Why do I spy?

I’m creeping myself out, just a little bit. We’re not actually friends, after all. We attended the same party and briefly shared our freelance writing experiences, but we haven’t communicated since our cursory, “It was so nice to meet you!” emails.

Which we exchanged months ago.

Yet I know a lot about her. I know places she’s going and people she’s seeing, books she’s reading and music she’s listening to. I know her political views, her favorite vacation spot and how she feels about gardening (she hates it).

I’d like to think it’s her fault for turning me into a peeping Tom. She’s the one who provided me this window; she’s the one who keeps the curtains flung open; she’s the one who doesn’t mind prancing around in her virtual underwear.

But why do I actually look? Am I nosy, am I bored, am I a social deviant? Or a pathetic combination of all three? What satisfaction do I get from learning things about her—especially when she’s learning nothing about me?

In other words, if I haven’t made my personal life available on a blog, why am I reading her blog?

I try to tell myself that I freely read about David Sedaris’ life, and he doesn’t know me, either. But reading a Sedaris essay in The New Yorker seems more legitimate than reading the blog of a causal acquaintance.

Frankly, I’m embarrassed that I know the names of my casual acquaintance’s husband, children and dog. Yes, I know the dog’s name, breed and the fact that he doesn’t like to pee outside in rainy weather. These details about my acquaintance’s life are not only tedious, they’re none of my damn business. But she was the one who pressed me with a business card that contained her website.

The Facebook experience feels just as invasive.

After I succumbed to family pressure to create a Facebook profile, I immediately received several friend requests. Everyone, from a former PTA pal to my ex-sister-in-law, wanted to be Facebook buddies. The problem is, once I completed my sketchy profile, I never posted anything else.

“Where are you?” queried one F.B. friend. “Come out and play! LOL!” But I realized I have zero interest in posting news or photos about my life, so once again I found myself peering into the lives of others without giving them a look in return. I feel just as crummy when I grab a People magazine at my hairdresser’s and immediately flip to the paparazzi shots in the front.

Obviously, I’ve got to end this online diary-reading fixation.

That is, unless I decide to participate in the process. It’s a daunting prospect for someone who still hides the handwritten journals from her youth in the deepest corner of her desk drawer. They’re safe there—safe from the eyes of people who like to snoop into private lives.

People like me.