Meta. Meh. Plus, How Falling Got Her Name

So, I've been having a bit of a blogistential crisis over here. I love writing. I love being read and having smart, funny people comment and commenting over at all of your blogs and feeling like part of a community. So why don't I write more often?

I have ideas all the time. I compose paragraphs in the shower, while driving, while cooking. I read other people's posts and am inspired. And still, I put off writing. I make excuses, I get distracted, and, in short, I treat blogging like homework. Why?

When I first started toying with the idea of writing a blog, one of the things that appealed to me was the candidness of the people I enjoyed reading. I loved these women who were able to share (and sometimes over-share) their quirks and faults and humanness. As a documented approval junkie with a bad case of needotherstolikemeisis (what? that's totally a real disease), I was drawn to the idea of an anonymous place where I could write totally openly, moving beyond my own comfort levels. Which...I totally haven't done.

I blame Submom (aka SubWOW). It was through her that I found these other wonderful writers and got more readers, which was, at the time, delightful. But now? I have all these wonderful writers! Who are also readers! And I want you all to like me. Well, "want" is probably an understatement. I need you to LIKE ME, DAMMIT! APPROOOOOVE OF MEEEEEEE!

So I find myself only writing when I know I can write successfully. When I think I can invite good comments. When, as I write, I think to myself, "Oh ho ho, ____ will totally find that funny. AND THEN SHE WILL LIKE ME MORE!! MORE, I TELL YOU!!"

(It's at this point in the program where I look down at my sleeping son and silently promise him that I will do everything I can to make sure I don't pass this bizarre pathology on to him.)

I've been thinking about all this lately, and then I came across this old post over at Finslippy, and, well, go read it. It's like the nicest possible kick in the ass. And, if you've read any of her stuff, you know that Alice has struggled with anxiety as well, so I'm assuming she's writing it for her as much as for anyone else. She knoweth of what she speaketh, is what I'm saying. So I read this, and started thinking: what am I so scared of? Off the top of my head:

1) Y'all won't like me.
2) Y'all will like me just fine, but in three years, someone else will come across this and THEY won't like me.
3) Everyone who doesn't know me personally will like me just fine, but the four people in my three-dimensional life who read this will stop liking me.
4) Someone from my three-dimensional life will find this and I will be mortified at the idea that this friend/family member/work colleague/client/dentist of mine now knows my deepest, darkest secrets...
5) ...and no longer likes me.

Now, I am not so crazy that I can't see the ridiculousness of the above. For 1 and 2--so effing what, yes? If you stop liking me, you'll stop reading. At worst, you'll post mean comments, which will send me careening down a shame spiral, casting my computer aside in a fit of anguish, and Scarlett O'Haraing that I will never write again. There, now, that's not so bad, is it? (whimper)

Number 3--well, considering that the four people are my husband, my sister, and my two closest friends in the universe, I'm hoping this won't happen. After all, they've all had many years to stop liking me, and haven't gotten around to it yet. Plus, I've got blackmail pictures of each of them.

Number 4 is actually the only one that is close to reasonable, mainly due to my work. I do often think about the (small, but not non-existent) possibility that a colleague or a family with whom I work could stumble across this and possibly learn something about me that is beyond what I would chose to share with people I know professionally (the fact that a few posts ago I admitted that I pooped during labor leaps to mind). I guess I just have to keep in mind that the chances are really, really, really small ("Of all the blogs in the world, you had to walk into mine") and hope that whoever it is has the grace and tact to simply never speak to me again.

Anyway, I'm putting all this out there as a way to lead up to a little personal challenge: I am going to blog every day this week. And, I'm going to write about something scary or embarrassing or otherwise cringe-inducing (to me...hopefully you won't actually cringe while reading) each day. I'm going to fly my little freak flag and try to hold on to the original idea of what I found appealing about writing (and reading) blogs in the first place: honesty in the face of potential judgment. Perhaps this will be what I need to break out of my writing rut! Perhaps I'll need to go back on anti-anxiety meds! Who can say?! Whee! (See, not only am I challenging myself, I'm doing it with a positive mental attitude. Booyah.)

Oh, and because it's kind of in the theme (in that it was sort of embarrassing, although mostly it was just funny), and mostly because I promised dufmanno, here is

The Story About How I Sat On an Exercise Ball That Rapidly Deflated. In Public.

Most of the week, I'm out at our classroom site or driving around the county visiting families. On Fridays, I, like most of the agency, am at our main office doing paperwork, attending meetings, etc. So last week, I was headed to my desk when I spied, out in the main hallway, one of those giant exercise balls, with a sign marked, "FREE." Some people who work at desks full-time have been using them as chairs because they're supposed to be better for your posture, etc. Well, between my constant schlepping of a giant baby, my many months of nursing/pumping (i.e., hunched forward, the better to aim my womanly bits into a waiting mouth/funnel), and the fact that I work with tiny humans on a daily basis, I have been noticing that my posture could use some help lately. Perhaps this was my salvation? With my arms full of files and my bag on one shoulder and my breastpump on the other, I eagerly sat down on the ball...

...which promptly and quickly deflated with a loud farting noise, as I plummeted to the ground, smack on my ass, while papers, bag, and pump flew up around me.

There were only a few eyewitnesses (although this other guy was in the nearby supply room and heard, but didn't see what happened, not that that stopped him from snickering whenever he saw me the rest of the day, despite my desperate cries of, "You saw NOTHING!"), but they both burst into what I would call most unladylike laughter. It's OK, so did I. It was too ridiculous. I gathered my belongings, left the wilted puddle of ball there, and took refuge in my nice, stable chair.

Guess I'll just start walking around with books on my head.