Lately I’ve been meeting people who already know me from reading my blog. Although I find it sort of flattering, it has its problems: Inevitably, soon after the formal introductions are made, I notice these people straining their necks to assess me for chin hairs. If that’s not distracting enough, instead of listening to their polite get-to-know-you questions and comments, I’m thinking about what they’re thinking of me considering I included the word bl*w-j*b in a post last week. (Editor’s note: my mother’s computer is on the fritz.)
I’m almost always socially awkward to begin with, unless I’m plopped in the middle of a family gathering where I feel cocooned by the warmth of my huge extended family and surrounded by blood relatives who are far crazier than me; but being in the presence of perfect strangers who know the intimate details of my life, like what I sleep in, my worst parenting bloopers, and my propensity to over-use the word crap, is daunting. Worst of all, I can’t revert to my roll as the funny lady because they’ve already read every bit of my material.
This is also why I hesitate to meet other bloggers. You can’t imagine how freeing it is to get to know people without the ramifications of chemistry, unless you are one of those people who is addicted to dating men in prison. It’s a lot like that, really. You don’t genuinely want to meet that ax-murderer/rapist for fear he won’t find you as adorable as he does in your long, thought-out, edited letters or your photo-shopped pictures. Because you know that prisoner does not include your cellulite and bad breath when he calls up a mental image of you that he’s created in his head from just your words.
Oh, crap. This is not to mean that I have cellulite or bad breath. Okay, a little on the tops of my thighs, dammit!
See? It’s best if I just remain behind bars, trading cigarettes for kinky favors from the other inmates.