Scary Mommy has a confessional booth where you can anonymously describe something shamefulish that you do or think. There’s something cathartic about telling strangers on the Internet your most politically incorrect thoughts. It’s like yelling into a storm. I should know. I’m a blogger.
The problem for me is that in the years that I’ve been blogging, I’ve shown my face and met quite a few of you. My mom also reads this blog and in theory my daughter may eventually do the same, so I censor myself to an extent.
*Sidenote: I do have a guest post coming up on another blog in the next couple weeks where I will be dropping an f-bomb or nine. So look forward to that, if that’s your kind of thing. Or don’t.
But I do have a bit of a confession to make today. It’s kind of embarrassing to even call it a confession because it’s pretty much the most lightweight thing I could possibly do on the sly, but sometimes it’s more fun to do things sneaky-like and feel like the world is trying to catch you in your act of indiscretion. Or at least that’s what the makers of trenchcoats want you to believe. Everyone who ever wore a trenchcoat was just trying to be a spy, when in actuality they were just a yuppy.
Sometimes I’ll get these McDonald’s giftcards in the mail from Klout and be all “Well, what am I supposed to do with this?” and then stuff them in my wallet and tell myself that if C is ever having a hard day or something, we’ll use them for an ice cream or French fries or other little treat. But that never happens.
Instead, I’ll sneak out by myself on some dubious I-cannot-bring-the-toddler-with-me errand when B comes home from work early on Friday. I usually mutter something about a pap smear or some twenty minute long sale at the hippy clothe diaper store.
Then, I’ll go through the drive-through at McDonald’s and get a hot fudge sundae for $1.19 plus tax. I know exactly how much they cost because that’s my level of efficiency. Then I’ll just sit there in my car and eat it and listen to NPR for like 15 minutes or so. Sometimes I do a crossword puzzle. I’ll drive home, and I’ll trash all the evidence of my midday McDonald’s tryst in the dumpster next to our building because if anyone knew of my secret outing, it wouldn’t be fun at all.
And that’s what I do.
It could be worse.