Lately I don't know where to best place my monkey hands. Okay, before you envisage hairy palms and indecorous scratching I best explain I'm referring to the three wise moneys: see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.
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Years ago I decided the best place for my monkey hands was over my mouth. As my wise mother cautioned, if you can't say anything nice, say nothing at all. After putting my foot in my uncovered mouth in the past, I made a pact with myself to tell people only the nice things said about them, never anything unkind. And it has worked a treat.
But recently I have been thinking my hands are better served covering my ears, because I am hearing a lot of evil.
You see, I am one of those people others tend to open up to. I guess, because I wear my vulnerabilities openly, those around me feel relaxed to reveal theirs. And this would be great if it stopped there. But it doesn't.
Nope. While I am happy to listen as friends reveal their own deep fears and insecurities, I do not think it is my place to hear them relate those of others without their consent.
For example, it is not appropriate for me to hear about a friend's partner's penis size, sexual speciality or deeply personal issue. But too often I do and, well, it makes me extremely uncomfortable, especially when I see the person in question and visions of their genitalia, fondness for spanking and abandonment issues overtake my thoughts.
I fervently believe there are confidences couples should keep to themselves. If a partner of mine were to reveal such secrets, I'd certainly feel betrayed. But despite telling friends I would rather not know such personal information, somehow I end up au fait with confidences that should have remained clandestine. And it annoys the bejesus out of me.
It is all about respect, something that appears to have gone the way of romance in these Tinder times, i.e. down the gurgler. Show me a relationship without trust and I'll show you a breakup destined to happen. I don't just want to play piggy in the middle to such swine-like behaviour.
The too-much-information overload can also have sinister repercussions on my emotional psyche. Which is why I would like my monkey hands to protect me from hearing any more passed-on comments about myself.
I have one particular girlfriend who loves to tell me what a mutual acquaintance says about me. She seems to feast on relating that this person thinks I'm a bitch, can't write, was flirting with their boyfriend, have crap taste in clothes etc. It achieves nothing other than making me upset and paranoid; I question myself. And frankly I do that enough already.
Thankfully, these days I have started to look more closely at the person relating such nasties than I do at the culprit who allegedly uttered them. Because dining on my insecurities is simply supping on schadenfreude for such people and as such, I feel it best to close my kitchen on them for good.
I am also drawing a line on so-called friendships that entail me having to lie. I try to live my life as honestly as I can in order to be able to, well, live with myself.
Last month a male friend confided he is having a relationship with a married former colleague of mine. This I did not want to know, as I am close to her husband, a man who deserves better.
(If you want to cheat, you cowardly philanderers, then leave.)
I have since discovered that both parties in this affair are using me as cover - he says he is dropping in to my place to help me with something, and she claims to be catching a movie or show I invited her to. I am expected to lie for them, if asked.
Well, here's the thing - I just won't. When I told my cheating friends this, and that I feel I'm betraying their partners by even knowing about their affair in the first place, they had the temerity to criticise my lack of loyalty.
Which brings me back to my monkey hands and where they are best placed. Because I am tempted to put them to my eyes in order to see no evil like these two, either. Game of Twister, anyone? •
I'm wearing ...
flannelette, and lots of it. Come on, who doesn't love snuggly jim-jams and mismatched bedsocks when it's cold outside?
I'm hoping ...
that Donald Trump does not wind up as US president. This would be a tragedy even Shakespeare couldn't conjure.
I'm planning ...
a beach resort holiday. There is only one cure for my winter ills -sunshine on my back. Oh, and a poolside cocktail or three.
I'm watching ...
The Girlfriend Experience, starring Elvis's granddaughter Riley Keough. It's one of the best series I've seen on TV.