Eavesdropping

I do a little eavesdropping almost every day.

My favorite source for overheard conversations is the eavesdropwriter. The blogger doesn't just capture the content of the conversations; she brilliantly portrays the context as well. We see through her a subtle touch of a hand, a lone tear streaming down a cheek, the bob of a head.

I've recently discovered that I'm a prime source for other eavesdroppers. When my friend and cancerbanter reader, Myrna, called me from Arizona, she exclaimed, "You life is so darn interesting." "You should hear the parts that don't make it to the blog!" I confessed.

A few weeks ago, a breakfast buddy and I ate at Russell's, where the tiny tables are just an elbow apart. After an animated conversation about one of our favorite writers, Naomi Hirahara, the two women seated next to us politely interrupted and asked us to write down the name of the author.

I went on to bring my friend up to date on my life. Before long, I realized that the elderly couple seated on our other side had slowed their conversation. They eventually stopped talking completely and tilted their heads in my direction. I became acutely aware of the absurdity of my monologue: My conversation with the warden of a prison about testing an inmate for a stem cell match; my successful private eye work in tracking down my long-lost younger brother (the victim of the dirt clod), who has been living in a homeless shelter in Illinois.

The same thing happened at an Indian restaurant in Old Pas. My friend and I are both having lots of "Jerry Springer" moments in our lives, thanks to our challenging children. We both started laughing out loud when we realized what eavesdroppers must think about us.

Given a choice, I think I'd much rather be an eavesdropper than an eavesdroppee, but, at least for now, this is my life in all of its absurd glory.

What about you? Are you eavesdrop-worthy?