The Burden of Secrets

I am not supposed to know that Susie is having plastic surgery. Someone shared this state secret, but what if I forget I’m not supposed to know? What happens when Susie disappears for six weeks to recover? What am I supposed to say when she finally surfaces after she’s been resurfaced?

Someone spotted Susie’s spouse in a restaurant with a strange woman. Should I halt the gossip and tell that was the new improved Susie?

Another friend would like to banish her son in law to Chernobyl. You’d never suspect by her behavior, but I know. I find myself scrutinizing him for indications of loutish behavior and other misdeeds. If I didn’t know my friend could not bear the sight of him, I’d probably ignore his less than desirable persona.

A family member was the victim of an overly zealous hair stylist resulting in a horrific credit card charge. She told her spouse a huge whopper about the charge and was smug when he bought her story. Why did she tell me? I don’t have a criminal background. Her spouse casually mentioned they are tightening up on expenses and he cannot afford his new eyeglass prescription. I probably shouldn’t have asked if he could see his wife’s newly colored, shortened and coiffed ‘do.

A friend is dating her ex husband. She was past middle age eons ago, but worries her mama might find out. If she’s still concerned about what her mama thinks, she doesn’t deserve secrecy.

I am not flattered to be a repository for secrets. It has greatly limited my ability to communicate. These tidbits of information simmer just below the surface, waiting for me to slip and tell. I need a spreadsheet to track what I am not supposed to know or repeat. It is too much responsibility. I am going to blab and free myself from the tyranny of confidante.

Secrets should be just that; so if you have one, don’t tell me.

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