Don't come around here no more, whatever you're looking for.

Do you follow blogs? I do. Do you stalk your celebrity boyfriend online religiously? I do.

It's a weird world - the world of Internet celebrity. You can come out of it as an expert - as a something (I'm honestly not sure what to call him because I lose brain cells even linking you to that hot mess.)

And sometimes it's totally accidental. You put yourself out there and who knows who'll find you - some sad-sack Czech advertising exec who pilfers your photos off Facebook. I understand we're all trying to save money (and want to forgo paying residuals to models), but the only place I want my annual holiday card is plastered on some one's refrigerator.

I've had my own, albeit unintentional, brush as a site starlet.


Last year, I completed a sprint triathlon. It was well before I showed up around here, so I never really put words down about that experience. But what happened following the race is what made me so hesitant for so long about living out loud online.

A few days after I'd crossed the finish line and recovered from the adrenaline rush, I scoped out race reports online. See, there's a whole batch of crazy weekend armchair athletes who dish out their trials and travails on the race course - making it easy for folks like me, who typically fly under the radar, to find out what other people were thinking as they suffered through those final miles.

I came to a particular blog and fell out of my chair (causing more of an injury than anything that occur ed during the actual race) after I read this:

"As the race began, there was a girl (#90-something) who was standing between me and the girl in front of me. She was making all sorts of crazy comments about the people in the water -- saying things like "oh that person's gonna get caught," and "look at her form, it's crap!" I thought it was pretty presumptuous of her to critique the form of the women in the pool who were obvious faster than her (given her race seeding), but whatever."

Except, originally, #90-something was me - the author put my bib number down as the culprit who couldn't keep her crazy mouth shut.

Fear is a huge motivator - and I'll get to that in more detail another time - but I can definitely assure you that trash-talking some suburban stay-at-home mom as she swam furiously through the water trying to meet a lifelong goal was the last thing on my mind.

Nope, I was pretty much standing pool-side, knock-kneed, shivering and wondering why in Hades I decided to do a triathlon. I wasn't snarking - I was scared out of mind. One of the few times in my life I've been left speechless since I was way too busy trying to figure out how I could sneak away without my husband, daughter and friends noticing I'd bailed.

No, not me. (And, for the record, I never heard this rant in this first place, but was likely only a few people away.)

I posted a comment. I e-mailed the author. I asked her to change the number, delete the post, whatever - but it wasn't me. She apologized, but wasn't convinced. She altered the post, but didn't remove it.

I didn't choose it. I didn't want it. I know certain people read it before it was changed and that they went and looked up the name the infamous Mel Gibson/Christian Bale of the 2008 SL Women's Triathlon. But I have to live with it. In my heart, I know it wasn't me. That I'd never say those sort of things and I certainly wouldn't throw it up on the Internet without checking my facts my first.

Super star? That's me.