What? The connection isn't obvious? Let me explain.

Ever since the 1993 film Groundhog Day was released, most of us no longer associate Feb. 2 solely with a large, skittish, rodent meteorologist. We think about the themes laid out in Bill Murray's now-classic comedy: What if we had to relive one day until we got it right? Would it be an unbelievable opportunity? Or a nightmare?

Me, I'd love it. I could use a series of Groundhog Day-like opportunities, quite frankly—maybe one for every day I've been around. I'm fairly neurotic like that. Every morning in the shower, I remember some horrendously embarrassing misdeed of mine—the time I forgot my lines in a sixth-grade play, the night I served some guests of mine beverages with ice I dug out of the fridge with my bare hands (as they watched in horrified silence)—and I kick myself all over again.

Yes, indeedy. I'd love a chance to go back and rectify some things: Use some sort of ice scooper this time, Paul, I'd say to myself.

This is, of course, incredibly unhealthy. As Christians, we're told over and over again how even the worst of our sins are forgiven, and I'm sure that goes for social faux pas as well. Our whole faith is based on the premise that the past is in the past: It's what lies ahead that matters.

But Facebook begs to differ.

As you've probably heard, the ubiquitous social networking site is forcing us all to network a little differently. Over the next few weeks, Mark Zuckerberg and his programming acolytes will force Facebook users into something they call "Timeline," an effort to chronicle your entire life—or, at least, your life as Facebook sees it—and hold it out for the world to see.

Were we Facebook users clamoring for this massive interface change? Had the FB nation risen as one to tell Zuck that, yes, we want more of our embarrassing personal information online? If so, I missed the invite, and I'm not alone. A recent poll by Sophos found that just 8% of Facebook users said they were pretty jazzed about the change … while more than half found Timeline "worrisome." Not exactly a ringing endorsement.

Lump me into the "worrisome" camp.

While I'm fairly comfortable navigating social networks on a business level, when I open my personal Facebook page I revert to an insecure seventh-grader. I stare at my status update screen and freeze up: What should I say? Should I try to be witty? Fun? Honest? Should I link to something? What if my Facebook friends think I'm stupid? What if they just friended me because they felt sorry for me? What if … So I shut the thing off without updating at all, turning me into a mute Facebook wallflower watching all the other cool kids dance.

But now, with this whole new Timeline thing, I wonder: Will all the stuff I've so studiously avoided mentioning suddenly surface? Stuff that I'd tried myself to forget about?

Timeline has the ability to chronicle your job history, your relationships and all the things you've ever "liked." I'm fortunate that my marriage predates Facebook because, quite frankly, some of my past relationships are best forgotten. I feel bad for those who began dating in the age of Facebook: I mean, what do you do with those ill-advised flings that terminated in tears and ripped pictures and promises to never think about that jerk again? Do you really want Facebook tapping you on the shoulder to remind you (and everyone else) about it? Why not just pour some salt in your eye and rub it for a while? It'd feel about the same.

Granted, Facebook officials assure us that there are ways to tinker with your profile—to hide whatever you want from your friends online. But, of course, to cull that stuff, you've got to at the very least relive all those best-forgotten moments again. It's a little like Groundhog Day, only with no way of actually making the past any better. You just have to plow through it again, exactly the way it happened.

In my more paranoid moments, I wonder if Facebook is just getting started. I mean, its goal is to become the online record of your entire life, right? For oldsters like me, what if the social networking site starts secretly contacting my friends for even older embarrassing anecdotes? What if it pulls my high school transcripts? Or uncovers that horribly ill-advised love letter I passed to that Stacy girl in second-period algebra?

What if it learns that I once said that there was a time—about eight days—when I kinda liked a Michael Bolton record?

Man, if anyone found out about that, I'd be pretty mortified.