Thankful (Or.. Why Reading The Porch Might Lead to a Hangover)

Whew. Lawdy.

This Sunday morning, I am grateful for the dawn of a new day, for the fresh start of a shiny, new week. If I can be blunt (and if you read The Porch, you know I can be), last week kicked my ass. It was a week that kept on giving - and not in a good way. Each day held a new "surprise" - but not the fun kind that includes cake and buttercream frosting.

Overall, I give last week the finger. I give it both fingers. I give it both fingers and two middle toes. That's how bad it was.

And yes, I feel guilty for complaining again. Damn my guilt complex. Can't I ever be entitled to say something sucked without feeling guilty for thinking it sucks? Nope. I still realize, overall, how fortunate I am. I've covered that in a recent post. God bless those who struggle. When I pray, I often tell Big G, "Hey. I know this must sound like super trivial stuff compared to everything you hear up there. Go work on those issues. I just needed to whine for a second."

Then I imagine the Big G says something like, "No, you need to wine for a second. Go pour yourself a glass and let me get back to serious business. But don't sweat it. You wouldn't believe the stuff people ask me for. This one crazy, 40-something-year-old woman keeps asking me for Hugh Jackman! Hugh-My-Finest-Handiwork-Jackman! Can you imagine? AS IF, girlfriend. Ohhhh. Was that...Um, never mind. Well, this is terribly awkward, isn't it? I've got to, um... Look! A monkey!"

See? I still see the lighter side of life. It's a gift. An irreverent, warped sort of gift.

Plus, I watched the movie version of The Help with my daughter this week, and I was struck by the conversation the maid, Constantine, has with a young Skeeter, when Skeeter feels the world is decidedly against her. I love Kathryn Stockett's beautiful novel so very much (it was one of those books I cradled at night before I closed it and set it, regrettably, aside), that I grabbed it and looked up the passage.

Constantine tells Skeeter,“Ever morning, until you dead in the ground, you gone have to make this decision... You gone have to ask yourself, Am I gone believe what them fools say about me today?"

So today, I ask myself that again:

Am I gone believe what them fools say about me today?

I wish it was easy to answer, "Hell to the no!" I wish life's problems were that simple to solve.

They are not, but this morning, I am going to shake my head NO when I ask myself that question.

I am going to pump my fist in the air triumphantly!

I am going to eat the last chocolate donut before my kids wake up because that is WHO I AM (I never claimed to be a saint).

I might not believe it quite yet, but I figure this is good practice.

And in that vein, I also begin this new, fresh week by celebrating some of the things I am grateful for today. As always, I am humbled by the big things I have been granted: family, friends, good health, my job and so forth. But it pays to be thankful for the little things, too...

• like the aforementioned last chocolate donut. The last one tastes the bestest. So does the first one. And the ones in the middle.
• I also am grateful for the woman at the bakery who asked me -- and I kid you not -- if I wanted  "a cup of frosting" with my donuts. God bless her. She gets me.
• I give Hugh Jackman way too much attention (Oh! Oh! I just thought of a new drinking game. Read through my blog, and each time I mention Hugh Jackman in a post, take a drink. Just don't blame me when you can't get out of bed the next morning). Although I love Hugh Jackman (just kicking the game off right), I also must give a shout out to my other pretend boyfriend, Christian Bale, and the newest Batman flick, The Dark Knight Rises, which opens this week. Whoever coined that movie title is friggin' brilliant. Is it hot in here?
• I am thankful for the plentiful rain our drought-weary area welcomed yesterday. The kids and I ran down the street in it, splashed in the puddles and let it soak us to the bones. It was beautiful.
• I also am stoked that I recently achieved the highest rating of five stars on the Wii Just Dance 3 game. How did I turn into Shakira? Well, I miss my kids terribly when they are gone, so to the pass the time, I sometimes play Just Dance. By myself. In my living room. In my underwear. Don't judge! What fun is it to be alone in your house if you can't dance around the living room in your underwear? No worries. I close the blinds to protect the innocent. I also cover the mirrors because I once made the mistake of watching myself dance. Turns out, I look less like Shakira and more like a monkey on crack. The game usually rates my moves as "creative." I'll take that as a compliment.
• I am grateful for James Taylor, who I saw in concert this week. He struck me as kind, gracious, and of course, wonderfully talented. (And -- I don't know if you know this -- but he's seen fire and he's seen rain.) As a creative type, I love to see artists like James Taylor perform, and I relish hearing the stories behind the music. They are artists who have always known who they are, and they refuse to be anything else. It's inspiring.
• Last but not least, I am thankful for you, for reading these silly posts. It's because of the Hugh Jackman drinking game, isn't it? Still, I love you. And Hugh Jackman. Cheers, you crazy, wonderful porch sitters!

