on a need to know basis

The other night after reading my blog post about our camping trip, my mom asked me if I was ever going to identify Mr. Risky Business. "It seems like it's all about you," she said.

"Well, it IS all about me," I said, knowing full well she meant the relationship, and I meant the blog.

But this blog IS about me. It's about my awkwardness and my mistakes and foibles. And aside from blogging about the occasional Jersey City game of "obese or pregnant," I try not to make this about other people, at least not in a negative way. But no matter how I try, and even think I succeed at that, I know that some of my writing could always be perceived differently by my audience. And since perception is everything, I don't identify anyone but those who are okay with being identified. Or rather, those who are okay with being associated with me.

If RB said to me today, "Elizabeth! It's come to me in a dream! I want the WORLD to know who I am!", then I would happily post a picture of him, if such an opportunity arose and it made sense to do so. Probably, though, I'd still go on referring to him as Mr. RB, because a.) it's more fun and b.) it's my blog, goddammit, and I'll code name if I want to.

These questions of who to talk about, what to share and how much of it, these are questions bloggers have been discussing since the invention of blogging. Whenever in the eff that was. It's something my hero, Dooce herself, has written about quite a bit as she's continually faced criticism over how much information is available about her family and specifically, her children, online.

But this is not a dilemma new to blogging. How much do you share with someone, anyone? And how do you make that decision of where the line falls? Disclosure is something that seriously ups the ante on emotional investment in any relationship, romantic or friendly. But how much you share and when, and then, in how much detail, is a fuzzy, fuzzy area for me.

The other night over dinner, RB and I were swapping stories about some of our romantic firsts. First significant other, first kiss. For the most part, they're sweet stories that happened so long ago as to be completely irrelevant now other than anecdotal and entertaining. But then, RB shared a story about a time he got hit on by a girl rather, uh, aggressively. And I pulled the brakes. I couldn't have told you what the line was of over-sharing, even at that moment, but much like Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart and pornographic material, I knew it when I saw it.

Unless you're 15 and saving yourself for marriage, when you enter a relationship you have baggage and history. And to a certain extent, I do want to get to know Mr. RB's baggage and history, because I think that falls under the umbrella of disclosure, the kind that brings you closer to someone and emotionally matures your relationship. But maybe I don't want to know about that time at Music Fest when this chick -- that'll do. THAT'LL DO.

God knows I've got plenty of stories that could make a boyfriend cringe a little, but why share them? As I told him, I think that I (and maybe women in general, but I won't throw all of you under the bus like that) like to hold on to this obviously fantastical belief that the person I am with has never liked or been with anyone before me, never was attracted to anyone until he met me and did not even know the scent of a woman until me. If you're wondering what that smell is, yes, it IS bullshit, and I do smell it too. I'm well aware.

I don't know if I developed this philosophy while I was living in England, but it certainly was influenced by the attitudes of my English friends towards a ritual that, up til that point, had been a very important part of my dating career: The Sharing of The Number. That sacred moment when one person inevitably gets bent out of shape because the other person has had sex with more people than they have, or they're embarrassed that their number is higher or, really, just invent any other of a MILLION reasons why feelings could get hurt, because there are a million. Easy. (No pun intended.)

My English friends were appalled at the very idea. That's in your past, they said. What bearing does it have on your current relationship? On who you are? On how they feel about you?

And I had to answer: None. No bearing whatsoever. And thus, my official stance on the matter was completely altered -- I don't want to know, and further, I simply don't care.

Because what does that number even mean? It is about as useful as on old man's dick (thank you again, Deadwood). It doesn't tell me how many times you've been in love, how many times you had your heart broken, how many times you went out on a limb for someone or invested in another person. Those are the things I want to know. That is the disclosure I'm after.

It makes sense, really. I've never been fond of numbers. Always preferred words.


cheers,
elizabeth