“The walk to the bus may have looked like any other, but Monday was the day that changed everything.”
I’ve been known to narrate my life. Not aloud, of course, because that would be unseemly. No use in frightening my fellow citizens.
I prefer to think that the commentary in my head is more entertaining than what’s going on around me.
I don’t limit my narrations to my life, though.
I’m willing to narrate yours as well.
“Little did she know that the person next to her at the Farmer’s Market, the person inspecting the turnips, then the rutabagas, was her brother Frank, the man who had left for the Navy 15 years ago only to be struck by lightning and left wandering, witless all these years, in his pursuit of the perfect root vegetable.”
My lips don’t move while I do this, so it’s perfectly normal. Or at least it appears perfectly normal.
Now if my lips moved…
I sometimes see people’s lips moving. They’re walking down the street, fully engaged in something or other. Before Bluetooth and teeny-tiny headphones, this was more amusing than it is now. Like the 'rahr, rahr, rahr' of a dog with a mouthful of peanut butter, one could envision any monologue one liked. Now, however, rather than imagining someone reciting the “I’m-leaving-you-you-rat-bastard” speech as they push their grocery cart through the condiment aisle, the odds are actually much better that the real-life conversation they are having on the world’s smallest phone is more along the lines of “How many kinds of mustard do we have?”
So I’m going to continue to create little fantasy lives around them, what they’re saying, where they’re going, why they’re meeting.
Oh, if only they knew how happy they make me, these lip-moving people, or how very much I love them.