I've said that dozens of times when I look at a post I have just sent out: I haven’t told anyone else that in my entire life, so why did I spin onto the Internet? And under my real name, and my photo, no less. And now everybody can see it. Hundreds of thousands of people, maybe, eventually. My sons.  My granddaughters -- when they get old enough. Who knows. These words may hang around on the edge of the blogosphere, like landfill.

My exs can read it. And the man who is interested in me. And my book club members. Some of them read me now, too. They’re the last living creatures who still barely email, but they are coming around.

I grew up in that closed-mouth, buttoned-down era -- not really so long ago but it seems like 100 years, at a time when we’d giggle when we said “period.” Tattoos were only seen on the biceps of sailors, who got them in a Singapore alley. We didn’t even pierce our ears, let alone our labia. For years I said “making love” even when there was none. We pretended to be virgins until we married at 21, and many of us were, at least technically.

We kept things to ourselves then. But boy I’ve changed with the times. Yes, I try to edit my posts before and after I push “publish,” but I spill my guts in comments all the time. I’ve already told you that my mother didn’t love me. That I was an ugly duckling. That I had an orgasm on a school bus wheel. That I dated a murderer. That I slept with my husband on our first date. That I leave dirty dishes on my bed. And so many other things I can’t believe I told you.

And I haven’t even really gotten started. There’s a long, winding way to go, both backwards and forwards.

I find myself here, like maybe most of us, opening up more with you people I never met  more than with in-the-flesh friends, maybe even more than with spouses or sibs. An intimacy without familiarity. Before, we paid therapists to listen by the 50-minute hour to our woes and shame. But who needs that when we get comments that are wise and supportive from people we know only online, and yet who know our lives so well?

BOS (before Open Salon) maybe once and a while I sat next to a friendly person in an airplane, and  stuck together in an aluminum tube at 35k feet, we talked freely, bouncing and bonding for a few hours. That was our best chance to vent and confess.

But on OS, the dialogue keeps going and growing and deepening. With Open Salon, (and somewhat on facebook and other social-media sites), you’ll probably be my “friend” until the day I flounce off into the sunset.  I will hear about your mean father and your hatred of Cheney and  your itchy nose, and you will hear about mine.

It’s not hard to be open here because we trust each other. And when I write rather than talk, I can pretend I’m hiding behind the keyboard.  And you can’t see my face, so I am braver. I am here world. I am ok in my imperfections, and yes, even with my deepest fears and flaws and the sordid anecdotes that turn out not to be so sordid after all, or uncommon.

With few exceptions, I have never met you, or seen you or even spoken with you. You are pictured in my imagination, some of you as you were five years and fifty pounds ago. I idealize you without realizing it. Especially those of you who are flowers and movie stars and abbreviations and made-up words and initials.

As open as I am becoming, I don’t come close to expounding the way some of you do. Flat out everything. I know about your poodles, your pooped days, your poo. I know when and where you fuck (not "make love," necessarily), and why and how it felt and even tasted. 

Is it too much info? Well, it helps us realize we are all the same and all different. I read the stories you tell of love and hope and dreams and sorrows. In fact, I’ve learned more about the human condition since August when I found this place than I maybe ever have before. That’s why I read what you tell me.  And why I tell you that kind of thing, too.

The BS quotient, ironically, is lessened because you are virtual. Hype and preening and agendas are stripped away because we don’t need to do that here. Open salon takes on a double, maybe triple meaning. And when I scan down the feed, or I look back and read my blogs here, I’m still surprised about what I’ve already told you and how much more I want to tell you, and will. And what you have told me, and will in the future.

And maybe we will become in-the-flesh friends; in fact, some of us already have. Friends who meet and play, and who will still support each other on this rare base of virtual intimacy.

It really is quite astounding. And I guess that’s why I told you. And why you're reading this all the way to the end.