Breadcrumbs

"I can easily find my way home, for I marked the road with my breadcrumbs." ~ Hansel, in Hansel and Gretel

...

A high-strung, often over-caffeinated personality, I fear a great many things: spiders; heights; tornadoes; Rush Limbaugh [shudder]. I likely am the only person on a trip who actually studies the fire evacuation plan on the back of hotel doors, and yes, I keep a CDC-approved zombie apocalypse kit in my garage (You  won't be laughing when I'm slaying the undead with a meat fork. No one's eating my face.)

I've been told a time or zillion that I am "overthinking it", so no wonder I'm slightly nervous about a second marriage. Oscar Wilde once said that marriage is the triumph of imagination over intelligence, while a second marriage is the triumph of hope over experience.

True dat.

Second marriage isn't exactly zombie scary -- but it is daunting. Did you know that 70 percent of second marriages end in divorce? Granted, I'm no mathlete, but that doesn't sound encouraging. If there was a 70 percent chance of tornadoes, my kids would be donning their tornado helmets (yes, I make them do that. Shut up). On the other hand, if someone told me there was a 70 percent chance of it raining donuts, I'd fill swimming pools with coffee and jump on a raft with a couple of nets. I am nothing if not prepared.

The statistics frighten me, so I want to be ready. But not for divorce. I've been through a divorce, and I never want to go through another one. No, I want to be fully prepared for our marriage. For the real, honest, nitty-gritty, hopefully-wonderful-but-sometimes-not-so-great institution of marriage.

Recently, my fiancé and I saw photos of a young bride and groom's first dance. The new bride gazed lovingly into her husband's eyes as he held her close, his hands clasped tightly around the white satin and shiny newness of their lives.

"Oh," I sighed wistfully, "I hope they will always be that happy."

"But they won't be," Mark said. "See? That's why you and I are special. We both already know we're going to be miserable."

Then we laughed; second marriages must come with a hearty, healthy sense of humor.

But that doesn't mean we aren't taking our marriage incredibly seriously. I love it (not really) when well-meaning married people explain to me how love changes over time, how Mark and I won't always be so infatuated with one another. Folks, let me save you some lectures: people who are divorced are painfully aware of how love changes over time.

We are not newbies at love or marriage. We are older (this is where Mark interjects that I am older than he is) and hopefully wiser (this is where I interject that a wise man would not point out that his wife-to-be is ever-so-slightly older).

We love each other deeply, but we both know from experience that sometimes, tragically, love is not enough to hold a marriage together.

 

So what do we do? How do we beat the odds this time?

We work at it. We work it like a boss (<--shout out to my homeboy). I have never read relationship books before, yet I have a library of them now. Mark has participated in men's groups focused on building a healthy, happy marriage and home. Taking the recommendations of marriage counselors, we are discussing our strengths, weaknesses, goals and fears now, to make sure no one is sucker punched later (e.g. "What do you mean I can't have this Hugh Jackman poster over our bed?"). We pledge to tackle the big issues and address the smaller ones before they become the big, honkin' problems of tomorrow. We're also learning everything we can about the stepfamily dynamic.

We remember that none of this is about a wedding, and all of this is about a marriage. (That said, it was crazy fun trying on wedding gowns the other day. I recommend this even if you aren't getting married. You literally are put on a pedestal and everyone is paid to tell you that you look fabulous. I plan to go at least once a month.)

But there's something else I still need to do. Something important.

When Mark proposed. I didn't want to forget anything from that moment, so I kept souvenirs: the ring box; the cork from the bottle of wine, tiny pieces of the confetti that had been scattered across our dinner table. But I also said to him, "I wish we could find a way to save everything we feel right now. That way, when we desperately need to remember -- and there will be those days -- we could feel this way again."

