"Don't do that!" "Stay there!"

Conversations With The Inanimate

Too Late! But the performance? Oscar-worthy, glass.
Image by DALLe

I talk to things.

Not people-things, not pets (although that’s another juicy essay for another day), but things.

Inanimate objects. You know—the mug perched precariously on the edge of the counter.

The spoon shimmying toward the edge of the sink like it’s got business elsewhere.

The tower of books I stacked optimistically, as if gravity were just a suggestion.

They don't respond (at least not audibly). But that doesn't stop me from blurting out, “Don’t do that!” or “Stay there!” like I’m training a clumsy intern with no spatial awareness.

I suspect this habit started as a way to prevent catastrophe. If I can issue a firm command to the universe—“NO, not the blueberrries on the white carpet!”—perhaps I can will it into obedience.

Sometimes it even works. (Or I like to think it does, and I choose to credit my stern tone with averting disaster rather than, say, physics.)

There’s something hilariously human about trying to control the uncontrollable.

The bottle on the edge of the fridge shelf. The phone on the couch cushion. The lid that rolls away dramatically like it’s in a slow-motion action movie. And in those moments, I don’t just speak—I plead, I bargain, I lay down the law.

“Not today, gravity.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“You stay right there, mister.”
“You knew better.”

Sometimes, I scold them after the fact, as if objects possess both guilt and memory. “Well that was unnecessary,” I mutter to the jar that has now joined its shattered brethren in the Recycle Bin of Shame.

And let’s not even talk about appliances.

The printer that knows it’s an emergency. The blender that refuses to start until I talk sweet to it. I’ve been known to thank my car out loud for making it up a hill. (Hey, positive reinforcement works. Or at least it makes me feel better.)

I know I’m not the only one. I’ve caught others doing it—the whispered threats, the stern warnings, the whispered apologies to laptops and phones. My partner Emma does it, too — thank goodness. It’s become a “family thing.”

Maybe we’re all secretly animists, or maybe we're just beings so full of life that we can't help but project it onto the world around us.

Whatever the reason, I’ve made peace with my conversational quirks.

The objects in my life may not be alive, but they’re part of the cast.

Supporting roles, maybe. But they’ve got presence, drama, flair—and a shocking tendency to leap off counters at exactly the wrong moment.

So yes, I talk to things. And until someone can prove they’re not listening, I’ll keep right on doing it.

Anyone with me here?

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