I feel so violated, so cheapened—it's almost unspeakable. Yesterday morning started in a perfectly ordinary way. After I dropped the kids off at school, I made coffee, checked my email, and proceeded to Facebook-stalk the girlfriend of an old crush before running some errands. What appeared in Girlfriend's place was a picture of a bandaged thumb with the caption Sorry, this page is unavailable.
At Old Crush's page, there was another bandaged thumb. Might as well have been their two middle fingers flipping me off.
Call me old-fashioned, but isn't the main point of voyeurism not to be seen—while the other main point, of course, is to see? Well, now suddenly our primary rules of engagement had been reversed. They saw me, but I couldn't see them.
What kind of perverts do that?
No, I told myself, it's not possible. I'm just being paranoid. After all, how could they know I peep?
I decided to check out Girlfriend's blog. No new post, but it was reassuring to see I hadn't been blocked there. Until I noticed my name at the upper righthand corner of her blog. Apparently, every time I stalk her blog, the hit appears in her stats, charlotteheckscher.blogspot.com. I basically left my calling card.
What makes Girlfriend more interesting than Old Crush? Well, for starters, her privacy settings were more lackadaisical. But aside from that, she's the opposite of me.
Girlfriend is also double-jointed.
Old Crush not only pales in comparison, but peeping on her reaffirms three indisputable truths that I don't want to forget. One, you define who you are; two, you only have power over yourself; and three, I forget, but three was good, too.
So, while I imagine them huddled together in mutual outrage (or climbing a mountain or sky diving, but still outraged), I am mortified and so ashamed. Did I knowingly give them permission to spy on me spying on them? No, I most certainly did not.
There are two sides to that peephole, people. And now my privacy has been violated. I wonder what those two saw and how they imagine me and—dear God, what if he kept my crazy love letters and showed her what a whack-job I am? (Once I wrote about my eyes rolling back in my head when I accidentally bumped his arm. My arm was bare and his was hairy, so sue me.) Absolutely mortified.
I just remembered the third thing. The third indisputable truth is that life goes on.
So this morning after I dropped the kids off at school, made coffee, and looked over my email, I checked their two busted thumbs, and wrote about it—and I even alliterated. (Peephole, people, that's not too bad.) I feel better already.