I thought of Hansel leaving his trail of breadcrumbs, so he and Gretel could find their way home. Yes, I know the birds ate the breadcrumbs, but the kids found a house made of cookies and candy, so they shouldn't complain.

Unfortunately, there is not a special bag or box that holds the feelings we cherish most. This bothered me, until I remembered I am a writer (not really - but I play one on this blog). With that in mind, I want to leave some breadcrumbs, so if Mark and I are among the 70 percent who lose their way, we hopefully can find the path home (or even better, a house made of cookies).

My high school daughter has already told me that I have regressed to a lovesick 14-year-old girl, but I deny this. I haven't spent hours on my bed listening to Air Supply (yet). That said, if declarations of love make you want to barf, this isn't the place for you. These are my breadcrumbs for Mark, and I can leave them wherever I want. So there.

Mark, these are only a handful of the things I always hope to remember:

• I like that I've known you for more than 20 years. While we weren't in touch for many of those, there is weight to those shared experiences and college memories. I recall the night you showed up at my college apartment with your hometown friends, and I'd had some beer (Mom, if you're reading this, it was my first beer ever, and I only drank it when I mistook it for a cola after that church revival). Anyway, I called the local radio station, and for inexplicable reasons (a.k.a. beer), I publicly dedicated Color Me Badd's All For Love to you in some long, silly, ridiculous dedication. I don't know why you didn't cut all contact with me then and there. You must have been mortified. But the good-natured guy that you are, you laughed. Or maybe a guy who had proudly shown me his movie soundtrack collection a few days earlier didn't have any room to talk about my bad judgement in music. Who ya gonna' call? GhostBusters!
• I was shocked to learn you still have the "Mac's" package store t-shirt and Lewis Grizzard book I gave you in college. I don't think it was because of any great sentiment, but I'm glad you held on to some pieces of me all those years.
• On that note, I am so grateful we were friends before we were more. And we were good friends, friends who trusted each other, talked to one another, listened to and advised each other. I already knew your flaws, and you already knew mine. We both saw each other falter and flounder in relationships. Remember all that relationship advice I gave you, and vice versa? We always wanted the best for each other. I like to think we always will.
• Of course, there was that day, that moment, when we -- two good friends enjoying a couple of chocolate chip cookies -- looked at each other for the longest time, puzzled that everything suddenly seemed different.  We just stared at each other, both of us knowing the world had shifted, wondering what the hell had happened to us. Later, we shook our heads, insisted we'd never be more than friends, which was plenty. But dude, those were really good cookies.
• Speaking of cookies, I'm glad you enjoy baking and cooking -- because I enjoy eating and eating. You're talented, and you know your way around a kitchen. One of my favorite things to do is open a bottle of wine, turn on some music and cook dinner with you. We move around each other, chopping dicing and sauteeing, like a well-orchestrated ballet. Or maybe we just think we do because of the wine. Whatever. It's still lovely.
• Three words: Baked hot chocolate.
• We read many of the same books. I dig that. We do not, however, watch the same cable news networks, which makes for some feisty Sunday morning discussions. You're the Matalin to my Carville. I mean, if Matalin had man parts -- like Hillary Clinton.
• I adore that the same movies play in our heads. We constantly create imaginary, impromptu stories about anything and everything. One of us starts the scenario. The other soon adds to it, until we're both laughing because we see the same movie, the same characters, the same storyline, the same ending. That's rare, to sync with someone like that. WonderTwin Powers Activate!
• Speaking of, no one makes me laugh like you. Thanks for making me laugh every single day -- even on days I am certain laughter is impossible.
