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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

Overhearing over for this eavesdropper

Cheryl-Anne Millsap The Spokesman-Review

I admit it. I’m a social eavesdropper. I want to know what people are talking about. And I’ve gone to great lengths to insert myself into private conversations.

I’ve asked my family to lean to one side or shift in their seats so I can read the lips, and body language, of a couple whispering quietly in a corner of the restaurant.

I’ve orbited around people, like a satellite, to hear what they were saying.

I’ve done everything but act like a curious toddler and hang over the back of the seat to listen to the people in the booth behind me. I’ve leaned, stretched, craned and hovered, so I wouldn’t miss a thing.

I’m fascinated by other people’s conversations. Or, I was until everyone in the world got a cell phone. Now I don’t have to maneuver to hear anything. There isn’t any mystery. I know more about people than I ever wanted to.

Suddenly, the trick is to get away from other people’s intimate conversations. And no place is safe. People are talking into their hands on elevators, in the waiting room at the doctor’s office and even while they’re occupying a stall in a busy public restroom. Without trying, I’ve listened to break-ups and breakdowns. I know what people are having for dinner. I know what their therapist said, and what they told their parole officer.

Last year, shopping for clothes, I stood spellbound; too shocked to pretend to be doing something else so she wouldn’t know I was listening, as the woman beside me chatted with her soon-to-be-ex-husband. They were working out the details of their divorce.

As she moved leisurely down the racks of clothing, running her fingers down a sleeve, or holding a sweater up to see how the color worked with her eyes or her hair, she was, with the help of the person on the other end of the line, dividing the contents of her home.

They went through the house, room by room, deciding who got what.

The television would go with him; the stereo would stay with her.

The rugs were hers, and the dining room table was his.

She kept the art and he got the tools. She was calm and dispassionate. The only real emotion she showed was when they talked about the family pet. It seems that neither one of them wanted to take — I’m quoting here — “the damn cat.”

It was like a gruesome car wreck; you know you should avert your eyes and move on, but you slow down and look anyway. I rubbernecked as a complete stranger publicly shed her skin. And shopped for a new one.

That’s when I knew I was cured. I don’t want to hear anymore. I don’t want to know what’s going on in other people’s lives. I’ve heard too much already.

I have a cell phone. I get calls from my children and there are times I find myself talking out loud about things – usually threats I’m in no position to carry out – I’d rather not discuss in public. So I try to find a quiet corner, away from other people. Or, I just hang up.

I wish other people would find a hiding place, too.

Now, when there is a private conversation going on around me, instead of working my way closer so I can hear more, I want to stick my fingers in my ears and hum.

It’s been a year since I listened in as the woman negotiated the settlement of her divorce. I guess she’s moved on. But I haven’t.

I’m still worrying about the cat.