E-eek!

E-mail is beginning to creep me out.

I got a disconcerting pass-along from a friend – a chain letter of sorts – that asked about a dozen personal questions. You’re supposed to answer them, then forward the note to five friends (and return it to the sender). They were fairly innocuous questions: What’s your nickname; are you married; happily or not; how old are your kids. No mother’s maiden name, last four digits of your credit card, SSN.

I’m about as cold-hearted as it gets when it comes to chain letters. That six-year-old cancer patient whose dying wish is to have four million people read the poem “Stop Dancing So Fast”? Erased it. The kissing baby whose eyebrows wiggle? Delete.

So there’s no way I was going to play this e-trivia game.

But what surprised me was how uncomfortable I felt about seeing my friend’s details splayed out. I imagine it floating around in fluorescence for any knucklehead with a browser to read. I felt embarrassed.

The thing is, I used to love this stuff. When I worked at another marketing magazine, we had exactly this kind of personal trivia game. It was known as The Quiz. We called ourselves Quizmos, and about twice a week someone floated a question that a dozen or so of us answered in a file tucked away in an obscure corner of the computer network. You could predict the questions: favorite childhood memory; hidden talent; worst advice your mother ever gave you. We’d guess which answer was whose.

This was 10 years ago, before e-mail, but our computers had a message system that ran like subway tunnels beneath the veneer of day-to-day work. It was the best grapevine I have ever been privy to.

The Quizmos were a loose configuration, but we knew who we were. New staffers got the once-over to see if they were Quizmo-worthy. We were opt-in before “opt-in” was invented. It was a secret society, and it went on for months.

So why did my friend’s e-mail unnerve me? Because I didn’t know the person who sent it to her, and I didn’t recognize any of the other names on her Forward list. I felt roped into the company of strangers, watching my friend bare all – well, not all, but some.

It got me wondering: If this kind of light intimacy from a friend makes me nervous, what kind of audience am I for relationship marketing? When I give permission a la Godin, what exactly am I giving permission for?

So I took stock of my e-communiques. I’m registered with 12 sites and regularly get e-mail notes from seven of them. I flubbed my registration at Reflect.com, so their notes are addressed to “Dear Your” (last name: “Name”). Classmates.com thinks I am Steve Peth, class of ’79. These misnomers give me comfort. They prove these brands don’t have me pegged. I’m still the boss of my dossier.

But what happens if I initiate a deeper connection? What if I actually buy personalized shampoo from Reflect.com? I had a coupon code for free cleanser when I order personalized moisturizer, so I built one of each. (You choose your skin type, scent, bottle shape, and product name, but have no input on the actual ingredients used.) The coupon kept triggering an error message, so after six tries I gave up and built a bottle of shampoo instead.

The glitch annoyed me, but given my mood, I found it reassuring: No one was watching me from the other side of the screen. Our “relationship” works because Reflect.com isn’t really peeking right into my medicine chest. Its “customization” is mostly about packaging choices. Its e-mails to “Dear Your” are nice but not too personal. Any brand that presumes to know me too well turns me off. It’s like having someone you’ve never met try to schmooze you over the phone. When it happens online – no face, no voice – it’s even more presumptuous.

Am I a technophobe? Doubtful. I give my credit card number without blinking, and I did all my Christmas shopping online. Am I a hermit in the making? Perhaps. But then I’m writing for all of you, so that’s unlikely.

I’d say I’m an average consumer who likes having the world wide open to me online, but reluctant to completely reveal myself on such a vast, invisible stage. I like being in charge of dispensing my own details, no matter how trivial, to the individuals – and the marketers – that I choose.

Am I a control freak? Ask my friends – the real ones who know me.