• You're amazing with children. Truly. Kids flock to you. They must recognize that you're young at heart. I love that about you.
• More importantly, you're amazing with my children. Thank you for loving them, for treating them well, for always considering their feelings, for supporting them in various ways. Thank you for the day you suddenly turned to me while we were stopped in traffic and said, "You have really good kids. They are really, really good kids." What I saw in your eyes in that moment told me everything I needed to know.
• I also love our imaginary kid, Rickywayne. He's chunky; a little lazy; loves Twinkies; and likes to walk around the house in a too-small t-shirt and underwear, but damn. He's a good boy. We've raised a fine imaginary son.
• I like the way you love people. You love your family. Your best friends from childhood are your best friends today. And I'm not sure any woman will ever have more of your heart than your grandma had. That's okay by me. A man who puts his grandmother above all others is a fine man. I only wish I could have met her.
• I've heard that a man's soul can be judged by the way he treats his dog(s). Piper, Sandy and I can attest that your soul is golden.
• You're wicked smart, and you're very good at what you do. I actually like to watch you work. Sure, that's because you're usually in a suit. What can I say? Every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp-dressed man.
• I like that you run marathons, that you push yourself, that you test your endurance. Marriage, after all, is the ultimate endurance test.
• You once asked me to dance under a full moon to Patsy Cline. That's on my top-10 list of Life's Best Moments.
• You call me "beautiful" ... then I feel that way.
• You're a man of faith and prayer. I had a terrible Sunday once. You persuaded me to go to church, knowing it was exactly what I needed to be restored. You turned to me during the service and whispered, "Aren't you glad you are here?" I was. And I was glad you led me there.
• You remember my college dreams, the things a younger, fearless version of myself told you I would do someday. You still want those dreams for me, and you encourage me, in big and little ways. Thanks for believing in me.
• Last Christmas, you made me feel like a little kid again. I sat under the tree, surrounded by such perfect, thoughtful presents. I still can't get over everything you did, how careful you were about the gifts you chose for me. A man who gives me the Complete Poems of EE Cummings AND zombie targets is a man who gets me.
• To quote from ee, "Since feeling is first / who pays any attention / to the syntax of things / will never wholly kiss you..." You, sir, have wholly kissed me. By gosh you have.
• On those rare occasions when we fight, you don't let me run away from it, which is my standard m.o. You pull me back. You work at it. You make it right, even when you think I'm wrong (I'm never wrong, by the way. Well, okay, maybe once, but who's counting?) I think my favorite fight -- are we allowed to have those? -- is the time we were arguing over where washrags should hang in the shower. (Clearly, these are the serious issues that divide our nation.) I was mad, and you knew it. After I stewed for a while, I went in the bathroom to discover that you had taken every single washrag you own from your cabinets and closets and piled them all where I like my washrags. If I never told you how much that made me smile, how that sweet gesture opened another window in my heart, I am now.
• Remember that night we were walking, and you yelled, "Stop!" (to prevent me from stepping in front of a car) and I yelled, "HAMMERTIME!"? We sang MC Hammer all the way home. Everyone can find a soulmate. But you? You're my nerdmate. That's way better.
• You know exactly who I am. You always know what I'm thinking, even when I lie and tell you you're wrong. It's infuriating sometimes, but I also relish that I am never more free to be myself than I am with you. Thanks for loving me in spite of me.
• Whenever I need you, even if I don't say so, you find me. That's huge. At the end of the day, that's everything.
• I like a soundtrack for my life, so you send me songs for it. Remember the first song you ever sent me? I do  ...   I can only thank God it was not too late.

