Foot-in-Mouth Disease

I was diagnosed with the foot-in-mouth disease as a toddler. While no one is exactly sure what the root causes are for this illness, parental experts speculate that it may be genetic. Perhaps passed down by a garrulous great-grandfather or a chatty grandmother, the child is compared to when the disorder rears its ugly head. What exactly is foot-in-mouth disease? Well, let me break it down for you.

Just imagine combining horrible timing with the most offensive or off-the-wall statement a group of people has heard in ages. We all know a person who embodies these same characteristics and unintentionally hurts, upsets and embarrasses others before walking away completely unaware of the relationships they just annihilated.

Some call us big mouths, blabbermouths, and if they want to be harsh, we are labeled snitches. People do not understand that you are just sharing a random opinion that just popped into your head. You think you are making conversation, and they think you are poking fun at their situation. This debilitating ailment has affected my relationships with other human beings for as long as I can remember.

My earliest memory of my affliction is at five years old. The apartment was buzzing with my mother cooking dinner and my father cleaning while playing D.J. at the same time. I was helping my father pick out the next song when my parents started having a conversation about the religious affiliation of the married couple they invited over for the evening. They were joking and being sarcastic, but my five-year-old brain just was not advanced enough to understand cynicism.

Fast-forward to about an hour later, and there is a knock on our door. My father answers it, and I run over to greet our guests. I am introduced to the couple, and the woman is wearing a hijab, so I compliment her on its beautiful purple color. She thanks me, and then my father turns to me and explains that the couple is Muslim. Without missing a beat, I look right at him and then the couple as I say, "I know, I heard you and mom saying they were pseudo-Muslims earlier."

As often is the case when the foot-in-mouth disease has infected a room, everyone grew quiet. My parents stared at me awkwardly, and the couple, still in the doorway, would not look at me. They politely excused themselves and began to leave the apartment when my mother said that I misheard them, and they said Sunni-Muslim. My parents were lying, but a nice save, nonetheless. The couple returned, and my truth-telling was forgiven.

Well, this disease followed me throughout middle and high school and well into adulthood. Once you know me, you understand that there is no malicious intent behind my words, but first impressions are a doozie, much like the one I made on a new co-worker one fine autumn morning.

It was a day much like any other. I arrived at work my typical twenty minutes early to get my coffee and settle in before hitting the sales floor. Houses were not going to furnish themselves, and I loved helping homeowners pick out new designs and sets for their bedrooms and living spaces. I made a bee-line for the breakroom, where the aroma of a freshly brewed pot of Colombian coffee filled the air.

My buddy John was seated in the breakroom next to an unfamiliar face. John introduced the stranger as his good friend Bob who would be joining our sales team. I shook Bob's hand, welcomed him to the team, and walked over to the counter to pour a hot steaming cup of joe. John and I began joking about a couple he helped the day before. It was the typical sugar-daddy situation we often see in sales; an older gray-haired gentleman enters the store with a young hot, barely legal woman and proceeds to buy everything he cannot afford.

John jokes that the young lady will most likely dump the older man once the furniture is paid, which is akin to robbery in his eyes. I agree, but then add that it has to be better than getting drunk, going home with a prostitute who knocks you out with a candleholder and calls her pimp to pick her up while she robs your house blind. I walk out of the breakroom laughing at my joke, with the coffee in hand. I head over to the locker room so I can put my purse and sweater away.

Two minutes later, John busts in as I am changing into my heels. His furrowed brow was clearly showing his agitation. "What's wrong?" I asked.

John peers at me and says, "I don't know how you know this, but he thinks I told you, and you need to tell him I didn't."

"What?" I am too confused.

"About Bob and what happened last night."

"John, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm trying to balance my chi before I get out here and deal with the public. I don't have time for whatever this is right now."

"Oh, you are good. Are you gonna act like you don't know Bob got rolled by stripper last night? How'd you find out? Do you know her? I thought she looked familiar, but I wasn't sure."

"John, you're rambling. Did you say Bob got rolled by a stripper last night?" John's statement piqued my interest.

"Yeah…wait, you really didn't know?" He saw the shocked and puzzled look on my face. "Dammit, I should've stayed quiet. But I couldn't; as soon as you left the breakroom, he ripped into me and said I broke bro code by telling you."

Then I recalled what I said in the breakroom and realized my affliction was betraying me yet again.

"John, you know me, I was just talking. I had no clue that he got robbed last night. But won't it seem sketchy if I go over and start apologizing for something I didn't know? Then it will look like I did."

"I don't know. I guess we should leave it alone, but Bob is furious now."

"I'm sorry, but he'll have to take your word for it. I don't want to get involved."

I have learned over the years that the more I try to explain why I was not deliberately offensive, the deeper the hole I dig for myself. John and Bob were never the same, and John and I remained cordial but not close. Bob and I never hit it off since he avoided me like the plague once he started working. In less than five minutes, my disease altered the future friendships of three people who otherwise may have been besties for life.

Anyway, I'm still seeking help for my disorder, and there has not been much progress made in the field. My guess is that there is not enough money in the national budget to make this a thing, so I will continue to suffer out loud until others rally and support eradicating this disease.