We’re a nation of oversharers, but no one needs to know this about you

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 oversharers.

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.

Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, is partly to blame for our obsession with sharing intimate details of our personal lives.Credit: Getty Images for TIME

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.)

So, what’s going on? I blame Harry, Meghan, Gwyneth Paltrow and all the other self-obsessed celebs who like to “sit in their truth”. Hell, I’d rather sit in pigeon poop. My “truth” is that I’m a mid-60s mum of two who’s worried about pelvic-floor strength, lower-back pain, book sales and unmarried offspring. I’d rather “sit in a lie” than bore you with all of that mundanity.

Harry is particularly fond of oversharing. In his infamous memoir, Spare, Hazza spared us nothing. Not only did the world learn about his sibling warfare, drug dabbling and Meghan-and-Kate-related family feuds, but also about how he lost his virginity in a field. Apparently, you’ll recall, she was an “older woman” who treated him “like a young stallion”, then, when the encounter concluded, “spanked my ass and sent me away”.

Interesting info? Yea or neigh? I would suggest Harry, um, rein it in, except for the fact that the whole world is now oversharing. As well as TV docu-soaps, social media and digital street surveillance, we voluntarily carry around pocket surveillance devices which share our location and eavesdrop on our confidential conversations.

Even in Britain, a nation famous for stiff upper everything, oversharing is becoming a bugbear. A 2024 survey found that a fifth of Brits are subjected to TMI (too much information) on the financial troubles, sex life and physical or mental health of a colleague. Women apparently suffer the most: 29 per cent feel regularly overshared upon, compared with 10 per cent of fellas.

But wait! Perhaps I’m also now guilty of oversharing … about oversharing. Enough. Come on, Aussies! Let’s stop sitting in our truth. Let’s just continue to sit in the pub, quaffing and quipping. The only thing we’ll share with each other? That we won’t be oversharing.

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