By Barbara Guggenheim
What led me to think I could and should swear off gossip – at least for a while – started with something my friend Samantha told me over lunch.
“Did you hear?” she asked, leaning forward over her tuna tartare. “Lester and Jane are having an affair.” “Really?” I replied incredulously. Jane is wild and crazy. I thought, but she’s married to a man she loves desperately, and Lester’s an arrogant, high-profile bore. “Yeah, Lester and his wife were at a dinner party. It was hot, and the men took off their jackets. When Lester left, he forgot his,” Samantha continued, breathless, “After everyone left, the hostess looked in the jacket pockets for some identification and found a sex note to Lester from Jane. It was partially burned.” I nearly choked on my asparagus. I knew the genesis of this particular story, and alarmingly, it was traceable to me.