When I became a "blogger" it was nothing but a good case of envy and competition. My husband would sit hunched over the computer night after night, getting commented on by babes in provinces far and wide.
"I can do that", my most base nature cried. Sure, it had been a century and a half or so since my jarbled mumblua had counted for marks in anyone's course evaluation, but surely now, without the pressure of a pass or fail, I could ramble on indiscretionately to the great faceless cyberworld. They could accept or reject me in their annonymity. I would never know.
Initially, everything went as planned. Readers cropped up from far away places to offer their encouragements or opinions. My courage deepened. My (already negligable) discretion eroded. Soon, I was chatting away to the great crowd of unknown, nestling ever deeper in my disclosionary couch, imagining the warmth of my countless therapists bolstering me in my deepest, most personal fears and insecurities.
Then, one day, I became aware of my utter lack of protective clothing. And I'm not talking about a suit of armour here. I mean your basic Wal-mart panty and cami set. I mean, I've been strutting my "stuff" out here, in the community. No longer safe within the "confines" of readers from countries far, far away that my twelve air mile points would never carry me to. Suddenly the exotic, faraway readers were joined by another crowd-- one within driving distance, even for our humble, seats-six-what-were-you-thinking van. On I marched, no escape in sight. Without the crown, the bullet-proof vest, or the optimistic, got-it-goin'-on-sista smile.
Do you ever wonder where the emporer went after the parade?
Hey, parade viewers-- is one of your pint-sized sons going to shout at at the post office one of these days, "Hey lady! You are Absolutely, buck-naked! You have NO SECRETS! You're the town freak!! Instead of watching "Desparate Housewives", or "Grey's Anatomy", our mothers now have their own version of a local reality show."
Maybe its time to relocate.