I am learning, in the almost-year that I’ve been doing this, that being a blogger is kind of weird. Like, you need to be okay with people knowing your business. I mean, you have to be really comfortable with the idea that a few of the people you’re standing in line with at the deli counter know you like to drink wine in bed at night or that your son’s teacher has read that your child sometimes has impulse control issues. It’s probably not great that she knows you’re drinking in bed either.

Luckily, I am totally cool with all of this.

But as more people start to read the blog, I find that I am running into a few of the same situations whenever I manage to tear myself away from my laptop and enter the real world. Forthwith, the hazards of blogging:

1. You Have Nothing to Say at Gatherings: Because you are constantly writing about what’s going on in your life – what you’re thinking, doing, hoping, dreading, eating, drinking, watching, daydreaming – people pretty much know everything about you. I probably started about 10 stories when I went away with my college girlfriends last weekend, only to be either stopped mid-sentence with an, “Oh yeah, I read that.” I definitely need to develop some ancillary material that does not make it into the blog, just so I won’t be so boring at parties.
2. Friends Start to Use Terms Like ‘Off the Record’: Not everyone is as comfortable as a blogger is with spilling it all to the world. And let’s be honest: I don’t share everything that’s going on around here. I get to pick and choose how I present myself to you people. Those around me aren’t always so lucky. Just ask my ex.
3. People Want You to Write About Them: Unlike your children or ex-husband, who have already experienced the pleasure of being written about in your blog, girlfriends are always looking to get a shout out. My surrogate teenage daughter across the street is also looking for a mention (PS girl: Boom, there it is). But it’s weird who and what gets written about, the stories that I choose to focus on. Like, I write about my two sons a lot, but I think that’s because they’re the oldest and the youngest of my brood and tend to be the measuring sticks for my parenting experience. I also find I frequently reference my therapist, who I see maybe once a month, but have never written about the guy who my friends and I work out with a few times a week who dispenses lots of advice while torturing us with squats and lunges (we call him The Girl Whisperer).

In the end, these are not life threatening work place hazards. I’m no coal miner dealing with black lung or police officer battling thugs. The scariest things I deal with are angry teenagers.

I just need to work on some new material or I’m never going to be invited to parties.

Amy shares way too much about herself at ‘A’ My Name is Amy. You can follow her on Facebook and Twitter@AMyNameisAmy.