Silence Is Golden

“Never miss a good chance to shut up.”

― Will Rogers

In my experience nothing good ever comes from volunteering information, but that fact in itself has never prevented me from offering it.  To be fair, when I do volunteer information, I am usually drunk—which as you may have surmised is not an unusual circumstance.  Still, regret is typically what follows, usually after the ensuing conversation it spawns or the morning after such an occurrence.

Most men learn this by the time they reach their late 20s and, in my experience, women rarely do.  There is no end to the amount of material offered by comedians regarding the loquacious nature of women and the reticence of men.  Now that seems like a rather unfair and harsh characterization when I read it aloud, but my wife once told me that there’s a reason for stereotypes.  Indulge me for a moment.

Case #1

I sat down with my best friend some years ago to have a beer at a steakhouse bar a week after he returned from vacation.  He was in a very troubled relationship, but as is typical in my experience, he loved this girl and was having trouble doing what we all knew was inevitable.  His plan had been to visit with his parents about his situation and then break up with his girlfriend upon his return—not that I knew anything about any of that until after the fact.

“How was your trip?”

“Fine.”

“Did you fly first class?”

“I didn’t fly; I took the train.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to be bored.”

“Why?”

“I needed time to think.”

“Why?”

“I was planning to break-up with Amanda after I talked to my mom.”

Beer #2 arrived.

“You broke up?  How did it go?”

“I couldn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

Silence.

I watched as he downed the entire beer and ordered another.

“She’s pregnant.”

“What?”

“Amanda’s pregnant.”

Silence.

“It’s been a week since you got back.  Why didn’t you say something?

“What’s to say?  I’m stuck.”

Silence.

I watched as he stared into the beer that arrived a moment earlier.  Unsure of what to say, I downed my own beer and ordered one myself.  He wept silently for a moment.

My beer arrived.  We drank.

Case #2

A long-time female friend and manager sat across the table from me under the guise of our weekly one-on-one.

“I need to talk with you about Christie.”

“Do you want me to go fetch her?”

Annoyed, she continued.

“No.  I need to talk with you about her, not to her.”

“Why?  Is there a problem?  You’re not going to fire her are you?  I think she’s been working out really well—better than I thought, frankly.”

“No!  Listen!”

“Christie has been gossiping.”

“About whom?”

“She confided in me that Annaleah has been making small talk with customers during her cold calls.”

“Yeah?”

“And I think it’s part of Annaleah’s job to make our prospects comfortable when she’s on the phone with them.”

“Yeah?”

“And Christie was being very derogatory about Annaleah, because she thinks Annaleah is off-putting.”

“She is off-putting, but why are you talking to me about this?”

“Because I think the team should be more positive and I don’t like the fact that Christie is coming to me with negative comments about other people in the company.”

“What did she say when you talked to her about it?”

“I haven’t talked to her about it yet.  I’m planning to talk with her next week and I wanted to talk to you about it first.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m tired of the gossip and I wanted you to know that I won’t tolerate it on my team.”

“Did I gossip about someone?”

“No.  This is preemptive.  Besides, it bothers me that she would do that.”

“But why are you telling me?”

“BECAUSE IT’S BOTHERING ME!”

“OK.  I won’t gossip.  I’m sorry Christie is gossiping.  I’ll be sure to maintain a positive attitude about others in the company.”

“Good.  That’s what I was looking for.”

“Do you have anything for me?  I mean about my work this week?”

“No.  You’re doing fine.  I liked your company blog.”

I stared at her, my mouth agape.

Case #3

Some years ago, I was joking with a colleague in the break room, when I suddenly began to feel nauseated.  I tried to ignore it, but it began to intensify.  Suddenly, I was certain I was going to regurgitate and equally certain I would not make it to the restroom.  I tossed up the last punch line and exited the office area, heading to the restroom.

I sprinted the last 20 yards, burst into the bathroom, and began projectile vomiting into the nearest toilet.  When the episode ended, I began wiping the rim and stall walls feeling clammy and dizzy.  I stood there for a moment, bent over, my head nearly between my knees.

“What the f…” I wondered, just as the recollection struck me.  It was the Vicodin.

In an incident a week prior, which I don’t care to cover here, I had suffered a hairline fracture in my rib cage.  Nothing serious, but to avoid pneumonia the doctor prescribed a narcotic.  Apparently, I was having a bad reaction.  I called my doctor’s office, and was told to go to the emergency room immediately.

Steeling myself, I tried to appear fine and sought out my manager to excuse myself.  I approached the marketing pod, which was deserted except for Alisa.

“Where’s Karoline?”

“She’s in a meeting.”

“Please tell her I have an emergency and I need to leave.”

Alarmed, she asked “What’s wrong?”  “Nothing.” I replied.

“What’s wrong?” she repeated.

“I told you: it’s nothing, but I need to go to the emergency room.”

“Why?”

“I told you: it’s nothing.“

Standing, she insisted “What’s WRONG?”

“I’m having a reaction to the Vicodin I took this morning.”

“I’m driving.” she responded.

“I can drive myself.” I demanded, trying to appear as though I was unaffected by the very thing sending me to the hospital.

“You’re being ridiculous.  Follow me.”

By the time we arrived at the nurse’s desk I was having a trouble standing and I felt a strange detachment from my body.

“Fill this out.” said the nurse, handing me a clipboard with an attached form.

I fumbled for my insurance card, filled out the form with a shaky hand, and awkwardly shoved the clipboard back at the nurse.

“What seems to be the problem?” she asked with a concerned look on her face.

“I’m.  I’m uhm.  I’m having a bad reaction to the Vicodin I took.”

Opening the door to her station, she pointed to a guest chair and barked an order: “Sit down!”

10 minutes later I was sitting on an ER table, clad only in a hospital gown and my socks in front Alisa.  I watched as she reached for the pocket of my shirt, which lay crumpled in a visitor’s chair, and retrieved my cell phone.

Extending her arm she demanded “Call your wife!”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to worry her.”

“You’re in the ER!”

“Exactly.”

So here’s the deal.

Gals, when you ask him what’s wrong, and he says “Nothing.”, it either means just that or it means that it’s nothing that concerns you in that moment.  If he’s stuck in a relationship in which he’s unhappy, talking about it is just whining until he’s prepared to either leave or stay, at which time he will do what he’s decided to do.  If he’s stuck in the emergency room, telling you before he knows anything concrete is just going to worry you, which he will avoid like the plague, so just let him off the mat, OK?

Guys, just let her talk.  It’s how she works things out.

Oh, and watch it if you ask her what’s wrong and she says “Nothing.”  You can bet your ass it’s something and she’s just biding her time.

Guy-o