My friend Patty just told me a humiliating story. While hiking in the mountains she was attacked by a swarm of angry bees. In a panic, she ripped off her insect covered shirt and ran, screaming, waving her arms, right through a campsite of gawking boy scouts – probably wishing she put on a bra that morning. After all the fuss calmed down she apologized to the troop leader, explaining that her boobs looked much better before she had children. I promised, crossed my heart and hoped to die, stick a needle in my eye, I wouldn’t tell anyone that story -- I can keep a secret.

While that incident could be considered embarrassing, it doesn’t scratch the surface of the mortification I experienced. Last night I shared a story with Patty about something horrific that happened to me after I tried on several hideously ugly hats at a craft fair. Patty promised, crossed her heart and hoped to die, stick a needle in her eye, she wouldn’t tell anyone – that girl can keep a secret.

I’m grateful I can keep a secret, and I think my influence is rubbing off on Patty. I’m confident in our friendship because it’s built on trust and mutual respect. To prove that point, I just got back from lunch and there was a huge balloon bouquet waiting at my desk. The overly-large card (open for everyone to see) had the thoughtful message, “Sorry to hear about your nasty case of head lice.”

That’s why I’m grateful I can keep a secret.