I ultimately am striving for mediocrity.
Mediocrity is for winners.
It means you have made it, maybe only made it half way, but made it nonetheless. The glass if half full kinda thing, depending on how you look at it.
I WISH that I could create a mediocre blog.
I have been too scared lately to even open up my browser and write anything because I know, without a doubt, that what will inevitably result will be the equivalent to waking up the morning after a regretful one night stand and knowing that you are not able to take any of it back.
My head is overwhelmed with bar mitzvah planning and child rearing, full time work and part time dating, all truly amazing topics to blog about.
So what is wrong with me? Isn’t it better to write something, anything, than nothing at all?
It’s not that my life has been boring. I have recently connected with amazing new people; have had anecdotes that constantly bombard the mind and the senses about life and love, romantic picnics in the sun and salsa dancing with my friends. All material that I would normally milk to the maximum.
I have had a stimulating and in depth, blog worthy discussion with a close friend on why we should learn about friendship from dogs: their here-and-now love, loyalty, butt sniffing and the fact that they are willing to eat shit when they need to. Ok, maybe there’s a good reason why I didn’t write that post although with a bit of editing and censoring it probably could have been all that and more.
Then there were those mind altering and emotionally trying conversations with my kids which, unfortunately, as soon as the words left our lips, were lost to eternity. No blog post resulted.
I even experienced the mundane and mediocre which in the past I would have been able to find the humor in such as having my car stall on the road, my water main break in the snow storm, my trip to the dentist to fix my broken tooth and my dates gone awry.
Or how about the simple life events that are like wake up calls, reminding us of our own mortality? Like that man you would see every morning on your way to work who was no longer there one Sunday morning only to find out that he dropped dead of a heart attack over the weekend.
This is the randomness that life is all about and worth mentioning here in writing from time to time.
There were meaningful moments that tugged at my heart strings like the hug my grandmother gave me that never ended and never let up (and which I secretly hoped never would) or the kisses from my kids when I was just beginning to think that everyone hated me.
But instead of all that I am here writing a confession that I just can’t do it.
Not here. Not now.
I haven’t been able to bring myself to outsource my experiences to the keyboard. My mind just hasn’t been able to put it all out there raw and real.
Maybe it’s because my heart is overpowering my mind. The same mind that was able to battle it all, to overcome and to move on without a twinge of remorse or guilt.
Maybe it’s because I am getting old.
Maybe I have that dreaded affliction called writer’s block
Or it could just be PMS.
Either way, I already regret writing this post.