Honestly, I could go on and on, but people are spewing on their keyboards, and that's awfully tough to clean.

I'll scatter these crumbs occasionally, so I can always find my way back to you. I never want us to stray too far from home. If we do, we remember the crumbs -- and the cookies they came from.

We'll beat the odds.

Why? 'Cause we're 2 legit. 2 legit 2 quit.

My Path to Shiny Goodness

Thanks for indulging me yesterday. I honestly was surprised when some readers told me that they could relate to my post, since I was purposefully vague and trapped "in my own head" (I'm self-centered like that). But if you found something - anything - you could use, I am glad. Of course, you realize you've only encouraged me? Thanks for that, by the way.

The past few years have been ones of tremendous change and growth for me. With growth, come growing pains. Bones ache when they stretch. So do souls.

I have been told by reliable sources that I ramble, so here is the CliffsNotes version:

I was married for a long time. It did not work - for a long time. I was sad. We separated; then divorced. It sucked.

I also found love again - with my best friend. It does not suck. We are newly engaged. I am happy.

Holy cow. Look how short Eat Pray Love could have been! Elizabeth Gilbert is wordy.

For the record, divorce is not that trite or tidy. It is ugly, dark and weighty, and it hurts like hell. There is no CliffsNotes version in real life. Worse, it does not happen in a vacuum; its black tentacles reach those you love most.

I wrote a more-detailed, painfully honest version of my story, but since my story also belongs to others, I hesitate to share it. Unlike Ms. Gilbert (whom I love but also slightly resent post-divorce), I did not get to ponder my life path while traversing the globe for a year, stuffing myself with pasta and meditating with holy men. Instead, I had to reassure the most fragile of souls; negotiate and divide 18 years of my life; get a job (a real one this time); sell a home; find a house; move; start over; learn to love again; learn to trust myself again. I've been busy.

But for those who know my story, or think they do, please understand that I carry it all - every last damn bit of it - and I always will. Who I was shaped who I will be.

That said, there comes a point when you have to let go of that which you cannot control. That's what I was attempting to do with my previous post. Surprisingly, it helped. Even by writing vaguely - and badly - I finally realized that "letting go" is not a feeling. It is an action. It takes more than will; it takes effort. It takes movement.

It's not enough to say, "I need to let that go." It's not enough to even swear to yourself that you will let go. You have to work at it. If you have carried something dark and heavy for a long time, gentle coaxing will not free it. Poking and prodding might not free it. Sometimes you have to reach into yourself - deep, deep into yourself where the ugliest of truths only you know hide - and you must wrench and rip and tear them from you.

This is what I am learning. This is why I am writing melodramatic posts. It is part of my wrenching and ripping and tearing. And it's cheaper than therapy, which means I can buy more donuts. Win-win.

I want to let go, so I can start again. Life has handed me one big, blank page and said, "Write your new story." As wonderful as that is, it also is daunting. It should be, shouldn't it?

This time around, I want the sentences to flow. I want to feel a powerful connection to the story. I want to relish each and every word so much that I both do, and do not, want to know what happens next...

Nothing like putting a little pressure on myself, is there?

The title of my new story should be something deep and meaningful, but no. I'm calling it, "Shiny Goodness" - because really - what is better than shiny goodness? Well, you have a point, but "Hugh Jackman and a Long John" just sounds wrong.

The point is (did I have one?), with each wrench, rip and tear, I am one baby step closer to Shiny Goodness. I am giving myself permission to embrace the shiny goodness of life and feel the sunshine on my shoulders. It just got all John Denver up in here, so you know I'm serious.

Some will say I am wrong. That is inevitable. Every story has critics, and mine is no exception.

I certainly heard from the naysayers at the end of my last story. Even those whom I felt certain would always have my back, did not. I was told, in innumerable ways, that I would falter. I was told, sometimes bluntly, that I would fail.  I felt fully, down to the fiber of my being, the sting of their critiques. And I still feel there are those who want me to fail, so they can have the smug satisfaction of saying they told me so, or that I deserved it.

And maybe I will falter. Perhaps I will fail. None of us know how our stories will end. Not really.

I can learn from the critics, yes. But as the author of my own story, trust this: I choose each and every word I write carefully, with considerable thought and tremendous love for what I am crafting. I choose my words with my tears, my laughter, my mistakes, my hopes, my faith, who I was, who I am, and who I hope to be.

At least I will know, at the end of my tale, that I tried to find the shiny goodness in my story. That is something, isn't it? Yes, that is something.


This would be a good time to cue Peter Gabriel:

Vague? Check. Poorly written? Check. Needed to Write it Anyway? Check.

If this rambles - and, lawd help you, it will - I apologize. I've been reading more of Anne Lamott lately, and I think she would approve. I am giving myself permission to write badly today because sometimes we need that. We need the satisfaction of creating something - even sucktastically bad somethings.

Writing when we feel this way is like wading into the ocean on those choppy, yellow-flag days. We know there is risk, but part of us must like to feel the waves smack us around a bit. It reminds us that we are HERE, dammit. We are flailing and getting knocked about and choking up saltwater, but we are still here, toes digging into ever-shifting sand, facing the next big wave.

I am still here, facing the blank page. I have been here for a while.

