I was sitting with a good friend the other day, chatting companionably over sweets, when I remarked that sometimes I think my blog gets too heavy. Because I talk about serious things maybe too often. Because I’m better at writing about the serious stuff and my style of joking doesn’t always translate well into the written word. I try to lighten it up, but then I clam up entirely with the pressure and nothing to say.
My friend said, “No, of course not. You’re writing about the things you’re thinking about. It’s like a journal, and it’s great to have this thing you can go back and look at later, a record of your thoughts and life and stuff.”
I laughed. “I’ve never been any good at keeping a journal. I’ve never had the discipline for it.”
“Mine was always full of things that I look back on and am like, ‘What was I thinking?’” my friend laughed. “Like how I got a fabulous new purse and thought I was all grown-up, a real WOMAN.”
“Oh yeah!” I said. “I totally did that too! Like wearing high heels and suddenly thinking I’m such a sophisticated woman (though come to think of it, I think I still try to pretend high heels grant me a layer of sophistication). Diaries are always full of crap like that. When I did write diary entries, they were always things like, ‘Oh, I hope he likes me! Oh, I happened to pass him in the hall today and I even said hi to him and he totally said hi back! I wonder if that means he likes me too!’ Except, by “happened to” I mean I figured out his class schedule and practically stalked him in between classes.” And by “practically” I mean I did. Like every day.
We giggled like schoolgirls and I said, “I’m totally blogging about this.”