Overshare and Overshare Alike

You're at a party, feelin' pretty sociable, in a room where the vast majority of revelers are strangers but what the hell, nothing ventured, nothing gained.  You introduce yourself to the person nearest you, a woman in her mid-thirties with a pleasant demeanor and an amiable smile.  You mention how the Cabernet you're both drinking is really very good, and did she, by chance, catch the name of the winery on the bottle? She didn't, but she'll ask the host and get back to you. And, just like that, you're off and running, finding something in common and, yeah, contributing to the life of the party.  But then, things take a turn. Suddenly, without warning, she's offering up the skinny on the copious amounts of pharmaceuticals she consumes daily.  That and a glowing review of the bustline of the nearby "woman in blue", lamenting how she wishes hers was more symmetrical, her left side being noticeably smaller and all.  You immediately realize it's a quicksand moment, and you with no life-saving tree branches in sight.

Indeed, you're rueing your whole "nothing ventured, nothing gained" earlier take as her non sequiturs come speeding towards you like fastballs from a major league pitching machine run amok.  Her first husband embezzled from the bank, her second ran off with their au pair, but not before trying out for the off-off-Broadway role of Mannequin #5 in "The Seamstress Murders" and failing miserably.  Her likes (carny barkers and authentic German apple strudel), and her dislikes (the too-close proximity of bathroom toilets to sinks and people in their twenties) quickly give way to her scrutiny of the nearby charcuterie board, asking you if it's just her or do the meats look as if they've been sitting out all day?  You know it's just her but remain silent as she prattles on about her penchant for men with male pattern baldness and a solid comb over. That and trench coats.  She really digs guys in trench coats.  

So, yeah, it's called oversharing, or TMI (too much information) if you're online.  It basically means there are vague but generally acceptable guidelines for conversational topics--especially with people you've just met--and you ain't stickin' to 'em. The reasons for this behavior are abundant: growing up in a dysfunctional environment where one never learned to establish boundaries, social anxiety causing the outpouring of personal information as a way to control the conversation, or validation for those with low self-esteem to use their personal foibles as a way to gain approval.  Also, in the mix are impulsivity, emotional unawareness, relationship problems or a lack of self-identity.  Or, possibly--and the one I'd bet the farm on in this particular instance--this isn't the oversharer's first (or second) glass of wine and that, coupled with her already admitted daily drug regimen capable of putting Timothy Leary, in his prime, down on the floor and in the fetal position, is really the culprit here.

Gobsmacked, you resort to your go-to move, bidding a hasty retreat to the restroom, hoping for a second-floor escape to the outside with nothing more than a slightly sprained ankle.  Not a chance, as you realize Olive Oyl, fresh off a month-long hunger strike and armed with a jarful of Vaseline, could never slither her way through that freakishly narrow bathroom window.  You stand there, open-mouthed, totally bemused, only to hear the strudel-lover's voice just outside the door tell you she's got the name of that Cab but won't give it up until you make the scene.  That's when it dawns on you, your only choice is to go on the offensive, opting to overshare the oversharer.  You quickly jot down a few totally unhinged non sequiturs on your iPhone to hit her with: you're pretty sure you have rickets; all your dreams somehow involve circus animals; yodelers scare the bejesus out of you.  You take a deep breath, about to exit, momentarily turning back, thinking, "Damn, that toilet really is too close to the sink."

Back into the mix, the at-least-twice-divorced charcuterie reviewer has you in her sights, mentioning how she just got through walking off a leg cramp and that she's pretty sure her pastor is making it with the toothy blond in her choir, ya know, the self-admitted swinger.  You nervously check the bullet points on your iPhone, unsure whether to lead with "rickets" or "yodelers". The doorbell rings.  You look to the entranceway as the host goes to greet his newest guest.  You're praying its a dude. Complete with trenchcoat.  That and an all-world comb over.