I purposely kept my wrist off my forehead yesterday so I could indulge in Wrist to Forehead Sunday today. Of course it might not have been necessary. I had planned a couple of Mohawk Valley adventures I could have written about. Unfortunately, they fell through. Blame the weather, blame my sinus headache (which was perhaps caused by the weather), or blame me. Whatever. The fact is, my husband is due home from work in about ten minutes and I want to have my blog post done and published so I can enjoy some time with him.
I’ll just mention as an aside here, we are celebrating our Anniversary Eve today. It’ll be 24 years tomorrow. In your face, divorce rate! As I think about this wonderful man with whom I share my life, my house, my dog, and my wine, I feel increasingly less wrist-to-foreheady. However, I felt marginally distressed earlier, so I’ll just rattle off a paragraph or two about that.
I was reading some other blogs. I don’t always have the time to do this, but I have a few I Follow, and I try to check out bloggers who have Liked my posts. I always feel so flattered to get Likes. Almost like I’m doing something right, which regular readers know is something that rarely happens. WELL, there I was reading a post when I discovered that SOME bloggers Like posts without actually reading them. Can you imagine such a thing?
This does explain a couple of times when I have gotten a Like almost immediately after hitting Publish. While it affords a certain satisfaction to have something explained, I can’t help feeling a certain dissatisfaction with the explanation. Luckily I don’t feel too awful about it. With my low self-esteem, I could easily flash back to the elementary school playground when, as too often happens in the schoolyard, someone I thought was a friend would suddenly do something mean to me.
“But I thought you LIIIIKED me!” I don’t remember if I actually wailed that line, with or without the extra syllables in “like,” but there’s a good chance I did. And you thought I was such a tough broad (nobody needs to tell me that they never thought that for one day ever in their lives).
I think miffed is a better term for the way I feel about it, now that I have reached middle age. I won’t say I’ve gained maturity exactly, but I admit to a certain level of contentment with my immaturity. We’ll call it perspective.
What was my point? Ah yes, merely to hit Publish before my husband got home. I didn’t make it. But I’ll hit Publish now, and we’ll talk more about this later.
