Two days ago I got a really weird Facebook message. The person sending it said they just realised that “Coble” was my married name and that they had no idea what my pre-married name had been and what, if any, history we had.
I am mortified. Because I actually wrote up our history when recalling one of my life’s most embarrassing moments.
Yes, guy. That is correct. I completely mortified myself at your expense, and have done for twenty-five years now.
But the weird part is this. That whole thing is this major episode of my past and something I still have creep to the front of my mind when I am tossing in bed at 3:00am thinking about the myriad ways in which I have failed to be spectacular. But to this guy, this other person, I’m just some random person whom he friended on Facebook because we have a shared alma mater and a slap dozen mutual friends. I’m a walk-on.
That whole thing is weirding me out more than time-travel and alternate universes (which is the thing that I fall back on to weird me out on a regular basis.) Not just with this fellow, but in general. Lately whenever I talk to someone it strikes me how I view our conversation in a particular way but to them it means a totally different thing. To them I’m the lady who needs to wash her hair but had to come to Kroger to get a 12-pack of Orange Fanta. To them I’m the weird shut-in they know from blogging. Or I’m the childless aunt who tries to give advice but comes off more like the crazy cat lady aunt.
I star in my own movie, and aside from being kind of same-y here in the middle part I’ve liked this film so far. But it’s so humbling to think that nobody else cares about me and what I do nearly as much as I do. I am glad of this sometimes, because it would creep me out to be a god figure over a world of tiny peoople and what little tastes of celebrity I’ve had over the years–notoriety, more like–have not been things I enjoy.
But it’s also weird in a way that I can’t hit upon. It makes me feel like vapor, moving in and around people but never leaving much of an impression.
I’d at least like to be wicker and leave lines on butts.