Lowered expectations

I find it incredibly easy to say what’s expected of me when I feel an electron stream of negativity.

Example One:

College; second roommate; singer/guitar musician. She made a studio recording of her top ten songs when we were on spring break once. Afterward, she, her best friend, and I listened to the recording. The friend and I complimented her and talked about how great she was. Then, they both stopped talking and simultaneously turned to stare at me. Intensely. Faces nearly frowning. Eyes sending negative ions. A front-loaded question: “What did you think, Chris?”

I had already answered with everything nice to say, so they wanted something else. I didn’t want to oblige them, but my mouth opened and words came out: “Well, it’s a shame the microphone wasn’t positioned closer to your mouth.” More deep stares. “If you hadn’t eaten the bread you were allergic to your voice might have sounded better on that one song where it cracked.”

The singer had already stated her self-criticism, and I just parroted what she said because it was what they wanted. I thought.

“Guh,” mutual eye-rolling, “Leave it to Chris to find something wrong with it.”

Example Two:

First career; first inter-departmental friend; scooter enthusiast. “Hey, I hear you ride scooters?”

“Yeah, I do,” I said. We exchanged the usual scooterisms: what do you ride, do you ride a lot, do you hang with the local scooter clubs? You know, bike stuff. He started giving me that look, though, the “expect something negative from you inserted here,” tucked his chin down, eyes big. I didn’t even want to say it: “Safety equipment is the most important part of riding. I’ve been hit by cars a couple of times and had a couple of wrecks. I have a nice full-face helmet and an armored riding jacket. Riding is dangerous.”

“Blah, blah-blah, blah.” Snorrre.

I wanted to say, “Scooters are economical and environmentally sensitive and relieve traffic congestion! They look cool and they’re fun! Yay scooters!” But he gave me the eyes. The “aren’t you going to say something bad now?” eyes. He didn’t even know me like the roommate and her friend knew me, but they linked over all those years with their eyes and my mouth. They’ll never meet, they’ll never talk, but they expected the bad, and I obliged.

What makes our mouths say things we don’t mean? Everyone does this; I know I’m not alone.

At home, I open my mouth, and my mom and dad come flying out. I feel like miniature cartoon parents punch their way through my lips, growing as they come into the air, grimacing, fists extended in fury. They stand in the room between my husband and me waving their cartoon fists, and, instantly, I apologize, “I’m sorry Matthew, I didn’t mean to say that.” Probably the most insulting thing a person can say about someone’s speech is “You sound just like your parents.” You spent your whole life rebelling away from them, and then you open your moth, and they’re there, punching through whether you invited them or not.

Every fight I’ve ever had as an adult revolved around misunderstandings of the mouth. I couldn’t say the whole truth, I couldn’t hear talking on the other side, or I said something I didn’t even mean. It’s all communication. Helmets, guitars, parents—they all live in my mouth, trying to get out.