Photo by Cynthia Larsen

When did prying become a pastime?

By Ed Goldman

This was the headline for a recent edition of “The Ethicist” column in the Sunday New York Times: “My best friend’s affair is eating at me. Should I tell?”

To save The Ethicist columnist Kwame Anthony Appiah some time, let me answer this for him:

“Dear Stupid: No.” — Love, the Kwamster

If asked to elucidate on Mr. Appiah’s behalf, I’m sure I’d have said something along the lines of “Why should it be ‘eating’ you? It’s your best friend’s problem. And if she doesn’t see it as a problem, though someday she might, it’s still none of your damn business. Now, if she decides to tell you about it herself, she’s inviting your response—though I’d suggest you refrain from saying her infidelity is ‘eating’ you.

“Besides, how do you know her husband isn’t doing the same thing? How do you know they don’t cheat on each other to pep up their marriage (perhaps the most idiotic idea I’ve ever heard, but I’m not here to judge, just drip with ethics).”

Why have we become a nation of busybodies? Were we always this concerned about things that were clearly none of our business? Did social media—which gets blamed for everything but male-pattern baldness and thumb warts—make it easier to be nosy by expanding our reach and resources to do so?

Sometimes it’s helpful to make a list of things we’re aware of yet have no real opinion nor the slightest need to keep abreast of. For me that would include:  

• Transgender and cosmetic surgery, unless it’s driving up my own insurance rates—though I suspect the only one doing that is the insurance industry; 
• Anyone’s sexual orientation: it’s simply none of my, the state’s, the federal government’s or their employers’ business;
• The future of the Democratic Party or the Republican Party, every Kardashian, including the unborn ones; and
• The British royals, British food, skydiving, parasailing, snowboarding, rugby, herbal teas and essential oils (excluding olive—whose virginity doesn’t interest me).

In addition, I have zero curiosity about Jennifer Lopez’s love life. I think she’s a good actor, a mediocre singer and a spasmodic dancer.  I also don’t care who’ll win a Grammy, Tony, Emmy or Academy award, who gets nominated and who gets snubbed. It just won’t affect what I decide to have for breakfast the next morning. 

I pay no attention to Taylor Swift nor your or my body mass index.  

Since I know very few of my neighbors, I really don’t care if any of them is being unfaithful to his or her spouse, because I don’t know them, either. And even if I did, knowing who was canoodling with whom wouldn’t exactly be “eating at me.” Not even lightly noshing. 

I also don’t care how much “screen time” I put in last week on my phone—and certainly not if it exceeded or was less than the previous week. Yet one of my providers or servers or robots (I neither know nor care which is which) thinks of this as need-to-know data for me. Like I want to be reminded I share an international addiction?