In which I keel over dead from embarrassment
There's a really nice guy who used to work in tech support in my office. He's quiet, but kind, and I always enjoyed chatting with him. I knew he'd moved on to another job, and the way things often go in an organization as large as this one, I had no idea where. He slipped off my radar screen, as they say.
Out of the blue, I got an e-mail from him recently. He said,
Hi DanielleNow, I wrote that 101 things about me way back in the summer of 2005, when I had tens of readers each week. I've often thought about going back and updating it, partly because some of the stuff is out of date but mostly because there is one line in particular that I really always felt didn't need to be in there. I kept it there all this time out of some sense of moral obligation to editorial integrity, but I have increasingly come to believe that there is a "too much information" threshold that simply should not be crossed.
In the fall I was using an old copy of a Ottawa Citizen for
protecting the bricks of my outside window 'cos I was painting it, and your mug was staring at me 'cos they did a story about your blog. I am like, that looks like Danielle at work!
So, I have been reading it and it is wonderful.
I especially like the 101 things...
As for #26, this will get better over time, trust me!
Take care and hope to run into you soon!
As I read this very sweet e-mail, I thought to myself, "He couldn't possibly be talking about that one, could he? Please tell me #26 isn't that one." There are surely more than 100,000 words on this blog, and only half a dozen or so that I would truly be uncomfortable discussing over coffee with my most intimate confidantes, let alone with a casual acquaintance.
Cringing, I clicked on my own link and scrolled down. And winced. And blushed. And wished for a giant hole to open up and swallow me and my damn computer whole. Read it while it lasts, because this weekend, number 26 gets plutoed off my list.
Do you think maybe it's too late to move to a pseudonym?
Labels: The art of self-deprecation