This past weekend my father was admitted to the hospital again. He has a couple of health issues that are creating some other issues. The docs decided that the most effective way of treating these would be to run a battery of diagnostic tests upon him so that they could determine what the appropriate next steps would be.
While hanging out around the big guy’s bed we engaged in a bit of small talk about this and that when all of a sudden my mother asks me why she can’t read my blog. I looked at her and said that there was no reason why she can’t read it other than the fact that I am anonymous.
She smiled and asked me how her almost forty year-old son could have so many secrets. I told her that it was as a result of my joint CIA and Mossad training and that my handlers would never allow me to reveal my secrets. Thus, it was for my own safety that I was preventing her from reading my words.
She frowned and told me that it was clear that I still have a very active imagination. I suggested that if she hung around long enough I could develop Alzheimers and my imagination would really amaze her. She frowned again and made a comment about ridiculous comments from me.
I smiled and asked her if she preferred that I get Alzheimers or be hit by a bus. She smiled and said that in my old age I was losing my ability to change the subject. I smiled and said that I wasn’t losing it in the slightest.
But I did say that at the moment I prefer my anonymity. In turn she said that she knew that my name was Jack something or other. I laughed and said that she was close but that I still wasn’t going to give her the URL.
On a serious note it is not that I can’t talk to my parents about what I write. I can share anything and everything with them. But there is some material within these walls that I prefer not to discuss with them, at least not now.
Truth is that sometimes I miss having complete anonymity.