Funny how some days blogging can make me feel either quite assured and likeable and funny and appreciated and yet on an equal number of days, make me feel like I’m just a loser (♪baby, so why doncha kill me♪). I take the good days for granted, and while I’m pretty sure they outnumber the bad, the bad have a way of halting me in my tracks for which I only stir long enough and with enough energy to open a word document and start a post. Like this.
I probably have a dozen posts in draft that start off almost identically to this one. I let them ferment a bit in the dark while I wash and dry what may be my only pair of big-girl panties, and then eventually I let it go. However, I would like just this once to air out my insecurities before I tuck them back away in their little dirt boxes to fertilize my mental mushrooms.
I read a variety of blogs, including too many satirical (aka FAILblog, LOLcats, LameBook, etc.), and over 100 private blogs that are either parenting- or infertility-related. Actually, it’s 114, and the reason I include that number is because of those 114 writers, I honestly connect with and like all 114. On my Good Days.
On my Loser Days, I start to think that only 14 actually like me back and that’s IF they even know I exist.
I don’t comment as much as I use to. I lost the luxury of dependable computer connection and limited distractions along with my job last year. So while I can go through my reader and star the posts I want to come back to, in the hour (if it’s a particularly good night) of stillness I have before bedtime, I find that there’s just not as much time as I need to continue reinforcing the bonds I thought I had, not to mention forging new ones.
My laptop has found that updating its security settings during a particularly involved and meaningful comment is a perfect opportunity to show its spite. Comments disappear. Websites lock up. URLs kick me out.
It’s like being invited at the last minute by a bunch of friends I happen to run into on the street to a major rave and the bouncer at the door not having the updated guest list after I’ve run home to dig my sparkly top out of the bottom of the hamper since I hadn’t had time to run it to the drycleaners after the last time I wore it six months ago and haul ass to the secret scene of the party in a driving snow and ice storm.
Really. It’s JUST like that. No pauses and no punctuation.
When I feel like I’m losing touch with some of my mostest favoritist bloggers, I will email them to let them know I tried. I really did. And I shouldn’t do that, because like me, you are busy people too and sometimes you don’t have time to respond. Guess what I think then? Here, I’ll give you my internal dialog:
Hmmmm. I haven’t heard back from Blogger I Love.
You just sent it. Give her a day.
Maybe I don’t have the correct email address…
Blogger I Love is busy, just like we all are. Back off. You’re being paranoid.
Oh my god. Blogger I Love just put up a new post. She’s on her computer so she had to have seen my email. I must have offended her! Oh, shit!!
Would you stop?! God. You’re not 14 anymore. Grow up.
It’s been a whole day now. She’s mad at me.
Fine. She’s mad at you. That’s her problem, not yours.
Yeah. You’re right. I’m SO over her anyway…
Blogger I Love? Come back…(*plaintive whine*)
I’m not the only one, am I?
Oops! Not only have the panties made it through the spin, they are just now softly “shssshhing” and “whummping” in the dryer. And I don’t think I’ve even made my point yet…have I?
It’s just that sometimes it’s so hard to know where I stand in on-line relationships. It took me almost 10 years with my husband to finally be able to accept that he doesn’t have to tell me he loves me every time we see each other to know that he loves me.
I’m pretty sure he does.
Maybe it would all be so much simpler to believe you all hate me and it’s purely out of pity that you continue to read. Maybe it’s not that or you know that I easily fit the profile of a stalker and would hunt your ass down if you left me.
Just know this: if I’ve sent you an email, or I’ve commented, or you’ve seen an IP from a state known only for its Kool-Aid origins, then know that I do love you. Like my husband, I’m just not very good at showing it consistently or when you might need it the most.