I was nervous posting this week’s dating column. More nervous than when I published my first article in the Branford Patch. I was the old fashioned sweaty palms quickly beating heart wondering what everyone will think about me kind of nervous. It wasn’t an article I ever intended to publish. It was a conversation with a friend turned diary entry shared amongst other close friends – one of whom happened to be my editor.
My friends loved it – especially my editor. She told me to write an intro paragraph and she’d run it.
I told her no. I told her I was playing things cool and publishing this emotionally vulnerable rambling would not be cool. I offered to write a piece about the lengths women go to in order to hide their normal, healthy bodily functions (like farting) from the men they like. She didn’t bite off on my farting pitch.
I hate telling people no. I said I’d think about publishing it.
My editor thinks I played it cool in my discernment process. I freaking panicked.
I asked all my friends what to do – the girls told me not to publish it. It was too personal. Too vulnerable. To sad-sack pathetic.
The guys insisted I publish it – since they were “nice guys” they felt vindicated by my humbling reality check.
Voices swarmed my head. Everyone with a conflicting opinion.
I checked my moral compass:
Was it a good story? Hell yes!
Were identities fully protected? Of course.
Was I cruel or insulting to the other party involved? No.
Would he read it? Most likely, he said he reads my blog and column.
Did he deserve to have a say in it? Yes. He did.
Because it wasn’t just my story, it was his story too – and it was my biased telling of his story. I owed him veto power before releasing it to my vast readership of….maybe 100 people.
I made my decision: I would publish it only after giving the boy the courtesy of a head’s up and a chance to personally review it.
I bravely called. Voicemail.
I left one of my awkwardly cryptic messages. Good thing I can write – I’m a horrible orator!
One day passed. He hadn’t called me back. I was a day past my deadline. I sent a text alluding to the fact that I may have accidentally written something about him and would like to publish it and needed his OK asap.
He called a few hours later.
We talked for awhile before I brought up the white elephant, “So, um I accidentally maybe wrote this thing and kinda showed it to my editor and she happened to really like it, but since it was sorta about you….well, maybe I’ll just e-mail it to you and then you can let me know later if it’s ok if I publish it?”
I told him it was cool if he wanted to call me back after he finished reading.
He said he’d just read it then. Out loud.
I was mortified. Here was the star of my mushy, vulnerable sappy diary entry reading it out loud to me! In his best “narrator” voice, nonetheless!
I spent half the excruciating 7 minutes chewing on my pillow so I wouldn’t make any noises that would give away the fact I was dying of embarrassment. Still, I knew he could hear me blushing on the phone.
Honestly, I had it coming to me. It was like some ironic justice that I would have to hear a boy I wrote about read my own words back to me.
When he read the closing sentence, I held my breath, awaiting judgment.
He liked it.
He liked it!
We talked more about me writing. He reminded me that when I kissed him, I promised not to blog about it. I blushed again, loudly, “Ummm, well, technically, this isn’t my blog…but I’m sorry….I lied?”
He laughed, and said he always knew I was going to write about it anyway.
He knew I was going to write about it anyway? Ugh. I have got to work on my femme mystique! Am I that easy to read?
I told him that this story was Chapter 2 in the book I’m writing. I said if I get the book published and it takes off and I record an audiobook, he can narrate Chapter 2. It only seems fair.