This blog isn't for my friends. It's not for my mom. In fact, if someone I know happens to stumble upon it and sees me in the stories, I'll be ruined. This blog is an outlet, an experiment in understanding who I really am, and an opportunity to share what I might not otherwise share with the world's eyes on me. It's also a chance to share embarrassing stories in hopes of keeping you reading.
So I write this blog anonymously.
Are we free without anonymity? I am a different me to different people. Father, husband, coworker, introvert who doesn't throw a football in a spiral, extrovert who likes to make people laugh, the guy who gets lost on his own street, or even the kid who developed such a profound crush in the 4th grade that he was lucky there weren't stricter stalker laws. (Come on. I was 10.) I was also a different me in the embarrassing story below. Yet despite the many versions of me, I'm constrained to those limited roles. Wiggle out of a role and the world nudges you right back in.
So I need to write anonymously and see what comes out.
The embarrassing story. This isn't the first time I've flirted with anonymity. In my teenage years I met a girl online. I was 17, she was 23. I used to talk to her in the evening and quickly cover the phone when my mom came into the room, then I'd tell the girl it was a pesky roommate. I've got a lot of weaknesses, but I've never really been a liar. I didn't like it, but how else could I keep this girl interested? She was a short, leather-wearing mystery while my most pressing concern in life was late homework.
So I told her my name was Aaron Harkonen. Aaron because I liked the name. And Harkonen from the book Dune. Remember, I met this girl online at a time before online dating, so showing my geeky side was a plus. I'm not sure women swipe right for that these days.
It didn't take long for the girl to catch on to my deceit. One day while we were driving she asked to see my place. Just to see where I lived. Not even meet my roommates (they had multiplied by this point). So I started to drive east, hoping she'd lose interest. She didn't. By the time I entered a subdivision with no outlet, I started to drive slower. And slower. "What's wrong? Forget where you live?" she asked. Remember, I get lost on my own street, so I could have used that excuse. But I decided to tell her the truth. My name wasn't Aaron. I didn't live with roommates. I wasn't really six feet. (That should have been her first red flag.)
After the confession she didn't get angry. She just smiled and I drove her home. But we stopped seeing each other soon after. I guess the mystery was gone. No wonder women flock to the international spies in movies; it's the mystery. And the strength, the calm, the charm, the abs, the money, hair that never needs to be shaped, acting like a suit is as comfy as onesie jammies, and an immunity to the occasional zit on the forehead. Oh, and they're make believe. But still.
The epilogue. A few years later I was in the market to buy a motorcycle for the first and only time in my life. I found a small 400 with a for sale sign that was parked in an empty lot, so I stopped to check it out. It was perfect, mainly because it was small enough I felt less likely to kill myself. While I was looking at it a truck pulled up and a girl hopped out. Yep, it was her. And apparently I was checking out her bike. She was in the market for a bigger bike (and mind you, she was like 5' 3"), so she was selling this bike with the purple ghost paint. I hadn't noticed the paint, but a man who is secure with himself doesn't mind purple paint on his ride. Or that his ride is small. Or that he's buying his small purple bike from a small girl he used to date because she's upgrading to a real bike. A real man doesn't even notice that stuff.
So I bought the bike and rode off into the sunset, after she showed me how to work the clutch, and gas, the brake, and turn signals. I sat on the bike like a lying ex-boyfriend buying an emasculating piece of machinery, waited for her to leave, lurched forward a few times, and then rode off into the sunset.
So it goes without saying, I need to write anonymously.
So I write this blog anonymously.
Are we free without anonymity? I am a different me to different people. Father, husband, coworker, introvert who doesn't throw a football in a spiral, extrovert who likes to make people laugh, the guy who gets lost on his own street, or even the kid who developed such a profound crush in the 4th grade that he was lucky there weren't stricter stalker laws. (Come on. I was 10.) I was also a different me in the embarrassing story below. Yet despite the many versions of me, I'm constrained to those limited roles. Wiggle out of a role and the world nudges you right back in.
So I need to write anonymously and see what comes out.
The embarrassing story. This isn't the first time I've flirted with anonymity. In my teenage years I met a girl online. I was 17, she was 23. I used to talk to her in the evening and quickly cover the phone when my mom came into the room, then I'd tell the girl it was a pesky roommate. I've got a lot of weaknesses, but I've never really been a liar. I didn't like it, but how else could I keep this girl interested? She was a short, leather-wearing mystery while my most pressing concern in life was late homework.
So I told her my name was Aaron Harkonen. Aaron because I liked the name. And Harkonen from the book Dune. Remember, I met this girl online at a time before online dating, so showing my geeky side was a plus. I'm not sure women swipe right for that these days.
It didn't take long for the girl to catch on to my deceit. One day while we were driving she asked to see my place. Just to see where I lived. Not even meet my roommates (they had multiplied by this point). So I started to drive east, hoping she'd lose interest. She didn't. By the time I entered a subdivision with no outlet, I started to drive slower. And slower. "What's wrong? Forget where you live?" she asked. Remember, I get lost on my own street, so I could have used that excuse. But I decided to tell her the truth. My name wasn't Aaron. I didn't live with roommates. I wasn't really six feet. (That should have been her first red flag.)
After the confession she didn't get angry. She just smiled and I drove her home. But we stopped seeing each other soon after. I guess the mystery was gone. No wonder women flock to the international spies in movies; it's the mystery. And the strength, the calm, the charm, the abs, the money, hair that never needs to be shaped, acting like a suit is as comfy as onesie jammies, and an immunity to the occasional zit on the forehead. Oh, and they're make believe. But still.
The epilogue. A few years later I was in the market to buy a motorcycle for the first and only time in my life. I found a small 400 with a for sale sign that was parked in an empty lot, so I stopped to check it out. It was perfect, mainly because it was small enough I felt less likely to kill myself. While I was looking at it a truck pulled up and a girl hopped out. Yep, it was her. And apparently I was checking out her bike. She was in the market for a bigger bike (and mind you, she was like 5' 3"), so she was selling this bike with the purple ghost paint. I hadn't noticed the paint, but a man who is secure with himself doesn't mind purple paint on his ride. Or that his ride is small. Or that he's buying his small purple bike from a small girl he used to date because she's upgrading to a real bike. A real man doesn't even notice that stuff.
So I bought the bike and rode off into the sunset, after she showed me how to work the clutch, and gas, the brake, and turn signals. I sat on the bike like a lying ex-boyfriend buying an emasculating piece of machinery, waited for her to leave, lurched forward a few times, and then rode off into the sunset.
So it goes without saying, I need to write anonymously.
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