Remember when there was such a thing as “polite” conversation? When people didn’t talk openly about bodily functions, extramarital liaisons, personal fetishes or unseemly addictions?
I miss those days.
I’m not superficial. I relish heart-to-heart conversations with good friends, and thanks to months of counseling, consider myself to be pretty “authentic.” I’ve worked hard to be real, transparent, approachable. Hey, my life is chronicled in a blog. But unless you are my doctor, I’m pretty sure there’s no reason you need to know what’s going on with me “down there.” If you are not my pastor, I will not be discussing my questionable late night Internet habits with you. And if you are not my husband, the specifics of what brings me to the brink are none of your business.
Apparently, not everyone feels this way. There are in fact a whole lot of people who think that when I ask how they are, I REALLY want to know. As in:
“Hey how’s it going?”
“Crappy. My husband left me for another woman, the slut. Now he won’t even pay child support. The kid’s are angry and think it’s my fault because I gained so much weight.”
Alrighty then.
Or
“Hey welcome back! How was the honeymoon?”
“Great! You know I never had an orgasm during intercourse before so I didn’t know if I could. But boy was I wrong! It was fantastic!”
Okie dokie.
Or
“How was your visit to the spa?”
“Good until after the Brazilian bikini wax –I always go Brazilian you know. Anyhow, I got an ingrown hair and man does it hurt. Have you ever heard of that?”
Can’t say that I have.
It could be argued that at least among good friends, sharing the intimate details of one’s life indicates a certain amount of bonding and trust. But casual conversation should not rival truth or dare drinking games when it comes to being candid. So the question is: when does sharing your life cross over into showing your behind? Translated: exposing waaaay too much of your personal bid-nez.
Here’s the distinction: Heartfelt communication is typically unrehearsed (meaning you haven’t said it a dozen times before and then paused to wait for a reaction). And it isn’t manipulative – it isn’t secretly attempting to elicit pity, shock, envy, or disgust. TMI, on the other hand, paints a picture in the listener’s head that proves nearly impossible to erase, even after several hot showers.
As a person who blogs about menopause, I realize the soapbox I’m on leads to a slippery slope. There is something about aging that makes you just want to share the experience with others.
A few weeks ago, my mom and I were shopping for a new mattress and the salesman was trying to get mom to buy a waterproof mattress pad. I immediately piped up, “No she doesn’t want that. They are way too hot with all that vinyl underneath.”
The salesman went on the defense and claimed the mattress pad was not hot, that no one had ever complained it was hot, and that it was specifically manufactured not to be hot.
I glared at him, the beginnings of a hot flash creeping up my neck, and snarled “Obviously the people making vinyl mattress pads are not sweaty, menopausal women.” Snap!
The poor guy actually blushed and went to busy himself with some pillows that suddenly needed restacking.
So I got the last word but broke my own rule in the process. Right then and there I made a mental note to stop using the “M” card in public. Unless I’m with very close friends of a certain age who actually want to discuss how many months it’s been since Aunt Flo showed up, I’m keeping my estrogen-challenged lips sealed.
But that's probably TMI.
