I can be an oversharer. Sometimes there are details which just do not need to be shared but, if the chance is there, I will take the opportunity to unleash my inner, often inappropriate thoughts with those who really do not need to know them. Oversharing with friends isn’t too bad – My closest peers now show only muted shock when I slip an outrageous or unnecessary comment into conversation. A problem arises, however, when oversharing occurs in scenarios in which censorship is probably advisable.
It happens so easily. You can be talking about dreams and how realistic they are when all of a sudden you find yourself enthusiastically relating to a work colleague the time you wet the bed in Italy because that dream you were having of weeing on a toilet was just so damn convincing. I am not confirming or denying whether this actually happened but I will say that if it did I would have been 15 and on a school trip and we had been experiencing the delights of under-age drinking that night. I will also note that if that unfortunate incident did present itself, any air of discreetness was shattered when the Italian maid marched down the corridors brandishing the urine-soaked bed sheet and shouting “Baby, baby!” at the top of her lungs.
I am probably going to give the impression that all of my oversharing is toilet related when I come to the next example. A couple of winters ago I had Chilblains on my little toe and it was extremely painful. Unable to bear with it I Googled home remedies, which repeatedly told me that soaking said toe in urine would be the most efficient way to cure it quickly and naturally. Days had passed and overcome with frustration I eventually decided to test out the theory. This would have been entirely acceptable had I not sent videos of the process to my friend without actually bothering to explain to her why I was soaking my foot in a plastic container full of my own wee. She was absolutely disgusted at the sight of this but I felt like if I couldn’t at least share my pain with her then I could at least ease the discomfort of doing something which felt so wrong by giving her an insight into it.
Some common oversharing comments, usually directed at friends but often said loud enough for passers by to hear and consider me with shock/disgust, are:
– I’m so cold my nipples are rock hard and it’s absolutely killing me
– My knickers are twisted, can you just keep an eye out while I adjust myself in public?
– Can you tell that I’m wearing no underwear under these white jeans? Because I’m not.
Camel toes are often another source of oversharing between my friends and I. We will quite often do a round of cameltoe checks on a night out to ensure our leggings/tight jeans haven’t settled a bit too comfortably into any crevices. My mum is fully aware of the plight of the camel toe because once, before a night out, I came downstairs with a pair of scissors and began cutting some neat little oblong slips out of the Weetabix box. “Why do you need cardboard?” She asked. “Because me and Becky are going to have camel toes if we don’t put some sort of protective barrier in our knickers.” She no longer questions whether there are holes cut out of any cardboard food boxes in the cupboard and is now our designated Saturday night camel-toe checker.
The odd thing is I actually quite enjoy the thrill of oversharing. That moment when you’re chatting to an acquaintance, or a friend of a friend, and all of a sudden they are staring at you in mild panic and disbelief as you steer the conversation into some dark territory they never knew existed. “Oh, you’ve never done (Insert act of sexual debauchery)?” You smile sweetly as they mumble a non-committal reply and desperately wonder how they can steer the topic back on to the tame grounds of how they met their other half. Censorship is just something I can’t always handle when there is a pressing urge inside me telling me to be explicit, be honest, be ruthless in my over sharing. If you’re going to spice up the life of a stranger on a train by having a short chat, then why not do it in style? You never know, in 10 years time they could find themselves telling their Grandchildren about the girl they once met on the Southern Service who confessed to getting drunk and demonstrating sex positions at a children’s birthday party. Let your legacy live on.