Dear Neighbor,
Halloween looms, so let’s talk about the real monsters among us: gossipmongers.
Recently I met a friend for lunch. I was early so I opened my book but got through only a few words when I became engrossed in the conversation going on in the booth behind me. In my defense, it wasn’t so much eavesdropping as it was hearing. The two women were talking loudly about a mutual friend whom they were trashing.
Like much gossip, the content was callous and trifling, and they were loaded for bear discussing the absent woman’s hairstyle, her living room décor, her car, even her choice of nail polish! With friends like these. . .
Let’s face it — we’ve all engaged in such talk, mostly to vent, puff ourselves up, and perhaps get a bit of advice. These are called private conversations for a reason.
As they nattered on, I thought of a “friend” I had many years ago. I’ll call her Naomi. Naomi was funny, smart, successful, catnip to men. And wicked. As fun as it often was to spend time with her, there was a catch: She garnered some perverse pleasure in passing on unflattering things people had said about me.
The source of these memos invariably was someone I barely knew and, as is most gossip, petty. Did I need to know that someone thought my attire at a recent party was ugly? That my shoes looked cheap? That I drove a crummy car? I did not.
At first, I wrote off these comments as silly things that didn’t matter. But they did because they stung, and I found myself hating the person who’d made the comments, not realizing the real villain was Naomi. Those gossipers never would have said these things to my face, but Naomi weaponized their chitchat. (Sometimes you should shoot the messenger.) Psychologists have a term for this: triangulation. I just call it nasty.
When I first heard the word “frenemy,” I thought immediately of Naomi.
After several darts from Naomi, I came to expect them (this is a serious clue you’re not in safe territory), and we’d get together, only to have another sniper bullet fired. One night she reported something so mean, so cruel, so unwarranted, tears popped out of my eyes. Sobbing, I asked Naomi why she did this — repeatedly passing on disparaging comments made of me. Unfazed, she replied, “It’s just feedback; I’m trying to make you a better person.” Still weeping, I asked her if I looked like it was working.
Naomi is the only female friend I’ve ever actively broken up with. We’d met for lunch, and she had to know she was on thin ice as I’d been chilly since the sob-fest. But she couldn’t resist being nasty and I couldn’t take it any longer. She threw yet another poison dart, and my response was simple and curt: I opened my wallet, pulled out a twenty, threw it on the table, said, “This isn’t going to work.” And I walked out.
I believe that everyone comes into our lives for a reason, and the Naomis of the world can be profound teachers. When someone criticizes you to your face it doesn’t feel good, but at least you can defend or explain yourself and have a discussion. Reported nastygrams leave you hanging with no recourse, just lingering pain.
On the flip side, compliments to your face feel good, but when someone reports something kind said about you it feels even better because it is a grace, a bolstering with no ulterior motive beyond kindness. After my final encounter with Naomi, I was determined to right those wrongs by always reporting secondhand compliments to others and taking delight in their reactions. I call this “good gossip.”
They say you can forgive someone when the painful experience teaches you important lessons. In her backhanded way, Naomi did make me a better person. So, yes, I’ve forgiven her. From afar.
— Dorothy
