Most days I walk with a friend. Because we do not live in the same town, we text each other when we set out in the morning. “Let’s begin.” I might type. To which she replies, “Again.”
“Let’s begin, again” is what I say to myself as I sit down to write this first post. I have started about 421 blogs in the past five years, so why in the Sam Hell would I give this another shot?
On New Year’s Day I did something I never do–I made a couple of resolutions: to read only books written by women (shoot me fellas), to hand copy one poem written by a woman every day, to cut back on sugar, to drink less wine and more tea (I really need to start this one).
I turn 49 today, and I’m adding one more “to do” to my list–blogging. I’ve been thinking about it for a while–obviously as I have started 421 blogs in the past; however, this time I am in it for the long haul or a year. I am taking this wonderful Brené Brown class over at courage works.com and I’m determined to get good at this vulnerability gig–and writing a small thing at least three times a week and shoving it out into the world seems like a good way to begin, again.
So here goes.
Funny story–the name of this blog is The 49th Year because I turn 49 today. What a great name, right. So great that I bought the domain and the added privacy protection in the unlikely event that reading this blog might turn someone into a stalker. I am going for it this time–writing, vulnerability, blog–in real time, in my real 49th year.
So last night, I lie down next to my gently snoring husband, and read a few pages from The Witches: Salem, 1692 before turning off the light. And the minute I close my eyes, my stomach starts roiling, like there’s a hand deep in my core pulling all my organs into a sweaty fist-sized ball.
Why all the angst?
Because I’m starting a blog, and I’ll have to post it on FB because there is no vulnerability involved if I don’t ask people to read the damned thing, and suddenly, in the dark of night, it occurs to me that this is the worst idea ever! In fact, it’s appalling, and I think the whole thing may have given me a flu-like illness. My mouth is all watery and I’m coughing little hiccupy coughs and my hips ache, and I know I’ll never sleep now unless I leap out of bed and take half a Xanax, pronto.
So I get the Xanax and pee because I never get out of bed without peeing, and I’m once again lying next to the same husband whose snoring is slightly less gentle to my fevered ears, when I realize that I’m turning 49. And if I’m turning 49, that means I have already lived my 49th year. People are going to laugh, and sneer, and joke around about how I turned one the day I was born. The whole thing is ruined before it ever begins.
And maybe because my husband stops snoring and silence pierces the frenzy of self doubt, I am able to hear her–the me who isn’t afraid, the crone me. And she’s laughing and then I’m laughing because
No one is going to give a shit what I name my blog.
Ruined might be a pretty good place to begin.