Relative Something

I have heard it said that I reveal things in my writing here that might be better kept private. Possibly.

Lately, Cyndie and I have experienced a pretty heavy dose of the perception that “Big Brother” is watching, with our activity selling and buying homes. I’m pretty sure I don’t have any privacy.

Long ago I accepted the use of Google’s email service, knowing full-well that my correspondence would be mined for information to use to target the advertising that would appear on my screen. Being the frugal sort, I willingly accepted it as a reality I could exchange for an email service I didn’t need to pay for. I am lucky, in that my eyes rarely stray to the part of the window that displays the ingeniously selected links of advertisers. They are almost always transparent to me during my email activity.

Not long after we listed our house for sale, the junk mail coming to our postal mailbox began to include cards and flyers from moving companies. Yesterday, our cable company sent a notice informing us how to transfer our services seamlessly to our new address. Hmm. We haven’t reported our plans to the cable company yet.

Going through the loan approval process was very revealing, in terms of how much others know about us. The credit bureaus knew more about us than we did about ourselves.

I think concerns about my privacy took the biggest hit when my briefcase, phone, checkbook, iPod, and wallet were stolen out of my car. More than ever before, that was the moment I felt that I no longer controlled information about myself. I created all new accounts, and life went on for me.

I don’t really have anything to hide. That makes a lack of privacy a bit easier to accept. It is a bit startling to one day see the entirety of Google’s list of search terms I have ever used, pop up on screen. “Did I really type those words in a search?” If I did, I did.

When the world finally finds out every little truth about me, I won’t feel like a victim of character assassination. The result will be more a function of character suicide. I am what I am.