It occurred to me that in this Age of Oversharing we have lost The Art of Conversation. I grew up with a mother masquerading as Emily Post, the authority on social etiquette. We were vehemently instructed never to ask anyone these three questions: What they did for a living, how much money they earned, and if they had children. Now women will approach a male they barely know and demand that he reveal if he manscapes and is taking meds. for sexual dysfunction. Truthfully, I could have gotten through the rest of my life without having learned that an entertainment tv anchor "was sweating bullets and drenched through her underwear because of hot flashes" and that another one had just recovered from a nasty yeast infection.

 No one is spared when actresses are trying to revive interest in careers grown stale , by publishing a memoir/expose. Then we are treated to the fact that Carol Brady aka Florence Henderson was given crabs by our beloved former NY Mayor John Lindsay and The Patridge Family's own matriarch Shirley Jones participated in a lurid sexual menage a trois. Even if we have wisely opted out of reading these lascivious tales, the authors make the talk show rounds so it is difficult to avoid.

I totally understand that no one would watch these so called Reality Shows if we weren't dragged into their infidelities, betrayals, sick secrets, and deviant behavior. In order to sustain or grow an audience the revelations have to be fast and furious. Nothing is sacred. That which should be locked away for safe keeping is binged and purged for public consumption and appetites ravenous for digesting what tabloids regularly regurgitate.

My husband always remarks that he cannot believe what people share with me. I too am fascinated because I never pry and infact am sensitive to boundaries and people' privacy but I think the fact that I am a good listener and empathetic draws people out. I cannot help but marvel though about how much people willingly disclose. It is as if they are cleaning out their closets and want nothing from previous seasons left.  All dirty laundry is put on display. When people share something particularly disturbing I feel this obligation to check in on them to make sure they possess the proper coping  mechanism. Then there are those who just crave the drama and center stage and so love the shock and awe value of their narrative.

The other side of this oversharing free-for-all is people you don't feel particularly close to act entitled to interrogate you about sensitive subjects. I remember a woman who was on a first (and last) date with our friend who was a widower, asking me about something I felt was none of her business. I told her I had no intention of sharing that information with her. Perhaps, in this era of social media, where people reveal their naked body parts to virtual strangers and couples drunkenly hook up before barely exchanging introductions, people skip  the getting to know you  part.

We are all products of our upbringing, and maybe mine makes me hyper aware of some of this absurdity. My father was incapable of small talk or gossip.  He was the Rabbinical Socrates.  He would ponder and pose endless questions about, religion, philosophy, psychology history,literature,medicine and science. His great joy was reading all of my academic textbooks. Nothing gave him more pleasure than conversing with me about what I was learning. 

I would cringe when my friends came over because he was nothing like many of the other fathers who would tease us and just put us at ease because of their familiarity with what we were interested in at that age. My father would corner an unsuspecting friend about some esoteric unknowable quandry. He was an active member of MENZA; the group for people of very high intelligence. When we had meetings at our home my father was so animated and invested in these lofty discussions. What stood out for me, was his good friend Abe a MENZA compatriot who would eat  watermelon pits but spit out the water melon. My mother felt so ill at ease and intimidated that she just served coffee but always remained mute.

She, on the other hand was the forerunner of the other great philosophical question posed on The Red Carpet...."Who are you wearing?" She was a graduate of Parson's School of Design and scoured the society pages. She was obsessed with what these society matrons and gorgeous glamourous Hollywood icons wore to these events. My mother knew every designer and could describe every fabric,cut, beading, hemline,neckline and accessory in the most exacting and minute detail. Her spectum for describing color still has me in awe. The 64 deluxe crayola box had nothing on her.  My sisters and I felt like complete failures because she always inquired what we were wearing to any event or what others wore and we could never begin to describe the dresses and outfits in the way she had hoped. Up until my mother died, no matter if I were presenting at a conference or facilitating at an academic workshop her only interest was "What were you wearing, darling?"Given the total disconnect with what each parent valued and obsessed over-how my parents  ever married remains a total enigma. 

I really do wish we still lived in a time where we valued the ranconteur; the great storyteller or the wit of a Dorothy Parker. I would have loved to be a regular at The Algonquin Round Table composed of theater critics and those writng for the arts. It is amazing to me that even when plastered these people always managed such clever retorts. I would welcome the setting of a salon like during The Enlightenment when both men and women would come together to exchange ideas of great importance. 

We live in a time of writing in 140 characters , reducing expression to emoticons or being dependent upon memes rather than celebrating or encouraging original thought. This atmosphere does little to stimulate or forster the great conversationalist. Instead we are treated to a deluge of boorish sexual exploits or misconduct recounted ineloquently. Richard Burton or Peter O'Toole could elevate the same scenario to an art form. There is no longer mystique or mystery. TMZ or The Star seem to have lowered the bar on what is permissable to be exploited. It appears nothing is off limits. Wannabes leak their own sex tapes to short cut an infamous rise to celebrity status. Years ago a girl would be less forthcoming about her sexual acumen..  Now it is not uncommon for her to let her current partner know he is a disappoinment and has not risen to the occasion. By comparison with others, he is lacking in stamina and bedroom skill. Perhaps, we should celebrate the decline of the double standard and females taking ownershiop of their sexuality---but I  think both sexes should  mourn  the death of intimacy and romance.

Am I alone in longing for the return of charm, wit and sophisticated humor in our communication? Certainly there has to be something deeper and more profound than debating whether a Kardashian has gotten lip injections. And, it must be perfectly acceptable somewhere to get through an evening without revealing that your husband is into bestiality and that you are considering transitioning into a goat.