A million years ago, I had a blog. It was a nice little blog. I called it, “Getting Naked: Baring All About Life.” The masthead had a cartoon of naked sheep that I created with my very first version of Illustrator.
I wrote about everything—heartbreak, politics, religion, family—you name it. My blog saw the end of a relationship and the beginnings of plenty more. My blog ended a friendship—but it made me new friends as well. My blog was there when I met my wife—and I think it may have even been there when she proposed.
Sitting at Starbucks writing blog entries gave me so many experiences that I never would have had. Like sleeping with a barista more than 20 years my senior, and going camping with someone from another state who I barely knew. (I never said they were particularly good experiences.)
Overall, my blog helped me find my voice. It helped me find myself in a time when I really didn’t know who I was anymore.
Recently, I have found myself in a similar place again. Not in the sense that I am heartbroken and trying to start my life over, but in the sense that I feel like I have lost a part of myself.
Marriage, work, and the responsibilities that go along with them have taken over the past couple of years, and I have lost touch with the snarky redhead who could tie Paris Hilton, Chuck E Cheese, and groping teenagers all into a single post. My posts were tucked into categories like, “I got Drunk and ___” and “I Haven’t Had My Coffee Yet.”
I miss that snarky redhead. I miss the quick wit I used to possess. Now, it seems that all I can talk about is work, the latest trouble our hound dogs have found, and how our weekend involves one family obligation after the next.
Where did I go? I know I am in here, somewhere. I’m probably even better than I was before—I mean, my 24 year old self thought that peach flavored Boones was good wine.
My name is Molly. I am 30 years old. I am married to the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known. We have two basset hounds, a vegetable garden and a back yard that is larger than our entire apartment. We are wine club members. We are friends with our neighbors.
I find it interesting that beyond those first couple of statements, everything I say about “me” starts with “we.” There has to be more to me than my name and my age.