In my old town my blogger anonymity was of the Sandra Lee variety: I was semi-anonymous. People who knew knew, and people who found out found out. But to the world at large I was still cloaked in mystery. (Too much?)
New town, new chance at full-blown anonymity. No one will know! I will be honester and realer and obnoxiouser!
All was going well. For four weeks anyway.
Then, I was invited to a neighbor’s party. (A lovely neighbor, I might add.) Within minutes another partygoer I was speaking to said, “You remind me of a blogger I read. I can’t think of her name….” SHIT!
I played it cool by staring at her, blushing, and excusing myself to go to the bathroom.
There, in true superhero with a secret identity fashion, I sent secret messages (Facebook) to my blogger friends for advice and backup. I expected a rescue mission with capes, high boots, and masks. Mostly they just laughed at me and told me to run away. One recommended chloroform and a mind-erasing serum. I was on my own.
Luckily, the toilet didn’t flush properly and I got a chance to distract myself from one uncomfortable problem to deal with another. “Sorry, your toilet is clogged. I know I’ve been in the bathroom for a while, but I SWEAR I didn’t poop. I was having a super-hero delusion because I’m secretly a writer…. anyway, I just peed.”
I spent the remainder of the party periodically checking my phone to see if any ideas better than, “Convince her you’re Gwyneth!” came through from my blogger friends (nope) while acting like the earlier conversation didn’t happen. I nervously waited for her to recognize me. In the end, she either didn’t (yet) or was discreet.
But I’m no fool.
Just like I came home and looked up the people I met at the party on Facebook, she probably went home to figure out which blogger I am. And, since she’s no fool, she likely sussed it out. If I were in her position the very first thing I’d do is call/email/IM/text my friend, the neighbor who threw the party, to dish about this new interesting factoid. Right? So I resigned myself to continue my Sandra Lee ways.
But here’s the thing: It’s days later now and still no word to me about this, despite plenty of opportunities for my neighbor to say something. Either they don’t know, or they don’t know that I know they know. Intrigue in suburbia. (Also possible: I’m a narcissist and nobody cares.)
To my lovely neighbor, if you’re reading this you can let me know that you know that I know that you know. And, to the (smart, beautiful) woman who figured me out because you’ve read my blog, you have excellent taste.