Secrets

Rick's 100 juicy details (look Ma, I did it!) got me thinking about secrets. Then, on a message board I belong to, this link was posted. I loved the idea of the anonymous postcard. And all the art that's out there in every day people, just waiting for a place to be expressed.

But, I don't have many secrets. I really don't. I've always thought about it this way; if I'm an open book, no one will ever be able to "have anything on me." But, it's not like I'm walking around paranoid, thinking someone will want to blackmail me.

Of course, I have things I don't want certain people to know, but I think I'm an emotional exibitionist. I say things people think are inappropriate, or are "too much information," but I like to think I tell the truth.

I've been thinking about this for a few days now. Trying to come up with something, even if it's not truly a secret, that most people don't know about me. Considering that two of the possible three who read this know me better than anyone else, that's a real challenge. Here goes:

• I imagine my death quite often. Actually my memorial service. Who would travel to be there? I think of which stories my friends and family would choose to tell. What kind of person they would say I was. I wonder who would take care of Charlie, and who would read my many journals. Alternately, I see myself seriously injured or ill in the hospital. That's better, because I'd get to see who comes to visit.

• I worry most about dying alone. To whom would I leave my family antiques? The jewelry that's been in my family for generations? The special pieces my mother has given me over the years?

• I imagine writing novels with thinly veiled references to all the people who have done badly by me or hurt me.

• Sometimes I think I'm impossible to love.

See, everything I write in terms of secrets is all the "poor me" kinda stuff that no one wants to read anyway. It's not interesting or charming or witty.

I suspect I'm not the only one with these secrets.