Yesterday I was buzzing with excitement, totally psyched about a new project I was working on when my phone rang. It was my friend L, speaking in very hushed tones. Hushed tones, to me, are reserved for speaking about something scandalous like bad boyfriends or perhaps, robbing a bank or a convenience store.L: "I think I found a massager for you mother."
Me: "You don't have to do that. I have everything figured out--"
L: "But it's right here at CVS. It says it's for your neck but it's
so obvious it's for your (lowers voice) clitoris."
Me: "Could you NOT say (lowers voice) clitoris?"
L: "Fine. Neck massager... for your lady parts."
And even though I begged off, she would not be diswayed and proceeded to stalk me with cell phone photos of discounted "vibrators" disguised as neck massagers.
See, that's what happens when you keep a blog about your life? Nothing is private, ever again.
Several years ago, before I became a writer, I was on a TV show as a post production supervisor when I ended up writhing in pain and decided I probably had a good twelve minutes left to live and, liking living and wanting to continue to do so, promptly drove myself to the
hospital and checked in.
The next day, they took out my IV, clipped my lil' plastic bracelet off, and back to the office I went. I never told anyone that I was having complications from donating my kidney to my father. Why? Because I knew my Dad was ashamed that he had risked my life to save his. So we never talked about it. We never even "pre-surgery" talked about it. (For historical accuracy a letter was exchanged. But letters are not talking.)
He said, "I hear you're coming home." And I said, "Yes, I am." And then when I did, on the day of the surgery, my mother drove us up to Boston like we were going to the Aquarium or something but instead, we went went to the hospital, donned cotton gowns and caps, they sawed us open and took something out of me and put it into him.
Not many of our relatives knew but one did send me a Coach purse. That's when I realized the magnitude of what had happened, because, Coach purses ain't cheap.
The point is, I used to think, "I must not tell this story. My dad will not feel good if I tell this story."
Now I know, it's my story to tell.
Still, if I were to tell the truth, the truth would be, as far as I've come, I am not really ready for everybody to know every story about me. Yesterday, after finding out some very important persons were going to be looking at my blog, I mini-freaked and raced for the phone. My friend A answered.
Me: "Take down my blog from today!"
A: "What? Why?"
Me: "Because! Just do it!"
A: "But I haven't even read it."
Me: (Monster voice) "TAKE IT DOWWWWWWN!"
I have a very scary Monster voice.
I was later told that A went careening through her house, shoving and everything anything out of her way, to get to her computer and erase the post.
It was too honest. I was not ready.
I hope there will come a time when desperate calls from CVS about (sighs, eye roll) $14.99 massagers or stories about my and my dad's surgery or even the experiences of these past two unimaginable years will not stir fear or self-consciousness in me but for now... the delete button is a beautiful thing.
I'll get there. I will. You'll know. Because I promise to re-post the post I took down, when I do.
This blog is dedicated to relentless friends with camera cell phones.
