All Do, No Talk

There are very few things more agonizing than having to endure the company of a man who talks too much. Economy of words, I believe, is hard-wired into the male psyche, which makes the male motormouth a mutant — an abomination of the natural scheme of things. Unkind words, you think? Sorry, can’t help it.

If a man isn’t a lawyer arguing a case in court, or a preacher delivering a sermon, or a Kristo in a cockpit for a Sunday derby, a jeepney or bus conductor hailing commuters over, or an auctioneer with gavel in hand, he should be sparing in his words. The genius in the architecture of a man’s mind gives him the ability to condense his speech into only what is absolutely necessary, not a syllable more. If he spews them out at the rate of a couple of thousand per minute, something is awry. I have carried this bias for most of my life and have been fortunate enough to steer clear of such men until it finally backfired on me recently at the gym on a cruise ship where there were 1,800 passengers from 34 different countries.

I was running on a treadmill — it actually appeared more like I was running after my breath — huffing and puffing, battling against my cardio endurance, against all the unwanted weight I had to carry with each step, against my perseverance, and against my weakening will. I was soaked in sweat; my hair plastered firmly onto my forehead. There was a mirror some 20 feet behind me and I had a clear visual of my bottom bouncing away and swinging from left to right in perfect synchrony with my swishing ponytail as I struggled along. Eeew! Gross! But I couldn’t have walked out on my own body, could I? So I bobbed and heaved, grinned and bore it, and soldiered on. I then noticed a young man lifting free weights behind me, facing my bottom squarely. Poor thing, I thought to myself, considering the sight he had to endure.

Beside me, running on the next treadmill, was another woman, Caucasian, 50-ish, maybe 60, with a full head of gray hair, but she looked like she was ready to take on the New York Marathon. She cantered on, in perfect form and poise, blowing air out of her mouth at calculated intervals. I looked back at the mirror to check out her bottom, hoping that it would at least look her age so that I could feel a little better, but boy, I couldn’t have been more mistaken! She had a perfect little tush that sprouted lean, long legs — the faster to propel her along that treadmill with. I knew then that I was going to have what I call a “loser day” — when nothing seems to go right.

She was actually nice; I was the evil one — checking out her bum and wishing her to stumble on the treadmill simply because she was 100 times more physically fit than me. She made small talk and offered pointers on how I could maximize my oxygen consumption.

“Focus on something,” she urged me.

“I can’t,” I said. “The sight of my bum in that mirror hanging behind me is much too distracting.”

She broke into a giggle and gave me a thumbs-up for having a sense of humor. She then added, “Think good thoughts or home in on a single spot so you can concentrate, then be aware of your breathing. You want even inhalations and exhalations.”

Just then, a young man, the same one I spotted lifting weights earlier, positioned himself right in front of both of us, just several feet from our treadmills. He was Chinese, I’m quite certain. First, he did some deep stretches, glancing at me every once in a while, prompting me to think that, hey, this guy probably knows me. But I couldn’t place him; I had no recollection of his face and he couldn’t have been my daughters’ friend — I know each and every one of them. The lady next to me asked, “You know the young fellow?” I knew then that she was at least 60 because only 60-year-olds use the word “fellow” to mean “man.”

“No, in fact, I don’t,” I answered.

We couldn’t help but watch him as he lunged very close to the ground, did full back bends until his feet faced one way and his face, upside down, faced the other way. He also did front and side splits spreading his legs apart, completely perpendicular to his body, making me flinch and wonder if he had any groin at all. He did all these while casting glances my way, more often now and for longer periods this time. S***! I was in complete awe of how much control he had over his body.

“Perhaps he fancies you,” the lady running beside me joked.

I didn’t think it was funny at all; in fact, I was a bit offended. “I don’t think so,” I shot back, although her broaching the subject started to make sense. The young man/contortionist was almost facing me this time, like the whole performance was specifically meant for me.

The lady just smiled and ran on along. Meanwhile, the young man, finished with stretching, started a series of crisp, precise moves strung together into a routine. It was clearly some sort of martial art and there was no doubt that he was excellent at it except that he had no opponent against whom he had to defend himself, so my judgment of his skill could have been totally wrong.

Anyway, the woman turned to me again and said, “You know what I said earlier about this man showing off to you as a joke? Well, I’m not joking anymore, he’s deliberately catching your attention. Say something already, the poor thing! How much longer can he hold out, you think? One can only do so much stretching; he might dismantle his whole body!”

I thought that she was quite forthcoming but North Americans are no-nonsense in their dealings so I knew where she was coming from. I told her off as the young man continued prancing about — this time flashing me toothy, come-hither smiles: “Here’s the deal: I’m probably twice his age and I have six children, two of which are right around his age.”

She did a double-take and blurted, “I’ll say!” It distracted me from the matter at hand momentarily because nobody ever says “I’ll say” anymore — she was most definitely over 60!
I told her, “He’s been at it for about 20 minutes now. If he would only talk, he could spare himself all the effort, all the trouble of performing for my sake. If he just came up, got it over with, and spoke to me, I could tell him that I’m a mother of six and I definitely ain’t buying what he’s selling, although it’s an adrenalin shot to the middle-aged ego, thank you very much.”
She said, “Then just tell him, for Pete’s sake!” (There it was again; who says “For Pete’s sake” anymore?)

“I can’t!” I protested. “He might think me presumptuous. What if he were simply practicing his routine? It’s going to be so embarrassing.”

“Oh, we weren’t born yesterday. Between both of us, there’s probably more than a century of living. Of course we know what he’s doing!” She broadcasted the age thing a little too loudly for my taste. “The poor boy,” she continued. “If you don’t tell him, I will.”

And so she did! He stopped right in his tracks — in mid-step if I remember right, on one leg, arms stretched toward the ceiling, palms clasping one another. Then, he jerked upright, looked at me… and scampered away. I felt so bad for him. I had intended to say, “I have two daughters, 24 and 22; you might want to meet them someday,” but he vanished faster than I could say “Abracadabra.”

The lady asked me after the young man had left: “Was I mean?”

“Not really,” I replied. “You simply divulged my demographic: age, marital status, number of children. You might as well have spilled my weight and waistline measurement. What could be so mean about that?”

Then we both broke into laughter.

Okay, now I have to alter my contention. Unless a man has funny speech patterns, an irregular, squeaky voice, or an incredibly thick accent like David Beckham, Rafael Nadal or Steve Buscemi he better stand up and be heard to save himself time and effort in gaining something or someone he desires. The concept of manna from heaven is a superstition; good fortune doesn’t fall from the sky, one must earn it. Contrary to Philippine folklore, the guava never falls from the tree, one must flex his muscles and pick it.

So to all the gentlemen out there, don’t talk too much — but for heaven’s sake, say something!