sharing

“You can’t tell anyone.” I don’t bother with such formalities these days. After years of not trusting a soul, keeping everything to myself, and once in a great while telling a friend a secret, because that’s what friends do, I’ve learned “you can’t tell anyone” doesn’t mean shit.

So these days when I tell my friends secrets or what would likely be thought by most reasonable adults as secret worthy, I ask myself, “Will this person have any reason to betray me?” Nine times out of ten they’re in the clear so I share away, knowing darn well what I say will not stop with them, but be passed on to at least five others in this particular order: spouse, lover or boyfriend, three close friends, a sibling and/or co-worker.

I know this to be the case because that’s what I do. Of course, I’m discreet and if a friend says I can’t tell anyone, I’ll only tell Tamas—which goes without saying, since he’s my husband.

I’ve had a couple of what might be called juicy secrets and couldn’t wait to share—it’s all about the shock and awe. Unfortunately, Tamas doesn’t feel the same and whenever something happens he asks that I keep it to myself, or only divulge it to Josephine, my best friend—she’s safe, because she’s in New York. “But definitely don’t let it slip to Eva because she’ll tell her husband and we see them too often.”

Usually, I make a good case for telling more people, pleading with him that half the experience is the share. He’s generally a sport, but every once in a while tries to make himself clear that some things are better kept private. Though I nod and grin I can tell by his face, that he can tell by mine that I’ve already told Josephine and probably three other friends.