Feeling Better

It’s forty-six degrees outside, I’m forty-six years old and it’s okay.

Looking back at Summer, I see I stubbed my toes on a lot of pitiful stones. Man, I have to plan this anniversary party. Why, when I tell friends about my blog, do they look as if I’ve invited them to join Amway? My story rejected first time out; think I’ll quit writing forever.

I’m a dork. Nothing new. Last week I noticed Dorcas’s blog had a hit counter at the bottom. So I thought I’d check them out; maybe with such an apparatus I could discover if anyone besides kind, encouraging Erin and myself hung around here. Thing is, when you reach a certain point in signing up (to my mind, still noncommittally, and for the tiniest counter possible), a warning proclaims if you now do not put their link on your site, they will send you horrible spam or defame your site to the nations or something equally scary. I finished installing the counter. They asked with what number it should begin. I’d no clue--they’re supposed to tell me these things. So I entered “24”, it being my favorite number and a show on my husband’s network.

Today my counter says 213, and I know, from checking, it counts every time I land here, so that’s most of them. But sometimes I’ve peeked and been convinced there were entities here visiting who weren’t myself!

Yay. It’s embarrassing to have told myself and others, “This blog thing is just a beta version, an experiment, you know? I’m not worried who reads it,” and then to recognize neediness from inside my little spaces squirting out at the oddest moments. I should be beyond this, more mature. But my dear friend Laura (who wisely with hubby Geoff does not pay for Internet) says, “Aw, you’re just a person.”

Laura’s right. A self-conscious, sins spilling over and should be damned to hell person is moi. A crying to God, who sees it all and cares, anyway, old gal.