I Won't Ask Why You're Separated Or Your Baby Died

English: The gossip seems to interest baby, to...
English: The gossip seems to interest baby, too!  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“You told her?” I said to a friend who is in the middle of a prolonged separation from her husband.

My friend is a wonderful listener. One on one, we have talks of such range and depth, I often feel like I’ve left the therapist after we have lunch. Unlike me, in a crowd, she’d rather watch than take the limelight. While I might set my husband’s car on fire, tell the world about his sins, or write a plot based on our breakup (were he to do to me what hers dared) she is internally grappling with a range of emotions.

“Yes,” she said. “I had to.” I was surprised to hear her say since she is a very private person.

“She asked what happened. I didn’t know what to say.”

“People ask you that?”

Even extroverted me, who is an impulsive blurter-outer of all and sundry phrases,  was shocked to the core. I might wonder what happened but even I would restrain  from asking my boss, co-worker, or fellow nursery parent, for the details.

“You won’t believe how many people ask,” she replied.

Fuming for my friend, as news of the latest installment of intrusion came, I did what I do when I have observations on humanity. I tweeted.

Immediately a few people Tweeted back, wondering why “What happened?” is a less than optimal response (the feed). In short, the question seems a poor cover up for obvious nosiness.

No doubt the fishbowl nature of expat life makes me queasy at the idea of people in the carpool, workplace, neighborhood having more information than they need. In a social setting where people know the most intimate details about each other, where you go on vacation and with whom, how long cars have been parked in a spot in a neighborhood, who is eligible for a promotion, who was fired and who really did resign, I cringe every time my friend says she didn’t know what to say when someone asked her what’s going on.

Yes, I understand that life’s tragedies will come out eventually. The very nature of the word means they are not something we can hide from.

Surely we all cringe at the over share of details during these traumatic moments; changed Facebook statuses, Tweets, or otherwise.

Word to wise, (as I’ve learned from another acquaintance’s loss, a year plus now, of a baby she never discussed with me): friendship has a variety of meanings, depending on the individual. If someone wants you to know the back story of a particular personal event, s/he will tell you.

Until then, best keep the quest for details to writing related tasks.

PS my short list of optimal responses to life tragedies:

  • “Sorry to hear that.”
  • “Can I help in any way?”
  • “You’re an amazing person.”
  • “This too shall pass.”
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Your CV is Incredible… For an Indian Woman

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Me in my 20’s.

Yes, that was what someone said to me in a direct message on Twitter. The irony is that the sender likely thought he was paying me a compliment (since his bio lists “life coach” among other roles).

Good news is that on my mid 30s birthday, I can’t be bothered to get upset about this backward compliment.

Because unlike in my 20s – when I had all the earnestness of the me of the present – I have a few more wrinkles and pounds. Yet now people take me more seriously.

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Me nowadays.

So bring it on age. The best is yet to come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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On a Scale of 1-10

I was talking – or messaging as many conversations are had these days – with a friend who was asking for help in how to interpret that persnickety of all insults, an office slight. She told me about the incident and then listed all the reasons it made her furious.

WR - Dinner Theatre (MB)
WR – Dinner Theatre (MB) (Photo credit: vastateparksstaff)

Her reaction triggered an image of myself a few years ago, dealing with difficult people in a confined setting: the strident, self-righteous indignant tones were so familiar.

“Think of murder as the number 10 on a scale of 1 to 10,” I said. “Where does this rank?”

“Four,” she typed back.

“Four?” I asked.  Four was nearly halfway to murder. She explained the symbolic nature of the offending action and all the reasons her reaction was justified.

Our interaction reminded me of a talk I had in the first year I moved overseas.

“What is the worst thing that could happen?” Someone asked me in the middle of a rant about workplace antics.

“The worst thing?” I looked at her blankly.

“Yes, the worst.”

“Like losing being homeless?”

“No, the worst thing ever.”

“For everyone?” I had to think for a minute. “Nuclear annihilation?”

She had me describe it in detail. The flesh bubbling, then peeling off, having to live underground, the sudden scarcity of humanity.

“That’s your 10,” she said with a pat on my knee. “And compared to that, what’s this?”

In the 7 years or so since that conversation I have come a long way. The incident my friend was reporting was about a 2. But then again, it didn’t happen to me.

What’s your 10?

 

 

 

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