There are people who delete their Internet searches because they are incriminating. I delete mine because they are dull. Here's a sampling of what I searched for over the past week: Finger joint pain. Green butterflies. Wedding ring tattoos. Why does my demented dog walk in circles around me? Does anyone actually like Virginia Woolf's novel "To the Lighthouse"?
When I realized how banal my recent searches had been, I decided to Google myself. I wondered if the world at large was perhaps seeing a more exciting side to me. With very little effort, I found a site that revealed all kinds of personal tidbits about me. Some things I already knew, like my age, where I live and the fact that I don't have kids. But some things came as a surprise. I did not know, for example, that I am African-American. Or that I may have been evicted from my home, have outstanding liens or be a threat to your children.
I also did not know that I have something called a "reputation score," and I certainly did not know that it is 4.28 out of a possible 5. What happened to the other .72 points, I want to know? Can I somehow pin this on Virginia Woolf?
I am not, in fact, African-American. Nor am I in any legal or financial trouble. I am also not a danger to children (unless they show up at Halloween, at which time they will discover lights off, a locked door and no candy). It's not surprising the internet got so much wrong about me, I suppose. The other day as I was proofing an email to send, I realized I'd misspelled my own last name in my signature - and that it had been like that for quite some time.
Perhaps more unsettling than the internet not knowing you and you not knowing yourself is when you discover that real people who do know you expect the worst of you. Last month my mother said she was surprised I hadn't posted photos of her birthday party on Facebook. I said I didn't want to hurt the feelings of those who hadn't been invited. She said my brother had also refrained from posting photos, for the same reason.
"I expected him to do the right thing," she said. "But not you."
For the record, this comment came after she canceled her subscription to the magazine of which I am the editor. Which reminded me of the old self-help book "My Mother, Myself," whose promo copy reads thusly: "The greatest gift a good mother can give remains unquestioning love planted deep in the first year of life, so deep and unassailable that the tiny child grown to womanhood is never held back by the fear of losing that love, no matter what her own choice in love, sexuality or work may be."
I think we all know where I'm going with this. If my reputation is less than stellar, it's probably because my mother has always expected the worst from me, and being the good daughter that I am, I did not want to disappoint her.
Interestingly, my husband's reputation score is an abysmal 3.61. Criminal record? Yes! Liens, evictions and other assorted mayhem? Yes, yes and yes! Never mind that it's all untrue. My husband is so much better than I am at pretty much everything that just knowing the internet believes he sucks at being reputable makes me feel better.
For now, I'm through looking for proof of my interestingness online. I'm going back to my searches, which, though perhaps outwardly dull, are endlessly entertaining to me. And just in case you, too, were wondering: the joint pain is osteoarthritis, and while it isn't likely to get better, I will not require surgery. Green butterflies are a symbol of good luck and a flourishing business or relationship. Wedding ring tattoos are undeniably ugly, but I still might get one since, due to the osteoarthritis, I can no longer wear my real wedding ring. No one knows why, neurologically speaking, the demented dog walks in circles around me all the way down the street and back, so I just accept my role as the fulcrum in the Spirograph of his mind and keep things moving forward as best I can.
And yes. As unbelievable as it seems, some people actually do like "To the Lighthouse."
Dana ShavinDana Shavin is a national award-winning columnist. Email her at dana@danashavin.com or connect on Facebook at Dana Shavin Writes.