Why Women Gossip

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I feel like I'm five years old and playing doctor. Over dinner and a couple of glasses of wine, a relatively new friend leans in and tells me that she's getting sick of her husband. Stiffens at the sound of his voice, pirouettes away from his stubby fingers. I nod sympathetically while she ticks off all of his habits that nauseate her. The list is long. When she finishes and picks up her fork, it's my turn to talk. I know that a goofy aside about my new Chrissie Hynde–inspired bangs isn't going to cut it. This woman expects me to pull a problem out of my purse, expose myself. I think of that scene in The Silence of the Lambs in which Hannibal Lecter whispers to Clarice, "Quid pro quo. I tell you things, you tell me things.”

Clearly, it's my turn to share.

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