Conflicted

There’s a reason I haven’t been blogging. Well, a few reasons.

Firstly, my dearest husband is internet-paranoid and thinks blogging is inherently dangerous to privacy, job security and might attract bears. If it makes him uncomfortable, its something to take into consideration.

Secondly, posting things I write online for all the world to see (um, not that all the world is reading or anything) makes me incredibly self-conscious. That much is obvious. Is it an act of pride or self-importance to think that anything I have to say is of interest or worthwhile? I read a lot of other blogs; really, really good ones – that are pithy and poignant and relatable and that people actually read. My biggest fear is that this space becomes the absolute worst of the blogger stereotypes: writing about how I ate toast for breakfast, picked my nose, then went to work, and, hey internet, isn’t that awesome?! What if I am exposed to the world as someone with nothing to say or add? Writing isn’t exactly my talent and I am no great philosopher. My life is quiet and safe and I don’t really have hobbies (unless, you count “voracious eating”).

And yet – here I am again. Many of the blogs I read regularly, and a few others I’ve stumbled upon recently, have led me to think and question and laugh out loud. There is real value in that, and in the exchange of our thoughts and lives with others. Even over the internet, with relative strangers. It’s a wonderful thing about this time in the world, if you ask me.

So maybe I’ll try and do better and write again. Maybe I won’t put so much pressure on myself to be profound and witty. Maybe I’ll just be me and let people roll their eyes at their leisure. Yep, I can live with that.

And to my husband: I promise not to broadcast our home address and, if you’re really nice and unload the dishwasher later, maybe I won’t print your social security number.