I don’t go to clubs for two reasons: a) I haven’t been able to squeeze my thighs into a mini-skirt since 1998; and b) they play music so loud that it will melt your ear wax. Let me assure you that you do NOT want to have puddles of wax sloshing around in your ears when you’re doing a sobriety test.
Clubs tend to play rap, hip-hop, techno, and whatever else they call the sound of Black Hawk helicopters crashing into the roof. Any of the above can cause the random brain cells that control hearing to spontaneously combust.
I think I had my last hearing test in 1984, and passed with flying colors. If I were still 28 and they played the various frequency beeps at 120 decibels, I’m sure that I could figure out which paw to raise. Otherwise, they would need signal flags and a few well-placed electric shocks to clue me in.
I’ve taken to reading lips lately, but I really kind of suck at it. If you tell me to slow down, don’t be surprised when you get a snow blower for Christmas.
“But we live in South Carolina.” you say.
“Yeah, do you know how hard it was to find that puppy?”
“Did you keep the receipt?”
“I do NOT have smelly feet!”
And so it goes.
When I’m talking to someone, I try to smile and nod at the right places. I’ll smile serenely while you talk about your Uncle Frank’s plantars wart, the latest nuclear meltdown, and the plight of underprivileged baby seals living in Rhodesia.
My husband’s hearing is no better than mine, so we have to keep the TV cranked to full volume. The neighbors are intimately aware of our taste in televised entertainment. A couple weeks of listening to Alex Trebec, and they’ll start to say everything to us in the form of a question.
If we get into a conversation, just expect to repeat yourself frequently, and don’t take it personally if I just smile while you’re telling me about your eviction, phlebitis, erectile dysfunction, or death in the family. I can be a caring and supportive listener, just be prepared to break out the hand puppets and draw me a map.