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Some things are better left unsaid
By Elaine Glusac
PRIVACY IS DEAD. I found out at the health club. I've been swimming laps there almost every morning for years, as has another woman I often see. Most days we simply greet each other with a friendly "Hello, how are you?" and agree that the water seems too cold to bear at such an early hour.
Recently, however, she disrupted the routine. "I've been having so much trouble getting out of bed," she told me. "My hormones are raging!"
One look told me she wasn't taking about sleep. Could there be an appropriate response? As in, "Well, I can see how sex might interfere with your exercise schedule." Or perhaps something enthusiastic, like, "Glad to hear it!"
During a haircut later that week, I gabbed with my stylist about food and crime and children -- nothing unusual for us. As I was leaving, I asked for a recommendation to a nearby restaurant. She pointed to a Thai spot, cautioning me against the chillies. "I ate them, and I got soooo sick...."
I'll spare you the details, but I heard much more than I wanted to before I manage to duck out for a shooting bowl of chicken soup.
When did private matters become so public?
I try to uphold the standards that enable a shy person to assimilate in society. I ignore tabloid scandals ("Cher's Affair With Choirboy!") and talk TV ("Chairboys Dating Their Mothers!"). I elude the gaze of street perfomers seeking volunteer assistants. I blush when my uncle tells an off-colour joke. I don't discuss Viagra.
Tougher to ignore, however, are the confessions of emotional flashers. You don't seek them out, and you can forget about escape. They ambush.
Overheard incursions can be just as annoying. One evening when I was eating out with my family, two couples at the neighbouring table spent the entree discussing whether they did or didn't have sex on their respective wedding nights -- and why. In detail. And not quietly.
I suppose some people can't help blabbing. Credit their egos with the conviction that we care how they feel. Or psychobabble that has convinced them it's healthier to express than to hold back. Perhaps they have been opinion-polled, market-researched and consumer-surveyed so often that they're sure everyone wants to know what they think.
A free-speech advocate raised with good manners, I'm generally averse to staunching the emotional flow --- verbally, at least. If I'm lucky a sharp glance does the trick. But sometimes it takes more direct action to put on the brakes.
Recently a man sitting next to me on the bus, looking at a hair-removal ad in the magazine I was reading, said, "I don't like the stubble that grows after my wife shaves."
That was it -- the gratuitous confession that broke this camel's dignity. "I don't need to know that," I said, sliding away from him. It was as cleansing as taking out the rubbish.
I suppose some people can't help blabbing. Credit their egos with the conviction that we care how they feel. Or psychobabble that has convinced them it's healthier to express than to hold back. Perhaps they have been opinion-polled, market-researched and consumer-surveyed so often that they're sure everyone wants to know what they think.
A free-speech advocate raised with good manners, I'm generally averse to staunching the emotional flow --- verbally, at least. If I'm lucky a sharp glance does the trick. But sometimes it takes more direct action to put on the brakes.
Recently a man sitting next to me on the bus, looking at a hair-removal ad in the magazine I was reading, said, "I don't like the stubble that grows after my wife shaves."
That was it -- the gratuitous confession that broke this camel's dignity. "I don't need to know that," I said, sliding away from him. It was as cleansing as taking out the rubbish.
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