Celebrity in the Hood
My husband is no fan of blogs, blogging, or bloggers. He loves me, of course, but he tries to forget that I blog. Despite this aversion to blogging—and because of the connection I feel to certain bloggers and their chosen subjects, and my penchant for telling him what I read that day—he knows who Mightygirl, Defective Yeti, Chez Miscarriage Woman, and Rittenhouse Guy are.
Ladies and gentlemen, Rittenhouse Guy has moved into the neighborhood. He's literally right around the corner from us. There is a possibility of coffee in our future. I am petrified.
I am petrified of being boring. Of being ill-informed, ill-read, ill-prepared to discuss current events. Of being far more interesting on my website (ha!) than I am in person. Of being judged, as much for what I have as for what I lack. I think this (and the fact that it usually takes a Herculean effort to drag me out of the house for any social event) is what kept me from going to more Girls' Brunch events when I lived in the Bay Area. A Girls' Brunch book-swap/brunch is where I met Maggie, though she probably doesn't remember me; I also met a bunch of other cool women who happen to have blogs at that and another GB event, but instead of really bonding with these women and developing real-life friendships, I felt like the least-cool person in the room both times and just sort of slunk away.
So, I am petrified. I'm looking forward to meeting Rittenhouse Guy, of course, since he's the source of most of my Philadelphia knowledge (I started reading his blog in preparation for the move), but I also harbor a secret wish to remain anonymous behind my keyboard. Given that he's likely to be out on his front steps smoking a cigarette someday as I pass on my way to the library or to Whole Foods, a meeting seems inevitable. I just hope he doesn't think I'm a dork.
My husband, meanwhile, is a little unnerved. The only thing that could possibly be weirder is if dooce moved in next door.