Everytime I finish a blog post, I read it for typos (sometimes more thoroughly than others), then I read it once it’s posted (like adoring a new born baby for the first time), and then I go to Facebook to make sure that it has linked correctly (and when it doesn’t, I manually link it, only to see moments later that it did link right the first time, and now I’ve double-dutied it). I re-read it a couple of times during that same day, to see if I put everything in it that I had considered putting there, and remember what got struck and why. Then, the content of the post is pretty much gone from my head forever (or at least until something reminds me that it happened, or that I wrote about it, or whatever). Then, when checking my blog stats and comments, I consider who’s reading the post. Seeing comments makes me feel better, because: a) I know who just read it and b) I know what they thought about it. It’s those “hover-ers” that really kinda bother me. It’s all those hits I get that don’t have an accompanying “comment”…an identity. It makes me think “Just who IS reading this?” It’s kind of unsettling. I mean, think about it. Wouldn’t it be a little unsettling to you? What if you knew that three people had come into your home while you were at work that day, and read your diary. You couldn’t know WHO they were, or what they thought about what they were reading. Doesn’t that really make you squirm? Well, this is nothing like that at all…since I wrote the “diary” for people to read, unlike you with your silly diary, which is a pretty stupid concept, in my opinion, because you are writing down things that you really should keep to your self, for reasons such as the scenario I played out for you a moment ago. But you get the idea.
We had a family get together this weekend, and I got to see a lot of family members I don’t see very often. Every once in a while, the conversation would turn to me or the kids, and eventually someone would make a comment about one of my blog posts, or the whole idea in general. While I was a little flattered (as I am every day) and surprised that these people actually took the time to read these posts, I was also occassionally struck with a pang of fear. Some little voice inside my head would say, “Oh, okay…she/he’s reading it? I hope I haven’t said anything to offend him or her.” I tried to think back quickly over everything I’ve written (which is not easy, since I really really do forget a lot of it) and wondered if I wrote anything that I wouldn’t necessarily want that person to know about. And that’s silly. Because everytime I write something, I know that my entire family and all my friends will have at least the OPPORTUNITY to read it. So I know that I’ve not said anything disparaging about any one of them. But maybe I was worried about what they would think about me…that there was some sort of impression I had made on one of them, that had been blown out of the water by something they’d read.
It took me a while to put these emotions together in this congruous order. To make sense of the anxiety that I felt, which seems really dumb now that I understand what I was feeling. Because I’m not sharing anything that I haven’t shared all of my life. I’ve never led anyone to believe that I’m anything other than what I am. I have always been a talker, and a storyteller. I don’t think that my life is any funnier than anyone else’s life. I think that I find the humor in it. My coworkers (bless their HEARTS) listen almost every morning to my “stories” about the goings-on in my house the evening before. They will tell you that I tell stories in excruciatingly painful detail. Entertaining to them? I’m sure, sometimes. But always to me. At least now I’m saving my verbal play-by-plays for the blog. And everytime I finish one, I think to myself…well…that’s it. I’m surely out of things to write about now. And then another day goes by. And it’s filled with a million different funny events, truisms, and mere thoughts running around in my squirrely brain. My husband and I can sit through the same sequence of events, and I will have to re-tell the story several times to friends, as though it were the funniest thing that happened since the beginning of time, and my husband will think that I’m crazy, because he saw it and it wasn’t that funny the FIRST time it happened, much less the fourth time he heard me talk about it. I guess I find it easier to find humor in things, on most days. (And thank God for that!)
So, if you are reading this, stop being a hover-er, and cough up a comment every now and then. It’d be nice to see you around here sometime. You don’t see me slipping into your bedroom when I come over to your place and sneaking peeks at your diary, now do you? Of course I would never do that. Or would I? Guess you’ll have to wait until Confession Thursday to know for sure.