Raspberry Iced M

There are days when I wish my chapstick contained super glue.

Not permanently. Just…strategically.

Like at 10:43 a.m., when I open my mouth to give a “brief clarification” and somehow deliver a seven-minute TED Talk with context, backstory, nuance, emotional framework, and three hypothetical scenarios.

No one asked for that.

A simple “Yes, that works” would have sufficed.

But no.

I had to pile on.

“Just to clarify, when I said I’d send it, I meant after I revised it, and I revised it because I didn’t want the tone to be abrupt – not that you would think it was abrupt – but sometimes emails read more harshly than intended, and I just —“

Stop.

I do not stop.

Later I replay it.

Why did I say all that? Did it sound defensive? Do they now think I’m unstable? Is this how careers end?

There are days when I wish my chapstick contained super glue.

Applied gently at 9:00 a.m. Sealed until noon. Released only for legally necessary statements.

And I don’t just over share at work either.

Literally anybody: How are you?
Me: Great! Well, mostly. I mean, I’ve been thinking a lot about patterns and personal growth and whether I overcompensate for mistakes by micromanaging my tone and —

I could’ve just said, “Good.”

The grocer who brings out my online order waves before loading my bags, and I find a way to deliver a weather analysis, an apology for being late, and a small confession about reorganizing my pantry as if the guy in the yellow vest at Wal-Mart is auditing my life.

Silence scares me more than it should.

If I fill it, maybe I control it. If I explain myself fully, maybe no one will misunderstand me. If I add the appropriate amount of disclaimers, maybe I won’t hurt anyone.

And the twist? The things I say aren’t even mistakes. They’re just…unnecessary.

Yesterday, I sent an email to my boss, to which he simply responded, “Looks good.”

Two words.

No dissertation. No emotional footnotes. No defensive appendix.

Just…done.

And I realized something unsettling.

The world doesn’t often need the extra paragraphs I provide.

It needs clarity. Confidence. Period.

Sometimes I talk because I’m afraid that if I don’t narrate my intentions, someone will assume the worst, especially because I have given so many people reason to assume just that.

But maybe that fear belongs to an older version of me.

Maybe present day me doesn’t need to staple explanations onto every sentence.

This afternoon, I caught myself mid-spiral.

“I just wanted to make sure that didn’t come across the wrong way because sometimes people interpret tone differently and –“

I stopped.

I smiled.

And I said, “That works.”

And the earth continued spinning.

No one gasped. No one dragged me to a metaphorical interrogation room. No one gave me a disgusted glance.

My lips remain tragically unglued.

But maybe that’s okay.

Because the goal isn’t silence.

It’s restraint.

Maybe tomorrow, instead of super glue, I’ll just apply a thin pink-tinted layer of pause.

Which is much cheaper. And far less dramatic.