I feel dumb when I meta-blog
Blogging about blogging always makes me feel absurd. I mean, where does it end? It's easy to envision someone blogging about blogging about blogging -- for example, if one complained on her blog about bloggers blogging about blogging. Pretty soon someone else would blog about blogging about blogging about blogging, and the entire blogsphere might enter some crazy hall-of-mirrors state where every blog would simply read: "Blog-blog-blog-GINGER-blog-blog-blog-blog-GINGER-blog-blog..."*
But. I've been struggling with this blog business. Blogging was a lifeline when I was living in infertility's unfinished basement. Then I got so miserable that I literally couldn't make myself log onto my blog, or put together a post -- even to update friends, or say good-bye. I was completely paralyzed. Later, I lucked out in one of my IVF cycles, and ended up with two kids. By then I felt too guilty to log onto the old blog, even though I thought about it a lot, because of the way I had suddenly dropped out of sight. And it seemed inappropriate to update it -- the last thing we infertile people need to hear some days is that yet another person has gotten randomly lucky while we're still struggling. Besides, it had been a while; by then I doubt anyone was checking in for news. Ahh, guilt, rationalizations and neuroses...what a fine brew.
I'd like to blog again. I miss how blogging forces me sort and shape this sticky muddle of thought that gums up the old coconut. I (mostly) don't have the acute fury-dipped-in-a-delicious-depression-coating to feed my posts this time. Okay, I still say "fuck" a lot, and I have a chronic case of bitter infertile baggage. But the saw says to write what you know -- and right now, I don't feel like I know much about all this new stuff. Less than a year into Scampy's and Impy's lives, things still feel surreal. I tried, with my first few posts, but I wasn't sure what my point was.
Now, after several months ignoring the blogging, I find myself spending my decompression time on staggeringly useless things, even by my lax standards. Please don't misunderstand -- I am unapologetic in my love for empty calorie entertainment. However (and I'll keep this non-specific out of embarrassment), when a non-specific one is spending one's limited relaxation time watching reruns of bad reality TV programming and reading Television Without Pity recaps of shows one's never even seen, one would do well to re-evaluate. I still don't have a point, but I've decided to spend more of my decompression actively doing something.
Anyway, blah.
*Blah-blah-blah-obligatory-Gary-Larson-reference-blah-blah-blah...
But. I've been struggling with this blog business. Blogging was a lifeline when I was living in infertility's unfinished basement. Then I got so miserable that I literally couldn't make myself log onto my blog, or put together a post -- even to update friends, or say good-bye. I was completely paralyzed. Later, I lucked out in one of my IVF cycles, and ended up with two kids. By then I felt too guilty to log onto the old blog, even though I thought about it a lot, because of the way I had suddenly dropped out of sight. And it seemed inappropriate to update it -- the last thing we infertile people need to hear some days is that yet another person has gotten randomly lucky while we're still struggling. Besides, it had been a while; by then I doubt anyone was checking in for news. Ahh, guilt, rationalizations and neuroses...what a fine brew.
I'd like to blog again. I miss how blogging forces me sort and shape this sticky muddle of thought that gums up the old coconut. I (mostly) don't have the acute fury-dipped-in-a-delicious-depression-coating to feed my posts this time. Okay, I still say "fuck" a lot, and I have a chronic case of bitter infertile baggage. But the saw says to write what you know -- and right now, I don't feel like I know much about all this new stuff. Less than a year into Scampy's and Impy's lives, things still feel surreal. I tried, with my first few posts, but I wasn't sure what my point was.
Now, after several months ignoring the blogging, I find myself spending my decompression time on staggeringly useless things, even by my lax standards. Please don't misunderstand -- I am unapologetic in my love for empty calorie entertainment. However (and I'll keep this non-specific out of embarrassment), when a non-specific one is spending one's limited relaxation time watching reruns of bad reality TV programming and reading Television Without Pity recaps of shows one's never even seen, one would do well to re-evaluate. I still don't have a point, but I've decided to spend more of my decompression actively doing something.
Anyway, blah.
*Blah-blah-blah-obligatory-Gary-Larson-reference-blah-blah-blah...
posted by E. at 1:09 AM
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