Member-only story
I Like Talking About Physical Things
Relationships, not so much.
I have a friend who is the excellent single mother of an eleven-year-old boy. She described to me a scene at a coffee shop in which her son asked if he could go sit at a table where several male acquaintances of hers were talking about lawn mowers. She agreed, and watched from afar, amazed yet concerned, as her son became mesmerized by men talking about stuff.
My friend admitted to me she could not fathom how the men she knew could sit around a table talking for hours on end about stuff . . . objects . . . the physical things that clutter the world around us. She had worked hard to teach her son the value of being able to express his feelings and be a positive force in his relationships with others, but at the first opportunity, he was off to join a group of men talking about objects.
I’m not eleven. I’m seventy. But when I was eleven I liked to talk about things. And I still do.
I live in a beautiful home. The decoration has nothing to do with me and everything to do with my wife’s taste. She picked out the house and furnished it. Had its interior been left in my hands, the décor would consist largely of neon beer signs. Fortunately for everyone who visits my home, I am not consulted in matters of interior design.