I see the muse clearly today, and she is annoyed. Her fingers drum against crossed arms; her foot taps impatiently (she's a fidgety vixen, my muse); and she has that, "I can't believe you have ignored me for so long" look. God knows I have tried to banish her to the part of my brain where Hugh Jackman takes long, slow showers, but she refuses to budge.

That's a shame because she's really uptight.

"Write it out already," she says. "You're carrying all these heavy thoughts around like anchors. You can't move on with that much weight, and I'm tired of being in one drab place in your head when there's a whole playground out there, lady. I don't care what shape your sentences take; that's irrelevant. But get something on paper, so we can move on and get back to stupid posts about your lack of cleavage and Chocodiles and whatnot."

Eh. She has a point. It has been a while since I truly freed my muse. Time to unbind her from the chains that have held her hostage in recent years: major life changes, transitions and loss; misunderstandings and flawed perceptions; guilt and grief; and, thankfully, at last, joy and love and hope.

Not long ago, I took that major life stress test. You know the one -- the test from Psychology 101 that assigns a number to life's most stressful events: death, divorce, moves, new jobs, financial woes, so on and so forth. You add up the numbers, and the test measures your likelihood of stress-related illness based on your tally.

When I tallied my stressors from recent years, the diagnosis was, "Bitch, why you still breathin'?" That's not exactly how they phrased it, but when you factor in the number of donuts, chips and snack cakes I eat as a response to stress, it truly is a wonder I am still here and not being hoisted to a sitting position by a crane. My point is, the number was high. Scary high.

The thing is, I feel so damn guilty even saying that I had stressful events in my life. I mean, who hasn't, right? Even those picture-perfect-postcard people have crosses to bear. I promise they do. We all do.

I am a count-your-blessings person by nature, so I feel selfish when I count my hurts. There are people who have lost so much more than me or who have faced the most God-awful things. When I think of them, I feel I have no right to complain. When I hug my children each night, I have no right to complain. When I look at the man I love - and see how much he loves me - I have no right to complain. When I look at the food on my table, the roof over my head, the fruits of my labor, the photos of shirtless Hugh Jackman on the intertubes (I can only be serious for so long, folks), I have no right to complain. All in all, I am richly blessed. I have more than I deserve. I know that. And I'm grateful.

So what's the problem? Whatever crosses we bear - whether big or small in the grand scheme of things - weigh on us. I let those weights bog me down for a long time. That's why I don't write much anymore. I usually free my dysfunction by writing about it in some form or fashion. I want to write about it because - as Lamott says - we all have the right to our own stories.We have the right to write honestly.

But (sigh, there's always a "but") there are reasons I have not freed the muse, who I fear will blab my story all over the place once unleashed.

One. I don't want to seem ungrateful for what I have, which we've already ascertained is more than I deserve. Two, I don't know that what I have to say is remotely interesting to anyone else (are you even still reading? You deserve a donut). And lastly, and perhaps most importantly, I don't want to hurt others who are characters in my life story. Life offers enough sharp blows without me adding to them.

Plus, I don't know that I am able to express myself in a way that would even make anyone understand. There is no "bazinga" moment in this story. It's not that cut and dry. It's muddled and cloudy and messy. In other words, it's life.

That's really the crux of my issue. As a writer, I want so desperately for people to understand. I can't bear it when they don't. I can't. It hurts me when you don't understand or misinterpret me. It's nearly unbearable.

I don't know why I'm made this way, but I feel I have this obligation to try to get you to understand anyway - even when you refuse to; even when you don't care; even, or especially when, you have it all wrong.

Or - and whew, this is tough - I have to find a way to let it go; to accept that you don't, and never will, understand or like my story the way I write it.

That's hard, but I think that's what I have to do. We all bring different experiences to the stories we read,  the lives we lead.

Today, I am writing this rambling, vague, sucktastically bad narrative about a story you don't know and don't understand, in my first honest effort to let some things go that I can't control. To enjoy the good in life. To free to the muse. To write badly, if that's what I need. To feel the waves smack me around a bit. To remind me I'm still here.

It's Not Me, It's Me: Maybe It's Time I Break Up with Myself

Dear Myself and I,

I apologize. I didn't invite us here just for coffee, though we admittedly make a mean homemade mocha.

