We all know somebody who overshares. It can be in the form of phone calls, emails, text messages, or face to face conversations. Sometimes we can tolerate it, sometimes not. I admit to recently lingering in my truck, in a grocery store parking lot, to avoid running into one of those ‘Chatty Kathys.’ I felt a bit guilty afterward, but just did not have the mental bandwidth at the moment to be patient and polite.
Obnoxious and intrusive oversharing has always existed, but the formats have changed. Ben Franklin described it as such: “A man who talks too much, is often much mistaken.” Please do not tune me out quite yet, I am slowly getting to my point.
The old version of oversharing was the infamous chain letter. Some contained ‘get rich quick’ schemes. The deal was that you send the letter, along with a five dollar bill, to a list of ten people. Your name would then be added to the list for them to continue the chain. You were promised a wheelbarrow full of money in the letters that would most assuredly flood your mailbox in the coming weeks.
Another entertaining version was the threat of being haunted by the ghost of a murdered relative if you did not pass the letter along to several other recipients. This one wouldn’t worry me too much, but the money chain…that is tempting. Even when not frequent, they were annoying correspondence.
It was easy and common to get trapped on the phone in the “caller-ID”- less days. When it became an option for our landlines, it added a $5 monthly cost to the bill. My dad was not about to pay anything extra, so he and I developed a system for the calls from WV. I would call and let it ring exactly two times, then hang up. Wait 15-seconds and call back, then he would happily answer. He was petrified of getting trapped on the phone by a gal several states away who had taken a fancy to him after my mom died. She finally stopped calling him…after a well planned yet impulsive retort from him on one of their phone calls. That is a story for another time.
Today’s version of the chain letter/oversharing comes with the availability of social media. It is so easy, with only a click or two, to share that funny cat video or reel, or your favorite song to every friend on your Facebook list. My favorites are the scare videos…I love scaring people. Tik Tok and Instagram are not on my phone, but that doesn’t stop me from receiving shares from others. I have this one friend, who may not be a friend much longer, if he doesn’t stop sending me pictures of cooked bacon late at night. I refuse to install those apps. I waste enough time as it is on Facebook, YouTube and Spotify. My right hand is raised high in shame for sending links of songs, reels, articles and memes all throughout the day and night. Ambien makes it worse when it’s not quite effective enough, fast enough. I offer an apology to all my acquaintances whose names are on my contact lists.
This topic came to mind due to a lecture I received the other day from my son. His job requires a fair amount of downtime in his vehicle doing a version of top secret, private detective work he cannot share too much about. He really enjoys his job and that makes me happy. He gets bored. He calls me during the work day. But I am busy, and he admittingly talks too much at times (I do not know where he gets that from). I try to be a good Dad and send him Facebook messenger links for things I think he would be interested in, just to help him pass the time.
We have some common interests in both American and world history, food, New York City landmarks, medical topics, and Stoic philosophy. Therefore, when I stumble across such nuggets, I share them like any good father would do. I really thought I was helping, but oh contraire! “Dad…I know you mean well, and I love you dearly, but please stop sending me non stop messages. It gets old!”
His words reminded me of the time of his first apartment, living on his own. I would take him care packages of food items. I always included boxes of Hamburger Helper cause he and I lived off that stuff during the Andy Griffeth and Opie days of West Virginia. Eventually, he said with great exasperation, “Dad! For the love of Heavenly Father, please no more Hamburger Helper!”
Message received son, I get it. I promise to stop interrupting you when we talk and making you talk faster and lose your thoughts. I promise to not send you more than one reel, link or funny cat video per day. But, I can’t promise that you won’t get a chain letter or two in the mail with my return address…check your mailbox when you get home…and send me five dollars.…Read more by Todd Thomas