The Empty Chair Won’t Get You Saved

I was standing in my kitchen talking to myself when I noticed my dogs staring at me with a look of confusion if not terror. To put their minds at ease, I pulled out one of my kitchen chairs and turned it toward me and began chatting in its direction. I figured the dogs would think someone invisible was there and that person—albeit invisible, was better than thinking their mom was just going off the deep end.  Hey, if talking to empty chairs work for Clint Eastwood, why not me?

Well, this is why it cannot work for me: First, I am not a Hollywood star who can get away with being flaky because that is how Hollywood stars are. Secondly, I don’t think I have the right chair. Clint’s chair looked like a basic folding chair. My kitchen chair is Country French which does not shout “Welcome” to invisible people.  I don’t know why, but to me Country French seems as if it expects more from me—like real people sitting in them. Before anyone thinks me snotty, I inherited the chairs from my husband’s grandmother and while she herself was not snotty, I think she would expect real people to have their butts occupying her chairs, and if that was impossible, than the only invisible person planted there, should be her.

Anyway, let me get this story back on track.  I was talking to myself because I was practicing an argument I was going to have with one of my editors as to why she sucks at managing her writers. This particular argument was never going to leave the sanctuary of my kitchen unless, of course, my dogs spilled the beans. In truth, I have these invisible arguments every once in a while when the stress proves too much for me. I figure it is better than drinking, and no one gets their feelings hurt in public.  I call it Cowardly Diplomacy.

I will admit that after my tirade to the invisible person, I always feel so much better. And I never saw a downside to my imaginary discourse  except for the one day I did have my living room picture window open and two Jehovah’s Witnesses happened by. I get a lot of Jehovah’s Witnesses at my door. I think I am on their “to-be-saved” watch list. Anyway, the one older lady loudly spoke to me through the window,

“The Lord can help you with those demons.”

Of course, my dogs, thinking she was talking about them, charged the window to set her straight that they were not demons – just rescues with issues. The devout duo cried out, “Lord, save us!” and took off but not before dropping a copy of  The Watchtower and a hotline phone number if I wanted to talk to a real person.

What is the lesson in this story?  Talking to oneself is not only cathartic, but no one will want to save you. I guess when I think about it, Clint Eastwood had the right idea. Crazy does work.