I have a couple of amazing "blogging friends."
And though my blog has been slowly dying for months, the friendships haven’t.
I can’t tell you how much that means to me.
It’s not that I can’t write.
I write constantly.
All kinds of things: rambling disconnected prose to funny stories about my regular irregularities to depressing monologues about hospitals and illness.
I just don’t post them.
I have no real excuses or reasons for this.
Just kind of tired of watching myself whine or opine about my days.
Because on some level, I realize, I must do these things to myself.
On the phone with a blogger the other night, I was telling one of the three CRAZY insane things that happened to me that day.
All he could keep saying was: "You have to blog that! I can never think of anything to blog and you’ve got all these stories and you never blog."
(Side note to him - I slightly paraphrased you, but I think you’ll agree that is the EXACT idea you were getting across)
It’s just downright depressing to keep seeing these insane things that happen to me:
The Tom Petty voice-mails.
The white trash guy with no shirt in a Ford Probe circa 1993 playing interstate tag with me, following me off my exit and parking directly behind me, blocking me into my spot and waiting for me to exit my vehicle - - which I didn’t do until he left.
Which prompted him to leave a lovely note full of misspellings and colorful words about what a hag I am for not talking to him when he obviously wanted a word or four.
The fraternity brother who lost his finger a few weeks ago (remember the post?) getting arrested for DWI in an apartment parking lot because his ex-girlfriend reported him for stalking.
The stalker I’ve had for almost 10 years that the police can do nothing about because he is not threatening harm.
The marriage proposal I received via snail mail letter from a man I haven’t seen since I was 16.
And the list continues.
These all have to have something to do with me, right?
But I will share this story:
Casper and I have switched up our routine.
Instead of nightly laps in the cool, refreshing pool, we’re now alternating with walking the nature trail for 3 miles.
In the 98 degree heat at 9 PM.
Yes, we’re stupid.
My brother jogs this track at the same time we walk.
He walks with us for the last mile as his cool down.
Monday night, we’re walking and let me tell you we were HAWT.
As in sweaty, nasty, 97 degrees with 100% humidity HAWT.
If I had stopped mid-stride, stripped off my T-shirt and twisted it, I assure you a gallon of water would have rained upon my feet.
As we’re approaching the half mile mark of our cool down, my brother says:
"Hold the MP3 player and my keys. I’m gonna sprint this next quarter mile and then walk the last quarter."
As he starts his sprint, I look to Casper and say:
"So, yeah, I could run this. But I would hate for one of you to have to carry me back to the vehicle."
A rather attractive jogger is passing us at this point.
He looks over his shoulder and says "I’ll carry you back."
I laugh nervously and then roll my eyes at Casper.
My brother has finished his sprint and is strolling back to us, so we tell him what happened.
I then say: "I guess it’s darker than I thought. Because OBVIOUSLY if that man had seen how much weight he would be carrying back to the vehicle, he would have kept his mouth shut."
Those of you who KNOW me, know that my voice is rarely low. Even when I’m just talking with friends, my voice carries. Apparently it did so this time as well.
I’m oblivious to the fact that the man is jogging towards us.
He gets even with us, looks me in the eyes and says: "I saw. I’m still offering."
See what I mean about things happening to me?
But, as you can tell from the story, I evidently bring them upon myself.