Speak for Yourself, Part II

I must be a ghost.  But without being dead--just invisible.  I must be a living ghost.

Or maybe I just underestimate people's willingness to share embarrassing details of their lives out loud and in very public places.  Maybe people just don't care about privacy anymore, after we've surrendered it to Facebook and, um, blogging.

I was in a boutique thrift store (figure that one out) browsing for dresses, not stories of "love" triangles.  Another shopper announced, loud enough to reach all corners of the small and largely vacant store, that she was dying to share something what she did last night that was just so embarrassing.  I was very much within earshot, but she didn't seem to mind.

So as not to ruin in the reputation of an already anonymous townie, I'll be brief and vague:  Girl is on a date with New Guy.  They get drinks.  It gets late.  Girl invites New Guy to her apartment.  On the way into the apartment, Girl accidentally dials Other Guy on her cell phone without realizing it.  Later, Other Guy calls Girl back and angrily asks her what she was doing with New Guy in her apartment.  (From the level of Other Guy's concern, it seems that Other Guy is Girl's boyfriend.)  Girl lies about New Guy's presence and, to her friend, vows to defend her lie to Other Guy.

At this point, I didn't care to hear more, and I finished scanning the dress rack and took my discoveries into the changing room.  I bought nothing.

Later, as I was riding the train home, a boy of maybe thirteen or fourteen years got on the train.  His hair was soaking wet and messy and he was wearing athletic clothes.  He had been running in the rain.  (I only know this because declared it enthusiastically into his cell phone.)  Except for the slovenliness, this was no ordinary male eighth-grader, though.  He lacked the perpetually bored face, and instead of making as few bodily movements as possible, he was leaning forward and sitting back and flinging his hands and arms all over the place as he talked on the phone.  And he talked.  Loudly.  He clearly didn't mind anyone listening to his conversation.

At first, I ignored him; I was more intrigued by the couple sitting next to him--probably his parents' age--and their attempt to be discreet as they glanced at him, then at his flailing arms, then back at him, for the duration of his ride.  But then the boy caught my attention when he started talking about the Hittites.


Hittites.  Remember the Hittites from Bible study classes?  That empire that thrived for centuries upon centuries upon centuries in what is today Turkey?  Neither did I, until this kid mentioned them.

"Remember us?"

Whoever was on the phone with him heard the comprehensive history of the Hittites, and so did we, his fellow train riders.  He mentioned scholarly studies that found identity between sub-groups of the Hittites once thought to be separate tribes.  And he was so excited about it!

HUGE TURNAROUND FROM THE PREVIOUSLY OVERHEARD CONVERSATION!

AND WHAT AN IMPROVEMENT!

There is hope in the world of oversharing!  And how unexpected, too.  I don't recall going to middle school with ancient history prodigies.  I guess if you're going to share something loud enough for everyone to hear, it should be worth hearing.  Just think:  Professors could be planted on subways to summarize "on the phone" the lectures they gave that day.  Researchers could "talk to a friend" about new discoveries while riding on crowded buses. Poets could "practice" reciting their works in busy elevators.

I'd listen to that.

Image courtesy of:  The Ancient Web