I have skeletons in my closet. Of course, I do. I pity those whose closets are pristine and open to inspection. The only thing worse than living in a fishbowl is being worthy of living in a fishbowl.
Don’t get me wrong. My skeletons are not the scary ones, putrid flesh hanging on the bones with maggots and stench crawling about. No, mine are the Walmart variety, plastic glow-in-the-dark trinkets that you hang at kid’s Halloween parties. But they’re mine, no matter how innocent they ultimately are. I’d be embarrassed if they came to light–which is the whole point of having skeletons in the first place–but their revelation would not be Earth-shattering.
There are those who say that if you’ve done nothing wrong, if you’ve got nothing to hide, then you don’t need privacy. I’m speechless in the face of such lunacy, but a friend of mine recently put it into perspective. He said to view privacy issues as control issues. How would you feel if I came into your life and told you when you would rise, what you would eat, when to exercise… what to think. You’d probably be pretty pissed. At least I hope you would be.
Allowing strangers to peek into your life is giving up a measure of self-control. It should be your choice what parts of your life to share and with whom to share them. If your closets are populated with only grade-school glow-in-the-dark skeletons, they are your grade-school glow-in-the-dark skeletons. Trot them out only for those you chose.