Why I Don't Blog Often

I don't blog often because, well because I don't think I say anything anyone wants to read. If I blog just for me (as I'm sure someone will make the argument for), then I could just as well use a diary.

Fact is, I HAVE a diary, but I can't find it. New word for diary: Journal. I journal. That sounds oh, so much more sophisticated than "I write in my diary." THAT sounds like a 12-year-old girl talking. And while I am not enjoying my 56th year of living, I damn sure wouldn't trade it to be 12 again!

But anyway, I have a journal and the last thing I wrote in it was, I think, all about how angry I was (and still am) that my husband has decided he doesn't want to be married to this old woman anymore. Old Woman = Me. Now you know why I'm not enjoying my 56th year of living.

Well, anyway, my days aren't the sort of days where I can climb into bed at the end of the evening and write a Dickensian-type of story or poem. My journaling would be reduced to more along the lines of "Rainy today. Went to work. Came home. Ham sandwich for lunch. Ironed sheets, put away clothes, Chinese for supper, croched a little on the afghan I'm making. Time for bed." Gads, even a 12-year-old would find more exciting things to write about, or she'd have the sense to make them up!

So I'm pathetic. But here I am blogging again. Maybe this time I'll keep it up. Or not. It depends, I suppose, on whether or not I have an exciting day or feel especially witty or prose-y.

And also whether or not I remember.

I love you all more than the fall day where everything looks brighter than it did before the leaves started changing and the sky got bluer.