Blame the first doctor who told me I don’t have breast cancer for why I stopped blogging.
Or the second one, though the third was the most unpleasant. Seeing her was not my idea. I was a mere cog in the Protocol machine.
Ironically, Protocol did not improve Dr. #3’s manners. Doctors should not scold patients. Especially when they can’t be bothered to read the notes they took the last time you were naked and examined.
Blame can also be placed on the fact that even not having breast cancer puts the hell in hellth-care. That bitch Protocol says I have to do drugs for half a decade, get felt up twice annually and expose the rest of me to enough extra radiation to nuke pizza.
If that die-namic duo is not enough to zap a gal’s blogging ability into oblivion, let’s add that oldie but goodie, the universal place to lay blame for every 8-year-old whose writing assignments also didn’t get written:
“The dog ate my homework.”
Yup, sort of anyway. One of my dogs ate my power cord. And all my lampshades. Months of intermittent Millie-induced electrical outages impacted my productivity, negatively. My other dog, Dempsey crossed the Rainbow Bridge, after a year of chemotherapy for actual cancer.
Grief is to blame for all sorts of lapses. Really truly. It’s not just an excuse for bad and/or no behavior. Or bad and/or no blogging.
Not like your crazy family. Who doesn’t have a crazy family excuse in her pocket that covers any occasion, conduct or writer’s block?
Childhood was more ‘hood than child for many of us, including me. After a couple of decades and thousands of dollars in therapy, I (think) I got over it.
For my family, getting over 2015 might take a similar expenditure of time and money. Last year was littered with epic highs and lows that touched each one of us. To be honest, the highs might be lost in the shuffle forever if not for photographic evidence and a legendary dance-off.
(The Curly Shuffle took the crown and the cake– the wedding cake.)
The lows will linger until… I can’t even guess when. The damage wrought by unspeakable tragedy can be permanent.
You might think blogging is a salve able to soothe my racing thoughts and pounding heart via distraction or disclosure. Here’s the thing: medicine only works if you can get the bottle open. I unscrewed my brain enough to write Episodes 1 and 2 of “My Left Boob, A Biography.” Then my life and head exploded.
Finally, blame age for my lack of literary output. Confession: I only bring up age when I am legally required to, or I need an excuse. Right now, the latter has the added benefit of being true, and not because memory and birthdays are inversely correlated (though I still won’t divulging my “number.”)
You see, the name of the blog and website has “40” right in it. Conventional blogging wisdom says to pick a niche audience and be sure they know you are talking to them. Branding they call it. If you name it, they will come.
And they – you—did. Even during this dry spell, most of you were kept entertained (I hope) and interested via Facebook, where you came to find new content and snarky commentary. New fans came, too.
But how many did not come? How many women in their 50s, 60s, 70s or 30s, for that matter stayed away because they did not think the site – I – was talking to them? Hell, 40 is so far in my rear view mirror, the brand could be Hitchcock’s. I’m not even sure I was talking to myself (for a change).
The truth is, though paragraphs 1 through 10 above are the reasons I could not bring myself to blog, I used the time off as an excuse to reconsider the who-what-where-when-why-and-hows of SingleandtheSweetSideof20.com.
Because the truth is, I’ve never been completely comfortable with the name. Consider the sheer number of letters in the Single and the Sweet Side of 40 web address: 29 characters! 40, if you count the http://www. Plus, the sweet side of 40 is likely to be whatever side you are on.
The truth is also that why I started blogging was to establish an encore career—which is a fancy way to say I will never be able to afford to retire so I better get going on a second gig. I enrolled in Coach University, graduated, and hung out a shingle on the website.
But that’s not the whole truth. I hoped and planned to use my newly-minted coaching skills to help alleviate the stigma and stress of being a woman in America who reaches the age of 40 and finds herself single…
How did that work out for me?
Chirp chirp chirp.
And I was the only one chirping.
Seems like you are doing fine without my genius insights. In fact, it seems like you don’t need assistance in living single, you need understanding and belonging.
You don’t want to be told how sweet it is to be single and of a certain age. You want to be told several hundred inside jokes, things only other single women “get.”
You want to be seen, heard and counted. You want friends and advocates. You want to complain without being compared, because singles always lose that battle 2 to 1. You want to brag about your accomplishments without the “but you’re not being married.”
Instead of blaming myself that you don’t require advice, instead of dropping the blog and searching for a second income stream elsewhere, instead of sucking my thumb and curling up in a fetal position, I am going to change everything about SingleandtheSweetSideof40.com that I don’t like and you don’t need.
When I can think again.
[hr toptext=”” size=”medium” custom_size=”” hide_mobile_hr=”true”]
SingleandtheSweetSideof40.com is changing. What do you want to see a blog for the largest community of single women over 40 in the universe become? Email email@example.com, or leave a comment below, or connect with me on Facebook. In the meantime, keep coming back. I might surprize you, and myself.