Some mornings, if timed correctly, I talk to the housekeeper on my floor. I try to speak to him in Spanish, the key word being try. He’s nice and speaks deliberately, slowly, patiently, whenever I speak my mangled latin-sounding sounds at him. I’m terrible at thinking on my feet, which I think is the main problem.
Even in English, I’m always thinking of things to say after I have made my comment that was jumbled together with a few nouns and ideally a few connecting words, or thinking about how just a flip of the words would have made the whole thought much more eloquent. I cringe. I wonder how I sound to others.
I blame me because I’m speaking less and less. I verbalize fewer times than the average bear. Instead of words coming naturally, I have to think about what to say. Maybe this is a sign of eminence and soon my brain is going to comprehend the universe, and I will explain humanity.
The problem intensifies with Spanish, and I feel strangled by my lacking knowledge of unawkward, normal phrases, but I keep at it. Maybe by the end of the next semester, I will be able to string together more than three sentences at a time in conversation. Pedro will be able to speed up. Maybe he’ll even be able to rapidly yell at me, which in my eyes(ears) is the pinnacle of achievement. Eventually, when I’m old and overripe, I will yell at my children in Spanish, my grandchildren in English, and my trophy wife I won’t yell at. She’ll have that irresistible British accent. Okay that’s it estoy estudiando.