Growing up, I was always the “big-mouth.” If I had a penny for every time I was told that I have “diarrhea of the mouth,” “don’t know when to stop talking,” “don’t care about other people’s feelings,” “never think before I open my mouth,” “my word is mud,” or other such things – I would have been a millionaire before my twenty-second birthday. Maybe even a billionaire.
At some point, I stopped sharing personal information because I couldn’t trust those around me to keep things confidential, and promises were never kept.
And at some point, I stopped being mad at the people who blabbed. Because I just stopped caring.
It just ain’t worth the effort. So, I moved on.
A few days ago, I received an invitation to answer a survey. I’ve been answering surveys online for a few months, because it’s good pocket money and they’re interesting.
The one I answered last week asked about political views and morals.
One of the sections asked how often I gossip. What I think about gossip – is it okay? Is it not okay? Do I like hearing gossip?
And suddenly I realized something:
I don’t gossip. As in, not at all. Maybe once in a while, a sentence or two slips out when I’m frustrated and someone asked in a way that doesn’t leave too many options to be nice. And then I get a bit carried away. Once in about six months, maybe six sentences.
And otherwise, I don’t talk about people. I don’t gossip. I don’t blab.
The only exception is to Yitzchak. And even then, I don’t gossip, I just vent.
But come on, guys. Yitzchak is my husband. I tell him *everything*. He tells me *everything*. And the rest of the world – well, why waste time talking to them, since most people couldn’t care less, anyways?
So, we don’t.
We tell each other. And that’s it.
I see no point in gossiping. It’s stupid. It’s the mark of someone who has nothing better to think about. It’s the mark of someone whose nose is *so* stuck in other people’s business, that they have no idea who they are inside, at all. If, that is, they even have something inside. And all it does is hurt the subject and the listener – and most of all, the person doing the gossiping . . . because people who like to gossip are, honestly, pitiful people.
But, walla. I never realized that I’m *not* a big mouth, that I’m *not* a gossip, that I *don’t* actually have “diarrhea of the mouth,” and that I *do* actually know how to keep my mouth shut and stop talking.
(Now, that doesn’t mean I don’t have opinions. And it doesn’t mean that I don’t say politically incorrect things, at bad times, on purpose. But gossip and being politically incorrect are two separate, very different things.
I mean, there is *never* a “proper time” to ask a smoker to stop smoking around you.
There’s *never* a proper way to say, “The Iran deal that Obama pushed is what’s allowing Iran to give $30,000 to the families of terrorists,” or “‘Palestinian’ workers in Israel commit terror attacks – maybe they shouldn’t be allowed into Israel anymore.”
I mean, come on. Some things are *never* politically correct. But that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be said. It just means people will get mad. Because people are stupid (and that’s not PC, either).
But so what? PC is stupid. That doesn’t mean that not being PC is the same as being a gossip, or someone who doesn’t know how to keep their mouth shut.)
I never realized that I am actually a very prudent person, someone who it is *worth* confiding in, not just for the advice, but because I don’t gossip.
Walla. I never realized that.
That’s cool. That feels really good, to know that I never gossip. That must be why people ask me for advice. Huh. I can’t believe I didn’t know this earlier.
And what’s cooler is that I learned this from an internet survey.