Thoughtful Fridays:Things I am afraid to tell you.

Yesterday, a really wonderful thing happened. The blogosphere (god I hate that word) opened up and shared realities, rather than shiny, sparkly, endearingly quirky things that make us goo ooohhhh and ahhhhhhh and wish we had their lives. Spurred by a post written by Jess Constable last week, a slew of successful bloggers (led by Ez Pudewa) ran their own version of “things I am afraid to tell you,” truths about their lives that they wouldn’t normally share. Though I am not quite as much of a perfectionist or as conservative as some of these women admit to being (and nor do I have their readership), I too find my life filtered into two separate roles — the one that I share online, and the everyday ordinary one. I love this small space and the identity that I am starting to carve out for myself on this vast web, but I’ve realize that I can’t develop unhealthy habits in trying to carve out a bigger one. I want this space to be an expression of myself and my tastes/experiences, not who I want others to believe me to be. I find it heartening and inspiring that these bloggers recognize that there are things they are afraid to share … and then to share them. In lieu of a “thoughtful thursday,” I thought I’d share some of the things I’m afraid to tell my internet world:

I really like being alone. I miss my friends and family tremendously, especially when I see other people with there friends and family, but I really don’t mind spending time with  me myself and I. A lot of the time, I actually prefer it.

I am unnecessarily self-tortured. For some reason, I glorify suffering. Maybe I think it gives credence to one’s beliefs and ideals. Or adds strength, or something silly like that. Just like everyone else, I’ve had my fair share of scare, not-so-good things happen to me, but really, I’ve been incredibly luck. I had a great childhood, have a family and friends who support me unconditionally, am secure in my existence (even if sometimes it feels like I’m not), am intelligent, and have countless doors open to me. In short, I’ve got it pretty good. And there’s nothing wrong with that. It doesn’t make my life any less important or “real.”

I don’t really like cats. I love our cat to the moon and back, and I’ve got a soft spot for all domestic animals. But I still think cats are stinky and stuck up and not very good companions. There are exceptions, of course, but despite all my cat pictures on instagram, I’m still a dog person.

I have difficulty with affection. I sort of dread hugs and don’t like when people enter “my bubble.” I’m not a hand holder, and I’m certainly not a PDAer. To the point that my boyfriend gets annoyed. I think I’ve spent so long trying not to be your typical female character that I don’t know how to relax with that stuff — even if I want it sometimes. Or maybe it’s not a conditioned behavior. Maybe it’s just the way I am.

I am the messiest person I know. It’s kind of disgusting. Put my boyfriend and I together on one 120 square foot boat, and the results are not pretty. I’d love to take more pictures of the inside of our home, but I can’t. It’s that bad. I don’t like the clutter and the dirtiness, but I’m also horribly lazy and don’t really have anyone to impress, so as long as I’m comfortable, I go with it. Which leads me to my next point …

I am a hoarder. No, maybe not to the point of those silly TV shows, but I have lots of “stuff.” Maybe too much “stuff.” But I like having nice things and I like variety and I am too indecisive to throw anything away/give it to charity. Clothes and books are my main problems, but I’m also growing disturbingly large collections of shoes, beauty product, and strange condiments in my freezer (okay, I’ll blame that one on the boy). I really admire people who live a minimalist lifestyle that avoids materialism, but that’s not me. Maybe some day I’ll be able to let go, but until then, every move will remind me just how much “stuff” I have.

I don’t eat very healthily. I wish I did, ohh how I wish I did. I wish I had the will power to give up meat, and dairy and gluten. I know that my body would thank me for it. But I just love good food too much. I tell myself that it’s the tiny galley and mini-fridges (boat talk for kitchen) that keep me from eating better, but truthfully, it would take a major lifestyle change. It’s another thing I hope to improve, but I may just love processed food — candy being my favorite, cheese and crackers being a close second — a little too much.

I am not sure if I want kids. My heart says I do, my mind says I don’t — or maybe it’s the other way around. Either way, I don’t know if I’d be a good mother, or frankly if I want the responsibility. Unlike most people who want to not be their parents, I think that I’d spend my child-rearing days just trying to be mine and not quite living up to it. I wouldn’t want to bring a child into a home any less wonderful than my own. And not in a my-mom-makes-me-crustless-p-b-and-j-sandwiches-every day kind of way, but in the way that I know my parents would sacrifice anything for their kids. Anything. Another part of me thinks it would be wonderful to have five long-haired, free-spirited children running around on a farm in the country some day. And I think as I get older, that last sentiment grows.

And finally … I am embarrassed to show the people I love most my blog. I’m afraid they’re going to think it’s silly/mundane/stupid/ugly/self-serving. Honestly, this blogging thing doesn’t fit with my day-to-day image very well, and I think it would through people off a bit. I just started publishing my posts to facebook, a built-in group of viewers. I guess I kind of like having two separate worlds to go to, but I’d like my family and friends to be involved someday. I’m getting there…

So there are my nine things I’m afraid to tell you, world wide web. What have you got to tell me?