Gimme a W! Gimme a T! Gimme an F! What’s it spell? Well, I don’t need to spell it out for you. If you don’t know the acronym by now, then you just might be TOO old to be reading this old broad’s blog.
Something strange happened recently: I almost LMFAO (in the past tense) when I discovered that my blog had been viewed 55 times in one day. 55 times. Huh. That’s more times than I’ve seen it, I think. Was it something I said? Probably. Was it something I don’t remember that I said? Perhaps.
I didn’t laugh when I saw those stats because I can’t believe people would read this. Quite the contrary. I sometimes believe that I have a story worth telling, something that might spark thought or conversation or even friendship (see “Why are the Forties the New Forties?”). I laughed because I can’t seem to tell a story unless it’s accompanied by crisis.
Years ago, when I was blundering neck deep in personal and financial crises–a legal battle that went on and on, an unhealthy accumulation of debt, unmedicated depression, a job that I was flushing down the toilet, “new” parenthood, you name it–I sought some refuge in my oldest and best friends, alcohol and writing. Actually, I didn’t seek some refuge there, I sought it all. Almost every night, I posted some besotted rant in my blog about my husband’s ex wife or the thankless and misunderstood job of the stepmother, or the teacher, or whatever. I was angry, exhausted, and unhealthy. And people seemed to like those rants. I had a solid audience.
Then, the wounds began to heal–we settled our custody disputes with my husband’s ex, we sorted out some of our money problems, we moved to a very safe and boring place, I found a job I really liked, I went on meds, then I went sober, then I lost a bunch of weight, and then I had nothing to kvetch about anymore.
For the past five to six years, I’ve distracted myself with a string of short-lived hobbies: gardening, repurposing old furniture that I found on the sidewalk, playing the guitar (today, I am fond of playing Cracker’s “Turn on, tune in, drop out”), everything but what really defined me for so much of my adult life–drinking and being pissed off. Can those be hobbies?
I’d like to say I don’t know what sparked my latest first-world crisis that seems to have produced more thoughts that others are willing to read, but that would be dishonest. I’m introspective enough to know what has shot me back out of the cannon. I can even pinpoint the date–November 8, 2016.
I’ve gained a bunch of weight and started waking up with hangovers again, but it’s not all bad. Those 55 views (even if some were same viewers going back) are my proof of that. And I am loving some of the material that these viewers produce–stuff about alcoholism, depression, alternative lifestyles. Some write feel-good poetry. Some write books. Some have advanced graphics skills that make my blog look sloppy and primitive (soooo 2003). Give me more, please!
As for the crisis, I’ll deal with it. I have to. 45 year-old drunks are unsexy. Where’s that life hacks book, again? I think I need a glass of cold water and some barbells…