Where the author realizes that draft on her legs is not a breeze but rather the chill of public nudity

When I first started writing Caloden I did so out of a need to sort through my life during a specific, difficult span. At the time we had weathered Devon’s first year and faced the concept of losing him, my relationship with Matt was in some sort of neglected post-divorce, post-make-up, post-third child pergatory where neither of us had the gumption to make things better or move on to brighter horizons, where I had quit my real job several years before but could no longer work such a job because of the whole pesky three child thing. So in order to cope I began blogging. Often I would tell myself it was just a temporary thing, like when girls sometime experiment with other girls in college and then later move on to guys again. A phase is what I termed it. But here I am three and half years later and clinging to it without any thought of letting it go. At least that is how I feel about it most days. On other days, if I think about it too much, I understand that this bit of airing my personal bits on the Internet, where the written word is the equivalent of those plastic soda six pack rings with lives of something like 3,500 years, is pretty odd.

Today I had one such moment when I happened to be on the phone with somebody from Cassidy’s school. We were discussing some of the ongoing sixth grade girl drama when he happened to mention the fact that he knew I had an “Internet presence”. Those two words gave me a slight pause before I slid over them and tried to move on, but that is when he mentioned that he read my blog. At this point I thought I would rather do most anything than bridge the next section of the conversation. As I have mentioned before it is just fine if somebody out there happens upon this site, but in my home pond it gives me the willies. Sure, I get it that I am the one writing this and the Internet is free for roaming. But seriously, somebody from my daughter’s school? What are the odds?  Usually I would mutter an eloquent fuck, but today I feel somewhat inclined to say golly-darn and go give my hands a good scrubbing. A more aware person might give up on the whole thing. Sometimes I do. When I realize people actually read this it defintiely stops up my momentum, makes me a bit self-conscious. But damn, to miss a day at this point would make my whole body itch and probably provoke me into picking out the remaining eyelashes on my right lid. Some people drink. Other smoke. I blog. Someday maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to say, “Yes, I blog.” In the smae way that other can say they garden. Or scrapbook. Or quilt. I’m not there yet. It’s still a bit weird, I just can’t seem to kick it.