As the saying goes allegedly it’s too many cooks that spoil the broth. Metaphorical in every sense and pretty self explanatory – simply stating that when you have one too many people putting their two pennies into the mixing pot it will usually equate for a recipe of disaster. So the boundary supposedly lies within the notion that two heads are better than one, but ask one too many sous chefs for opinions on the best approach to make chicken soup and you are fighting a loosing battle.
For whatever reason- as women we have come to believe that it is our prerogative to ‘talk’ about each other behind turned backs, to the point that we no longer think - we just do. We’ve now become our own audience. So accustomed to the slander that flows from our lips we don’t even realise that it is slander – it has become as easy as counting to ten or riding a bike.
You can’t kid a kidder and you can’t hustle a hustler. A true gossiper knows every tactic in the book.
These individuals I call the plain clothed gossipers. They know the tricks and schemes to acquire every piece of information like they’re squeezing cranberries for juice. They know how to ask those leading questions that can cause you to innocently spill all the information you have. And yet their greatest line will be “You didn’t hear it from me.” They will make you believe you have their trust and then the moment you walk away your information is being spread around like butter on toast. In no way am I trying to make myself superior in the hierarchy of my own species. There have been moments that I’ve had to drag my mouth in the pit stop like an F1 racing car and really had to check myself. To my disgust I realised that I had adopted some of the characteristics of a plain clothed gossiper. I would tell myself that there is no harm in knowing what girl X said about girl Y because I’m not verbally spreading it out of my own free will- it’s totally different if someone were to ask me. So, what would I do? Bring my newly found information up into conversation, ever so subtle and casually, with the hope that someone in the circle will advance the topic and then I’d be free to add my two bits worth- without feeling bad. Because in defence I could say- “You didn’t hear it from me.”
Needless to say, this approach turned around and bit me on the derrière. Because for all the times I succumbed to gossip I felt so empty by the end of it. I’ll admit- it felt good in the heat of the moment, sharing secrets that didn’t belong to me, but when the heat died out what had I fulfilled?. The answer- absolutely nothing.
For the record: this is not to say that men don’t gossip - men gossip but they just don’t gossip loudly.(And between you and me- I’ve heard some men, who will remain nameless, run their mouths worst than some women I know) But I’ve come to realise that even as I’m getting older gossip doesn’t have an age limit- you don’t hit the menopause and then gossip no longer. Gossip is not only confined to the girls in the playground who wear their hair in pigtails. Neither is gossip alien in the work place of the corporate world. Gossip is the vehicle that needs fuel to move. And choosing to keep filling Gossip up at the gas station will only keep the engine running.
I’m not going to bother trying to tackle the psychological reasons of why we gossip- that is totally out of my expertise- but we do it- men and women- and its destructive. It takes someone brave to step out of the gossip wagon and say- I’d rather walk than hitch a ride from Gossip.
What will your choice be?
I came. I saw. I blog.
Ruthie x
