I enjoyed being anonymous.
*A reader delurks with a lengthy email decoding my identity in eight "clues." Colonel Mustard in the kitchen, were his exact words. Funny and flattering.
*Responding to emails, I sign my real name, and people write back only to say, “Whoa!” as if my name is the answer to a very important question they forgot they’d even asked. This happens a lot.
*A few internet buddies track down my picture on flickr after a Paris blog meet. “Gotcha,” reads the subject line in my inbox the next morning. I feel like I should have wires curled in my ear and a microphone in my pen. Or at least a Where’s Waldo shirt.
Good fun, being all mysterious-like. And oh, do I milk it.
I show pictures of my boobs, legs, feet, and feet. I am being cute; you are cute in return. Let’s see a full pic, eh? That’s when I start feeling like a carny running a peep show. I tell you I’m a short little fat man.
Still, it's totally fun.
Then the San Diego Reader invites me to write as their July blogger,
a piece from Paris each week this month, and I am thrilled. “Of course you can stay anonymous," they tell me. But I begin thinking, I'm not bound to corporate
contract, I don’t gossip about my old job or current jobs...Why am I
anonymous again? And also, my name could be in print!
*tap tap tap*
Is this thing on? Where’d everybody..? Oh, right, you’ve gone there already. Fair enough.
But hey, one last thing! Bonjour! Howdy everyone!