What good is pretending? Something has changed between me, myself and I, and to quote Matchbox 20, I don't know how to get it back to good.

Truth is, I'm simply not as enamored of myself as I used to be. Thanks to Facebook, I have grown tired of me.

Indeed, we were fabulous in 2008, when Facebook was a relatively new concept. Remember how we used to chuckle at those losers on Myspace with all those silly picture-quote posts, hearts and winky faces? We were so above that immaturity. "What?" we'd scoff, "Are we still in high school?!"

But Facebook was different, wasn't it? It was so clean, fresh and professional. We actually knew the people who sent us friend requests, and we celebrated the day we had 50 friends. Fifty! We. Were. Somebody!

We were not inundated with requests for virtual boards for stables or henchmen for mafia wars. We truly used Facebook to connect with those we had lost touch with through the years: our high school classmates, our college pals, our former neighbors. And it was good. We still felt the electricity when an old friend sent a request or when someone we admired commented on our updates.

Even then, with our small circle of friends, it took us a while to trust Facebook with our personal information. Initially, we refused to post our photos because we had been taught that putting photos of ourselves and our children on those intertubes was a bad thing.

We didn't post our family vacations or our kids' toothless grins or -- get this -- even our fabulous desserts. Cover photos were reserved for magazines. We never -- and I mean, never -- would have considered setting up and posing for our profile pictures. Or "enhancing" them. Or standing in front of our bathroom mirrors with our phones. We weren't that vain.

Soon, however, our friends began to post their fabulous vacation photos. With some hesitancy, we followed suit. Then our friends weren't even really our friends, but our friends of friends, and that was okay, too. And then that guy who knows that girl we sort of knew from that one dude who is friends with that person who went to college with our distant cousin sent us a request, so hey! The more the merrier, right? We were all about connecting. We rationalized it by that whole "sea of humanity" thing, I guess. And who doesn't want lots and lots of friends?

Before long, we completely shrugged off our inhibitions. We forgot we were members of a real family; of a real community. We wanted the wittiest updates, the funniest comments and the most "likes".

We became needy. We began to measure our self worth - not by our successes in the actual world - but by our popularity in a virtual one. No wonder we began to feel insecure in time: He didn't like my post on his wall? Why not? Why didn't she respond to my message? Why didn't I get invited to that Facebook event? Why didn't anyone like that new profile pic? Should I take it down? Do I look old in it?

 Oh, wait. I'm getting personal.

Speaking of personal, we also forgot we ever valued a thing called privacy. We build six-foot fences around our yards, yet we reveal our most sensitive, precious information online every single day. We share stories about our friends, "tagging" them in awkward photos. We expose our family members' most embarrassing moments (disclaimer: I still enjoy that). We even share bedroom stories. We maintain an online scrapbook of our  lives, now called a "timeline." We are open books, relinquishing our rights online because everyone else does. That makes it okay. Is it even real if it doesn't happen on Facebook?

We also tell everyone our problems, though we are annoyed by the loud talkers in the grocery who share their life stories on the phone as they shop.

How did this happen to us? When did we change? When did capturing moments for Facebook become more important than the moment itself?

No, no. Don't blame Mr. Zuckerberg for our narcissistic society. Hell, he's brilliant. It's not like he misled us. He named it FACEbook, after all. He's the wizard behind the green curtain, no doubt chuckling at our utter fascination with ourselves and our dependence on constant feedback. We are unable to leave the beauty of our reflections, even as we declare our outrage about format changes and lack of privacy.

But like all good things, relationships take work to survive. Even relationships with ourselves. Now that the novelty has worn off and fatigue has set in, where do we go from here?

I still go through the motions: a daily (hilarious! super witty!) status update or two; a post about the kids' latest activity or honor; an occasional profile pic switch, if I'm having a good hair day and a trick of the light creates the illusion of cleavage...

But I'm also admittedly growing weary of the ME-ness of it all. I'm finally tired of myself - at least my virtual self. So Myself and I, maybe it's time we get over ourselves, break away from the reflecting pool and rejoin the real world. What's it like out there without "likes" and "tags" and "timelines"?

I hope we find out someday, but first, I have to post this blog on Facebook. I hope people like it. Sigh.

Sincerely,

Me