We're a nation of over-sharers, but no one needs to know this about you

The Age

6 days ago

Aussies are world-famous for our stoicism, ironic understatement and wry, dry self-deprecation. A limb could be dangling by one sinew, or a crocodile nibbling on your nether regions, and the reply to 'Are you OK?' would be 'She'll be right' or 'No worries, mate'. Especially the blokes.
It used to be the only way to know what was going on inside your average Aussie fella was to do open-heart surgery. But of late, I've noticed, we seem to have become a nation of over-sharers.
For example, I was happily chatting to a woman in the doctor's waiting room about her love of riding, how it relaxed and thrilled her but could cause chafing. Five minutes later I realised she meant blokes, not horses. Clearly 'equine therapy' for middle-aged women means finding a man who is hung like one.
And that's not an isolated incident. Female friends have always traded confessions over smashed avo brunches – but not to the current extent. One gal pal recently shared explicit details about the way she eats strawberries from her lover's body. (At least she's getting one of her 'five a day'.)
I'm also privy to which high-powered female executive got down and dirty with the bartender. (Dignity is the only thing alcohol doesn't preserve.) And which circuit judge likes to pick up blokes in the park. (Which explains why she's started dyeing her hair blonde – so men can find her in the dark.)
And the fellas are at it, too. Blokes who previously wouldn't even say 'I love you' to the woman who bore their children are suddenly getting down to their emotional undies in a psychological striptease that reveals all.
I blame Harry, Meghan, Gwyneth Paltrow and all the other self-obsessed celebs who like to 'sit in their truth'.
Previously reserved male pals have taken to confiding their boudoir peccadilloes. A swim-team chum, renowned for his taciturn toughness, recently confessed how much he likes wearing his wife's underwear. I now also know which of my male friends likes to talk dirty (and I don't mean sorting the compost and recycling bins) and those with a penchant for S&M. The thought makes my toes curl; I don't like to be beaten, not even at Monopoly. Surely handcuffs are only acceptable for an undercover police officer?
And it's not just friends confessing all. Like the woman I encountered at the doctor, complete strangers are suddenly haemorrhaging every detail of their emotional lives and medical ailments. Apropos of nothing, I've been shown photos of my florist's foot fungus and my barista's armpit boil. I can't even relax at yoga because the instructor keeps divulging details about her 'arousal disorder'. (I don't think she has an arousal disorder; what she has is a job, two kids and a lazy spouse.)