|Such a relief, right?|
After wrapping three gifts and feeling completely exhausted with the Christmas spirit, I decided to take a break and do something I haven’t done for some time—write a blog post.
So while my tiny living room sits littered with glittery ribbons and wrapping paper pieces that will inevitably drift under my couch, not to be discovered until I get that random excess of energy to actually move the couch when cleaning, I lie on the floor of my apartment, staring at a blinking cursor, thinking about how I could have done 30 minutes of cardio by now. I know—the scene is so literary that I’m basically Jane Austen.
It’s strange because unlike this time last year, when I was blogging the most, a lot has happened within the last few months that I could have written pages about. The problem is, I’ve struggled with how candid I want to be on here.
For example, should I talk about that guy I went out with who blew my phone up and seemed really into me and then oddly disappeared? This clearly vulnerable moment is easy (alright, not really easy, but tolerably okay) for me to laugh about now, but right after I realized he didn’t like me (which was basically an hour after he didn’t respond to my text. I refuse to be that delusional girl making excuses for why a guy won’t text her back. Seriously girls, I know it sucks, but let’s be honest with ourselves—he has service, he isn’t busy, and he didn’t go on a camping trip where he fumbled his phone into the river) I went through that awful checklist that we all neurotically analyze following rejection: Everything That’s Wrong With Me That Guys See And Hate (this was also what I planned on titling my memoir in my darkest moments.)
I mean, some of these dating experiences would probably be humorous and healing to write through, but at the same time, it’s my life. Which is, you know, my actual life and not the plot the heroine in a romantic comedy is seeing to fruition. I am also one of those girls who, despite the incredible pace of my mind, will meet any guy’s flippancy or aloofness with an equal amount of indifference. Yet another reason I can’t risk blogging an experience that I’m trying to give the impression I care nothing about.
So, even though I probably won’t be blogging about my unfortunate dates or guys who move way too fast and cause me nightmares about being tricked into marrying them (this nightmare did happen), I’m going to make a habit of blogging again.
Not sure if anyone’s interested in my little voice on this little platform, but I’m here to Live, Cry, Laugh, Cry, Love, Cry, Laugh-So-Hard-You-Cry**, with you.
**I wish home interior signs or “about me” sections just told the truth. Let’s face it—there’s a lot of crying in life and during sentimental holiday commercials.