Try to imagine yourself approaching an acquaintance, let’s say on the level of not knowing their last name, or only knowing for certain three basic facts about the person. This limits your acquaintance to your frequented grocery store check-out attendant, a mail delivery person at your job, or your dentist. Imagine yourself running into this person in a public place, and they greet you with a friendly “Hello!”. You say, “I just stepped in gum,” or any comment besides a returned hello, the more awkward the better.
Now, without hesitation, you launch into a twenty minute speech about your personal life. You exclude no major area, touching on work, past jobs, financial problems, relationships, your health, the cleanliness of your apartment, some commentary about the younger generation (on their damn cellphones, etc.), your age, your family, your pet, your car, and your annoying co-workers. Twenty minutes seems like a long time, but you fill it easily. Meanwhile, your acquaintance has said about five words in response, four of which were “I know…”, twice.
…
My neighbor has a habit of cornering me and talking at length about her personal problems. The situation is typical: this person in your life, the strange, intrusive neighbor. It’s clear that I am the unfortunate acquaintance in that scenario, and you are stepping into my neighbor’s shoes. (It’s difficult and hilarious to imagine yourself doing this, no?)
It could be worse. We never interact unless in very close proximity (opening the front doors at the same time, or running into each other at the laundromat, where this scene actually took place). She never knocks on my door, she doesn’t invite me over, she’s never tried to get my boyfriend to impregnate me with the devil’s offspring. It could be worse. However, I believe it’s her own anxiety and mental hang-ups that prevent her from reaching out more, so… thanks for that?
But there’s more to this than just an awkward run-in. I’m almost positive my neighbor hasn’t reflected at all about our laundromat scene, but were I her, it would be just awful to know someone was thinking and writing in detail about how bonkers I just behaved. And the reason I’m picking her apart is because I do know. I meant those sympathetic “I know…”s. Yes, it was uncomfortable for her to download her entire life to me while I was trying to do SEVEN LOADS of laundry, but listening to her rant was actually terrifying to me, personally.
What she was talking about, in general, was getting her life together. She’s been in a year-long funk, and she finally quit her low-wage dead-end job to get back into set dressing for productions, something she swore to never do again. That career (which is my current career, just in a different department) wrecked her personal life to the point where she had to choose between sanity and her passion. Turns out quitting didn’t help her recover, it actually made her life just as stressful, minus the drive. She’s single, in her forties, and she’s decided to go back to set dressing, because she knows the job and she knows her life has to change.
Did she become unhinged along the way? Was she always like this, and working on set made it worse? Does she have real mental/social/emotional problems and should she seek help? These are questions I ask on every job I work, questions I ask in my head or aloud of all the crazy people I meet in production. I often wonder if production in all capacities is just a dumping ground for unbalanced people who have no idea what else to do with their lives. Every night when I come home, I inevitably complain to my partner about someone on the crew who is certifiably insane. If everyone in this industry is nuts, what does that make me?
When I have these one-sided talks with my neighbor, and others like her, I see this bizarro future. “This could be you… this coooould be yooooouuu… get your shit together soooon… beware…!” The ghosts of career future spin around in upright dryers behind my neighbors head in the laundromat, taunting me. And it doesn’t help at all that they’re muppets.
