needed the interview practice.

“So… how long have you guys been married? How are things going?”

I didn’t realize how pregnant that question really was. As the wife proceeded to tell me about their years of matrimony, she also forgot she was talking to a 12-year-old.

“Marriage has its ups and downs. It’s been a little rough recently because I’ve been suffering from depression. It got to the point where I couldn’t even get out of bed. I felt awful because I couldn’t muster up the energy to even care for my kids.” 

Oh. Okay. Ummm… I didn’t expect for us to go so deep. But, I’m nosy, so my pre-teen self just acted like this was completely normal.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Do you find that people don’t understand your illness because it’s not physical?”

To be honest, I was people. At 12, I couldn’t fathom how someone could be crippled from sadness. She went on to explain it to me.

We pulled up to the house in the middle of her response. We even sat in the driveway for five minutes as she finished her thoughts.

“My time started when I got in the car, not when I get in this house. You know that, right?”

From then on, every car ride was a time to spill more tea to me.

Her husband let me know that he didn’t understand the illness and sometimes resented her for it, she let me know how crucial date nights are for their marriage, and they both let me know their worries about one of their son’s development.

It never eased up even after I stopped babysitting. At school and work, I often knew all the latest news without asking.

Then, that habit started seeping into my everyday life with strangers wanting to get information off their chest.

That’s one of the reasons I go to the self-checkout line at Wal-Mart no matter how many items I have. Every cashier keeps me at least 10 minutes past the time it usually takes.

There was this one guy who saw my 4-month-old and started telling me how he wants a baby so much, but he had to find a wife first.

“I’d be a really good husband too! My wife doesn’t even have to work because I did really good with saving, so money wouldn’t be an issue.”

I said, “Well, I’m sure you’ll find someone. You seem like a very nice guy.”

He smiled, paused and then said, “And race isn’t even an issue either. I like them all!”

I busted out laughing and replied, “Well in that case, I may have to put in an application. You said all expenses paid, correct?”

I kid. I kid.

To make sure my future “run in real quick” errands didn’t take more time than I wanted, I even started finding cashiers that others would complain about. I went to people who looked mean, uninterested and ready to go home. That way, there would be no conversation.

She thought.

Everything started nice and silent at first when I came through the disgruntled employee’s line.

“You find everything okay?” she said in jest as she chomped her gum.

“Yes, thanks,” I said.

She scanned in silence for a good three minutes, and then she scanned my hair conditioner.

“Girl…you put this in your hair? It don’t even look like it’s for black people.” 

“I do. It works for me.”

“Well then Imma have to buy this too, child. You don’t even wanna see what’s under this wig. I’ve went natural, got embarrassed by the way my hair looked, and braided it right back up before I slapped this wig on. I don’t have good hair.” 

“There’s no such thing as good hair. The texture God gave you is good hair.”

“Naw… the devil gave me this mess right here. How do you keep it from being dry and crunchy?”

And this led into a whole spiel about moisture, protein and protective styles.

Sometimes I do it to myself. I know I can prolong the conversation, but even if I’m looking straight-faced and in a rush, somehow something will end up slowing down my original plans.

Even when I tried avoiding going inside stores by doing that online pick-up service, I’ve had to go inside to fix an incorrect order on numerous occasions.

I really think God loves playing with me in this area of my life. He knows that I mostly like to chill and keep to myself. Yes, I can be extra as can be, but being extra drains my energy. Thus why my natural state is to be a homebody.

C’est la vie. (That means “that’s life” in French for those of you without Google Translate.) Or at least that’s my life. I get all the flavors of tea without ordering it.

This week’s podcast will include more of these “Hope occurrences.” I can’t make this up, folks! It’s like an episode from “I Love Lucy” every time I step out.