Have you ever had a tidbit or a big-bit of gossip that was so delicious, so wicked, so full-of-places for you to be judgmental and tsk-tsk that you could hardly wait to tell it to somebody? Such has been my condition for the past week. After I heard the juciness that was dropped on me, unbidden I might add, two thoughts struck me simultaneously:
- What good would it possibly do to share this gossip?
Hmmm. The second thought stopped me in my tracks.
“Okay,” I said to myself. “Swallow. See, that wasn’t so hard. You ‘re strong. You can keep it to yourself.”
This worked for a few hours until the urge to share it bubbled back up to the surface.
Maybe I’ll just tell my husband. He knows the principals in the story. I could share…if I dare.
“Yeah,” other inner-voice said, but, even with him, “What good would it do to share? It’s a sad piece of human conduct and you don’t need to be part of spreading yet another tale of someone you know doing something bad, naughty, stupid and despicable.”
That makes perfectly good sense, really, it does, but, let me tell you, it’s been a struggle. I’ve been wrestling with it.
It’s so, well, gossipy.
Surely I would be given a free-pass to tell my husband. Right?
I mean husbands and wives are supposed to share everything – aren’t we?
So far, I haven’t told him yet. If he reads this blog-entry and asks me, I’ll…I’ll…just say no.
And I haven’t really told you-all (readers of this blog, you know, you all) anything. I only told you that I had some gossip to tell, that doesn’t count as gossiping, does it?