So I do this thing. I overshare. Oh, you’d like to know what that means?
That means that when you want me to stop talking, I continue.
That means when you are starting to get uncomfortable with what I am talking about, I continue.
That means that when you leave the room to go to your happy place because I have severely distorted your entire view of humankind, I continue.
That last part isn’t true. Well it could be. I’m not very in tune with social cues.
I overshare. And I hope you’re okay with it. Because you are here, reading my blog, which is essentially a big ol’ online exhibition of my overshared-ness.
The other day, my boyfriend told me that I have been an open book since day one. My response to him:
“Are you serious? I totally thought I was this elusive womanly creature.”
And I had. I thought I was up there in the ranks with some mysterious and sexy lady from a film noir. You know, the one who knows all of the secrets, hangs out in jazz lounges, and seduces men with her long cigarettes. I am literally none of those things. Like, what a creative image I have of myself, hey?
And he was right (ugh, don’t tell him I said that). For the most part, I am an open book. He figured out early on (because I stupidly told him) that if he doesn’t say anything, I will just keep talking and likely divulge some informational tidbits that would generally not be shared within the first few months of dating, such as:
- My feet smell when I don’t wear socks with my shoes (my friends and those people on the flight from Honolulu to Vancouver know this to be true).
- I once did all of the tequila shots on a table then left my purse at the bar (which was also just a pizza joint near the University), had to be helped into the cab, then helped into my apartment. The best/worst part of this story? I took my glasses off at one point and was holding them in my hand. My poor friend, struggling to get me into the apartment, let go of me for a second and I fell face first onto my floor, crushing my glasses in my hands. Then my brother, who was staying at my place for the weekend asked, “Where’s your purse?” and I responded, still on the ground, “ I don’t know.” Then I continued to laugh hysterically and everyone deemed me helpless. This story has a happy ending though. For a week I got to relive my Harry Potter fantasy of wearing glasses held together with tape… and the next day I was reunited with my purse in its semi-prime condition, due to the fact that we were the only ones in the bar and the bartender was looking out for a homie.
- I pointed out my peach fuzz whiskers at the corners of my mouth.
- I have confessed all of the weird people from work that I had made out with (all means two). This wouldn’t be as bad if my boyfriend didn’t also work with those people…
- I have shown him that underneath my black nail polish, my big toenail is actually black and is potentially falling off due to the fact that he took me skiing but more due to the fact that I am a complete amateur at skiing and couldn’t tell whether my boots fit me or not.
But it’s not just my boyfriend who gets to experience my oversharing. My best friends will tell me I need to shut up, which is something an egotistical bitch like me needs to hear every once in a while. Or they’ll text, “OMG BRANDI TMI” or they’ll screenshot the text and probably save it in a folder on their phones called “Brandi Blackmail” which I’m sure is just obsolete at this point because almost everything I say to everyone is blackmail against me. Even to my boss.
Yes, I overshare at work. This is probably the only place where I should actually exact caution over what I say. And yet I don’t.
My boss and I are pretty close. We bicker and joke but we also totally have respect for each other and our jobs. We also tend to divulge in non-work related conversation.
This story takes place a few weeks ago. My boss and I were talking about a bowling event that our company had thrown the past weekend. I had made up all of these rules in order to spice up the night a little bit. One of them was that you had to bowl between the legs of three of your teammates. This rule was going to be my chance to take embarrassing photos of my coworkers (you never want to work with me) and I was successful in this, I’ll have you know. My turn went smashingly horrible and we’re just not even going to talk about it. When it was one of my teammate’s turn to go, three of us lined up: in the back was her husband/my coworker, me in the middle, and my boyfriend in the front.
Please do not look into this with your perverted eyes, readers.
She threw the first ball and it knocked a few pins down. On the second throw, however, we shared a moment. As the bowling ball spun beneath our legs, I felt a light tap in an area that you would not expect to be touched at a company event. My crotch. She had touched my crotch. You’ve got to commend her follow through! The guys had no clue. I turned slightly and I saw her hands covering her face and she was shaking her head as though she was eternally sorry for unintentionally grazing my lady bits on our second outing together. But we also sort of bonded, not in a sexual way, of course, but as like friends who could now giggle about how we became friends. Plus I’m pretty sure she knocked the rest of the pins down and scored a spare soooo I’m just going to throw it out there that my crotch has lucky powers.
And I told that whole story to my boss. Almost word for word. Yup, I’m pretty weird. He reacted in his normal way when I tell him silly things, “Oh jeez,” slapped his desk while laughing then kind of mumbled some variation of “get back to work.” It wasn’t until a day later when I was telling a friend this story that I realized I probably shouldn’t have discussed anything to do with my crotch to my boss. That definitely qualifies as an overshare and maybe even leans more into the realm of breaking work rules and codes and bibles and shit. But my boss was weirdly cool with it. He knows me and I know him and he puts up with me. Just like my friends, my boyfriend, and even you do (although no one is making you and you should feel free to break free from my weirdness whenever you choose – except don’t because I need you and please don’t ever leave me).
So my friends, in oversharing with you, I hope that you too learn to embrace your overshare. And it may not be oversharing. Maybe you snort when you laugh. Maybe you reeeeeally like Dragon Ball Z. Maybe you refer to yourself in the third person more than you should. I am still describing myself here… The point is everyone has their overshare so just run with it. It makes you you. Even if it weirds out your coworkers.