Hello? *tap tap* Is This Thing On?

Hey, you! Yeah, you right there. Do you know how I got here? I sure as shit don't. And I'm sure you feel about the same right now.

It's curious we both ended up here though, isn't it? There are a ga-jillion other places we could both digitally be: saving dinner recipes we'll never try, watching TikTok dances we'll never attempt, shopping for fast fashion with a tag-guarantee to dissolve in 3 wash cycles or less.

Just doom-scrolling ourselves into oblivion.

But we're not there. We’re here. And I think we both secretly know why.

Last week is what I consider to be my reckoning.

A situationship from yonder days texted me asking to talk. He wanted closure. I wanted a spicy margarita with a tajín rim. So, alas, we agreed to meet.

—queue exasperated crowd sigh—

I know, I know… Typically, I'd decline such a proposition, spicy marg be damned! But I’d been to the dentist earlier that day for a cleaning and firmly believe that fluoride went straight to my head. (This is all your fault, Dr. Chad.)

—anywho, cut scene to bar—

There we were, parked at what seemed to be the designated table for bourbon-soaked breakups, off in a dark corner away from civil society. The situationship, let’s call him Blob #1, was yapping on about how he “missed me” but “we’d never work.” The typical script echoed from countless generations of f*ck-boys and f*ck-girls alike.

And this got me thinking: why do we default to this? Reciting an Its-Not-You-It's-Me mantra instead of saying what we really mean, and what we truly want?

So I asked, “Blob #1, why did you really text me today?”

His paused then replied quietly, “Because I guess I just missed talking to you.”

Now I know what you’re thinking. No, I did not buckle at the knees with that whisper of a compliment. Rather, we eventually wrapped up the conversation and parted ways. On the drive home though, his words began to marinate. He just missed talking to me. But was it me? Or just someone—anyone—to talk to? A longing for the circuit that connects our brains to our mouths to another human’s ears. Needless to say, that conversation left me feeling lackluster and ready for bed.

Fast forward to the weekend, and Blob #1’s sentiment slowly began battering me over the head in serendipitous dialogue. Here’s how it went down:

• Friday: My birthday. Friends gather round for the time-honored tradition of “The Birthday Game” (clever name, I know) where everyone shares 1 word that describes the honoree. My words? Self-assured. Vivacious. Charismatic. Radiant. Heart. Alluring. I blink. Either I’m Beyonce, or my girlfriends are just exceptionally good at flattery.

• Saturday: Lunchtime brewskis at the local watering hole. Co-patron remarks, “Girl, you are made to be on reality TV.” Noted. My life as a future contestant on The Real Housewives awaits.

• Sunday: Date with prospective Blob #2. Claims, “You ask the best questions. I haven’t talked this long in forever!” I was simply inquiring about his plan in the event of an alien invasion. Spoiler alert: he will not be the Will Smith to my Independence Day.

But Monday… that was the moment. I arrived at Barnes & Noble on a mission: locate a book that rhymes with the words Schmorth Fing (iykyk). As I sauntered to the front entrance, my stride fell in step with a gentle elderly woman–the grandmotherly type. I held the door, allowing her to pass, and complimented her trendy yet simultaneously nostalgic wool sweater. As we seemed to be headed in the same general direction, I began asking her questions grounded in genuine curiosity. Where was she from? What were her holiday plans? What genre was she searching for? British. Grandmother to 7 (called it). Deeply troubled by the decline in prestige writing. I left Schmorth Fing out of the conversation.

After a mere 2 minutes walking together, it was time to wander off to our respective aisles. As I began a goodbye, the fragile woman strong-armed me into a hug. This stranger hugged me.

“Young lady, you are quite the conversationalist. Merry Christmas. Make sure to share that gift.”

Cue lightbulb. Choir singing. Fireworks flying.

And just like that, the lord hath bestowed upon me... drum roll please... The Gift of Gab.

Record scratch back to reality.

Ok, great. But what do I even do about that? I spent the following manic days trying to figure out what to do with this so-called gift.

Do I become another podcaster, pontificating in circular discussion? A motivational speaker inspiring the corporate masses with HR-approved talking points? Or maybe drink the Kool-Aid and become an influencer who solely talks to their front-facing camera?

I’ll be honest: I have no idea what to do. Even as I write this. But I do know where I want to go. I want us to get talking again. I want us to feel confident in conversation.

Enough to have cordial breakups, celebrate our friends, channel our inner TV stars, plan the apocalypse on first dates, and compliment strangers on their sweaters. I want people to walk around without sunglasses, make eye contact, and not get a twisting gut pinch when someone gazes back. I want people to be curious with their questions and attentive with their ears. I want authenticity.

I want human connection to be the norm, not a novelty.

So I like to think that’s why we’re both here, ladies and gentlemen. To have a conversation.

So let’s get started, shall we?