There are things I’d rather not admit to, but full disclosure will make us closer, so here goes.
I don’t understand the logic of washing your hands in a public restroom if you have to touch the faucet handle when you’re done.
I sometimes speak very harshly to Alexa, my interactive voice assistant. When she doesn’t answer fast enough or hears incorrectly, I talk to her as if she is very, very stupid and it feels really, really good.
I often advise friends who have missed a television show to “just stream it.” I have no idea what that means.
Thirty years ago, I took a course in “Transcendental Meditation.” Five years ago, I broke down and told someone my secret word. It was her word, too. Turns out it’s everyone’s word.
I believe I can make stoplights turn green faster with my mind.
Can to.
I understand what tidally locked means, yet I still don’t totally comprehend how it happens that the same side of the moon is always facing the earth. (Don’t tell me. I’ve already stopped listening.)
There is a website called thispersondoesnotexist.com in which AI creates faces that look totally real but are not. It’s only a matter of time before a client presents me with a story about a woman who logs on and sees her face there. I’ll wish I had written it.
It took years for me to learn to redirect a conversation to the other person. I found my own life so interesting it just didn’t occur to me to stop telling stories and ask about my companion. I know, I know. I can’t believe it either. (How are you doing?)
I tell the dog I love her and smother her with kisses while she yawns (dog language for “I’m not digging this”), but I don’t walk her in the rain or when I’m tired, I just let her out in the backyard and hope she runs around a lot.
I pray for my writing clients every single day—right after being grateful for them. This includes current and former clients I should have long forgotten by now. I think they would be shocked to know this.
When Mr. Oliver wants to make me laugh, he talks in the dog’s voice—it is high-pitched and breathy. It was my last dog’s voice as well. Oddly enough, it’s my son’s dog’s voice, too. No matter how distracted or annoyed I am, this cracks me up every time. Turns out dogs are hilarious.
If a doctor leaves me waiting in the exam room long enough, like a really really long time, I’ll climb down off the table and look in the drawers.
Sometimes, I’m just so sad, my heart is so heavy, I feel so misinterpreted, I just want to go home. Not home to my house, home-home. But I’ll wait till someone comes for me.
The city has put a really obnoxious parking sign smack in front of my house. Then, the city added a gigantic yellow bicycle symbol on the pole. Then they tacked on “share the road.” I have been contemplating digging it up and throwing it in the creek. At night, disguised. You can apparently go to jail for this. So, if it “goes missing” (air quotes), it most certainly wasn’t me.
When I go to lunch with friends and we split the bill, I don’t know why they ask me, “how much are we tipping?” I’m tipping 20%. You can tip whatever you want. One of my best friends doesn’t ask. She just always tips 100 % because she’s a better person than I am.
Until today, I thought my blood type, O-positive, was the universal blood donor. I just learned it’s O-negative, and I somehow feel like I have a gift I can’t give now.
Sometimes, I wish someone would adopt me. I miss my mother.
I just took my dog for a trial play date at a new kennel where I hope to be able to board her. I told her to play well with others and be kind. But I was actually talking to the two girls who led her away.
When I pray, I can’t get the words “thank you” out before a request slips in. “Thank you, and please.” Followed by “help.” It’s really difficult for me to tease apart what I am grateful for and what I long for.
But today, it is easy. I’m grateful for you.
Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.
Ann Bailey says
Lovely and seemingly spontaneous…but I know it took lots of writing
and editing to get your essay to speak so clearly to me. Inspiring!Thanks!
Laura Oliver says
Thanks Ann, spoken like a writer who understands the process herself!
Mark Pellerin says
I feel the same way! THANK YOU
Laura Oliver says
We’re all more alike than different!
Michael Pullen says
I love the honesty that shines throughout your stories. It bestows on your readers the freedom to be and to express who we truly are. There is no greater gift.
We can’t change who we are by failing to express who we are, because only in expressing ourselves do we come to know ourselves. Your stories invite us to dance with a smile as we travel along together. Thank you.
Laura Oliver says
Thanks for traveling the same road once a week.:)
Juanita Robbins says
What an intriguing strategy to connect! This one is both amusing and feels quite intimate, as confessions should.
So you will know one reader is grateful for your efforts…
I looked for and pressed the link to get my Sunday “dose” of Laura Oliver’s engaging reflections.
I hope others enjoy responding to your invitation and you, in kind, enjoy their responses.
Laura Oliver says
I absolutely enjoy reading and responding to readers sharing their thoughts, Juanita. Thanks so much for sharing yours!
Allen North Smith says
Laura, I’ve just read your Confessions essay and was charmed..Please keep them coming. Allen Smith
Laura Oliver says
Thanks, Allen! That’s the plan.:)
Jan Bohn says
So true – especially the doctor’s office and being tidally locked!
Laura Oliver says
Laughing as I read which things readers have in common. Thanks for writing!
Susan Baker says
Smiling as I read this piece then guffaw ed at the thought of you going through the doctor’s office drawers!
Your writing is such a great way to start the week! Thank you for all your musings!
Laura Oliver says
Thanks for writing, Susan!
Lyn Banghart says
And I am grateful for you!
Laura Oliver says
Thanks, Lyn!
Sharron Cassavant says
Love it, Laura. You make me think of my unconfessed things — most of which are worse than yours. I write Memoirs, but seldom write a Memoir about the really damming things. Like you, I do write about the silly things.
I’m 85 (almost) and yes, ego keeps getting in the way of friendships, of true listening. Still fighting it. It’s shameful.
Years ago, someone insisted she could visualize a parking space and it would be available at the moment she needed it. It works. It shouldn’t, but I believe it does. Or at least I believe it when there IS a parking space.
By the way, it’s “Can too.”
Laura Oliver says
Oh my gosh, thanks for writing, Sharron. You nailed the worst of my confessions. Ego! Or maybe it’s actually being oblivious! Unconscious a lot of the time? And I always appreciate smart and alert readers’ help with typos but in this case I believe “to” was correct. I didn’t mean “too” as in “also” but “to” as in “able to do this.” Thanks for writing!
Joe Feldman says
Hi Laura,
You make me laugh.
I really appreciate the honest wisdom of your observations.
Especially when they’re dipped in (good) humor.
Each one possessing a tasty surprise center….making me grateful for another tasty bite.
Thanks for helping to pull back the curtain.
Joe
Laura Oliver says
Thank you, Joe. If my column makes you laugh, know your comments make me smile.
Hilary Sigismondi says
I sure do miss you. This is so simple and honest. I love that you pray for me every night.
Laura Oliver says
Every day. I love seeing evidence of your life, your joy, on FB, Hilary. Thanks for writing.🥰
Elizabeth Heron says
You are the best, Laura. The best what? I don’t know, but it’s a good thing you are.
Same thing happened to me about the blood type.
I wish I still lived in Annapolis, so maybe I could see you and thank you in person. Instead of drying my eyes on Sunday morning after reading your column and typing on my phone
Thank you.
Beth