I Asked a Question. I Got the Director’s Cut.

Today, while hanging out with Mom at the skilled nursing facility, I was reminded that my preferred conversation speed isn’t necessarily everyone else’s.

Especially with people older than me. I have to say “older than me” because, at this point, I’m old, too. I’m just wearing a Yankees pullover and hoping nobody checks the paperwork.

I didn’t see my friend Donna Woods today. With all the talking she does, I’m beginning to wonder whether she knows Elle Woods from Legally Blonde. I have no evidence of a connection, but I suspect Donna could keep a courtroom occupied.

In her absence, I got better acquainted with Mom’s roommate, Miss Jenny.

I remember the roommate setup from my own days in skilled nursing. A shared room gives you plenty of opportunities to get to know someone. Sometimes more opportunities than you had scheduled.

Miss Jenny asked me a question. I asked her a question.

And that’s how I received the ten-minute answer.

I had already told her I’m a native New Yorker. Just in case she forgot, I was wearing a lightweight New York Yankees quarter-zip pullover. I felt I had provided both verbal notice and supporting documentation.

My preferred answer is fewer than ten words. About five seconds. Enough information to move forward, with perhaps a little time left to blink.

Some of the Southern folks I meet have a more generous approach to conversation. My question gets an answer, a backstory, introductions to supporting characters, and enough local history to qualify for a walking tour.

Meanwhile, my New York brain is standing by the door with its keys out.

This reminded me of a former colleague. I once asked a yes-or-no question about our learning management system, SumTotal.

Before I got the answer, I received a refresher on Kirkpatrick, Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, and the post-training assessments. All of them.

I was waiting for “yes” or “no.” Somehow, I had enrolled in continuing education.

By the time we reached the answer, my most urgent need in Maslow’s hierarchy was for the conversation to end.

It drove me bonkers.

And today, sitting with Mom and listening to Miss Jenny, I recognized that same feeling. I had asked a small question and apparently selected the extended warranty on the response.

I now know more about Miss Jenny than I expected to learn during this visit. Sometimes, the less I know, the better off I am. My brain already has enough open tabs, and several of them are playing music I can’t locate.

Of course, I can hear the irony.

I’ve spent the last few days writing about taking time to listen, visiting people, and making room for conversation.

I still mean every word.

I’m also discovering that I can believe in all of that while occasionally wishing an answer came with a table of contents.

Some days, I have the patience to follow every detour. Other days, I’m silently trying to remember what I asked in the first place. That probably says as much about me as it does about the person talking.

Today, I got to spend time with Mom and learn a little more—okay, considerably more—about Miss Jenny.

Next visit, I’ll wear the Yankees pullover again.

Apparently, it’s a fashion statement, not a speed limit.