Last night a light turned on, thunder rolled, waves crashed, and I was struck by a mind blowing revelation: I am not popular, I am not a booster, I am not a motivator!
And please, dear friends, this is not a plea for sympathy, or for denials. I am looking at... wait, how old am I? Uh. Minus. Plus. Carry the one. Divide by a millennium ah, right... I am looking at forty-four years of hard evidence, and it is good see the truth, to accept my weaknesses, my reality. It may free me to move on to other things, or to at least stop wondering.
Not popular, or remotely comfortable, in grade school.✓
Not significantly productive or effective in middle school.✓
Resigned to absolute anonymity in high school.✓
Wore a tiger suit on Halloween, first quarter at UCSD, remainder of that period also spent in anonymity.✓ Although, I think this is sadder commentary on the lameness of that student body than my overly enthusiastic spazness.
I am an enthusiastic spaz. I get very excited, then I want to share my spazness, and spread whatever holiday-robotic-STEAM-Maker Faire-party-celebratory theme is pulsing through my system, and the results of my efforts, my cheering, my whole-hearted hoopla is ______________________________________________.
Yes, more or less blank.
Well, not completely... I do have some dear friends who cheer, who hang in there, who smile kindly on the crazy loosed hen that I am. Thank you dear friends.
But mostly, in comparison with how much I expend, how many I cheer, how sincerely I devote myself to sharing my interests, and supporting other people's careers, interests, causes... I seem to create a response vacuum. Here. In my everyday. On FB. No matter how frequently, how earnestly I seek to move family and friends, strangers too, to reply, to speak, to join, to say, hey! I find I am not. good. at. it.
Fascinating. Well, not really, except to me.
In some areas I have learned to cut-back, to chill. In fact, I should monitor this, as it can have less than merited results: The Easter Bunny gave some very good children one basket with treats, including underwear for two of the very good children, three days ago. A tad late. I am possibly far too enthusiastically spaztic to ever become truly curmudgeonly, but I don't think holiday baskets delivered three weeks after the fact is a balanced direction to head.
Have you followed Chickenblog for nine years, five years, six months? Then you know. I get this way... reflective and doubtful. It's a phase, but I think this time is different. In the past, I have been asking myself: What am I doing wrong? What's missing? How much more can I do? Now, I see it: I am not destined for greatness in the realm of motivational speaking, club boosting, published authoring, blogadocious mommy bloggering... I am mediocre, yet sincere. Spaztic, yet rambling and random.
This may prove to be liberating. I may drop out, go to medical school, join a yoga studio.
Or I may wake up tomorrow, oblivious to this long time coming revelation, and re-commence with my over the top fascination with chickens, and wingnuts, with more deep thoughts and other musings.
Where is my honey-badger shirt?