So maybe you’ve noticed I haven’t been around much.
(Or maybe I’m incredibly narcissistic, and you haven’t noticed at all. But I already started this post, so I’m gonna keep at it, if it’s all the same to you.)
I’m not here to apologize.
But in case you’re interested, I think I might know why.
Basically, I’m in the midst of the perfect storm of reasons for me not to write.
Those reasons are threefold:
1. Emotionally, I’m a little vacant these days. You’ve heard of seasonal affective disorder(and what has to be the most perfect acronym of all time, S.A.D.)? well, I’ve diagnosed myself with reverse-S.A.D. Every spring, I fall apart, a little. My theory on this is that fall and winter are a time of “being”. spring and summer, however, are a time of “doing”. I’m a be-er, not a do-er. And that’s where the annual schism begins. While everyone around me waters lawns and plants perennials and makes vacation plans, I sit, and try to pretend it’s not happening. (I have long and rambling theories as to why that is. But they bore even me, so never mind.) Suffice it to say, I feel a grand disconnect from the world around me every spring. But don’t worry: I start to normalize somewhere in the beginning of September.
2. I am busier than a one-armed paper hanger.
“Um, Ginny, everyone is busy. What makes you so damned special?”
Well, smartypants, if you’d read he previous paragraph, you’d know I’m not a do-er. So having the commitments I have, overwhelm the fuck out of me. End of the year this, wrap-up that. School field trips and breakfasts and dances. Soccer every couple of nights.
Last year, it felt like I was saying “No” to everything that came my way. Lack of time, lack of resources, I just refused everything. So waaaay back in December, I decided that oh-nine would be different. I’d say “yes”. As much as I possibly could, and then some. It got out of hand. Maybe next year will be the “Year of Moderation.” Maybe.
3. To paraphrase John Goodman in “The Big Lebowski”,
“Ginny, you’re out of your element here.”
I’ve been doing stuff so far out of my comfort zone, it was draining the living hell out of me.
First, I was writing. And getting paid for it.
Yeah I know, fuck me, I have no sympathy for me either.
But let me explain.
It was technical, report-type writing. For people in an industry I am not part of. And I wanted to do it well.
Every time I committed a few lines to paper, I KNEW, beyond a doubt, that the intended audience for this big ‘ol report: a) knew I possessed no letters behind my name, b) thought I should just back away from the keyboard and go back to my dunce cap in the corner, and c) were furiously contacting accounting, to assure that I did not get paid for my unqualified drivel.
I was thrilled to have the opportunity. The person who commissioned the report seems happy.
And it was draining.
Also, I was coaching soccer.
If you know me in real life, you’re still asking yourself if you read that right.
I avoided organized sports as much as was humanly possible as a kid. And what I couldn’t avoid, I sucked at. I had no instinct. No skill. No drive.
But the kids needed a coach. And I was in a “saying yes” kind of place.
It’s actually turned out to be a beyond-rewarding experience.
Before every single game, though, I wanted to throw up. Because I knew I’d screw something up. And if the kids didn’t notice, the parents or the other coaches sure as hell would. On the sidelines watching was over 20 years of collective coaching experience.
And 2 Olympic athletes.
So that’s my deal.
I think I’m back to blogging. I’ve slowly been making my rounds, catching up on all of the blogs I love, trying to comment when I don’t feel like my brain is composed of cotton swabs. And just today, I compiled five (5) scraps of paper with half-assed ideas which I hope to turn into blog posts.
Thanks for sticking around.