Thursday, June 07, 2007
a surge of privacy
I made my blog "private" for a few days this week. It's likely that very few noticed, and clearly now it's back up and available to everyone. As will probably remain the case. But for two days or so, I was overcome with the desire to keep eyes out and off. The more people know about my blog, the harder it becomes for me to write it.
I have an ambivalent relationship with social pressure. On one hand I could really care less what people think. "People" are not living my life, trying to navigate my circumstances, or understand my desires–I am. And I'm doing my best, mostly. But I am also aware that a good segment of my audience are living lives very different than mine. The vast majority of hits this site gets are from the Midwest, and I have some vague idea who is doing all that clicking out there. My Midwestern friends write with eloquence and humor about their children, their husbands, their in-laws, their priests, their homes. And that is as it should be. But living sans husband and offspring in New York, my concerns are not so, er, obvious. (Would this be a good place to mention that I absolutely hate baby showers?) Back to the point: I don't really care to please people and yet I get all cagey and unhappy when I feel I might be being, yes, judged. I imagine people's mild concern radiating at me from the other side of the computer screen and I get annoyed, quickly. I want to yell, "Well, then, you try this if you've got so many opinions!"
I don't hate being single. In fact, I like it. I can read in bed as long as I want, in fact I can pretty much read whenever I want, except for at work. I can go out whenever I like, wherever I'd like. For example, the plans for this coming weekend include a meadering drive through Yonkers in a quest for a rumored abandoned electrical plant (check flickr next week for photos). Or I can take the train to the city, only my obedient journal and camera in tow, to see what I can see. Nobody gets upset if I spend all evening writing and rewriting a poem while eating cereal. I can listen to as much melancholy music as I'd like. Meals in restaurants are always pleasant, never rushed. Nobody feeds off my body. I sleep all night long. I only do my own dishes. I don't have to carry diapers or wear practical shoes. And I still get to anticipate first kisses. I'm not saying I don't want to get married or have kids, I'm saying I'm not married and I don't have kids.
And I like where I am.