I have a master's degree--surely I can figure out what I'm doing here and make money doing it. Right? I think I need to go back to changing diapers. What I need to do is figure out how to make money so that I can HIRE someone to take care of...well, EVERYTHING except for the writing on the blog. I could email my writing, they could proofread, because I honestly don't ever do that--SUCH a horrible thing for an English teacher to admit--though not the WORST offense I've committed against my English-teacher persona...but I don't even LOOK at my writing after I type it because if I DID, I would NEVER publish it. I am incapable of looking at ANY work without seeing errors and I am not confident enough in my own work to publish it without worrying or being embarrassed. If I hit the final period and quickly hit publish, it is out of my hands. This logic probably makes no sense to anyone but me, but that is the case with A LOT of my...reasoning.
Nikanomics for instance. My husband coined this term in early 2005 to describe my "ability to find deals." Those quotes are there not because HE admires my ability to find deals--they are there because I admire my ability to find deals. I'm pretty sure HIS definition of Nikanomics has something to do with buying things we don't need and spending money we don't have, but THAT is looking at a half empty glass, don't you think? This is the same logic I used when I was trapped on a mountain (you say hill, I say mountain) in Ellicotville, NY when I was in high school. My mom borrowed my aunt's skis for me for my first time skiing. They were CROSS COUNTRY skis, which could explain all of the falling and tripping and crying. It also explains how my skis crossed each other making me tumble and lose one of them while I was in the middle of the mountain, terrified. "She's skiing on ONE ski!" escaped the lips of those lucky enough to witness the debacle. Small children whipped by me, shooting snow in my face, pointing and laughing and when I was finally approached by someone I knew, I calmly said, "It's fine. I'm waiting for the helicopter." "The HELICOPTER?!" "Yes. I am going to wait for the helicopter to come and get me. I WILL NOT go down this mountain--the helicopter will take care of me. I'll just climb up that little ladder thingy."
After several hours and NO helicopter, I finally eased my way down the mountain--ON MY A@##--only to be greeted by the same little punks who had blown snow in my face. Not my proudest moment and I swore I would NEVER ski again. Luckily in college my roommate wouldn't let me give up on skiing. Our senior year she took me to a place outside of Rochester and I used actual DOWNHILL skis. WHO KNEW?! It took me HOURS (and a few Hot Toddies--no not men, drinks, though I'm pretty sure the cute men inspired me as well!) to even GO UP the mountain, but when I finally DID, I made it down without incident and was able to do it three times before they closed.
Unfortunately, my time between ski trips was so great that I was never able to REALLY get over my fear. While I was in grad school, I went with my then boyfriend and some friends who all were able to ski right out of the womb. They went up the hills without trepidation and I decided to hang out and wait for them at the lodge. That of course was NOT cool and they wouldn't hear of it. They all said they would sacrifice their fun and stay with me on the bunny hill. MORTIFYING. My boyfriend was the first
As the children and other beginners (...other CHILDREN) went up the T-bar gracefully, I slipped and slided like a bear on roller skates. When we approached the top, I could feel the sweat forming on my brow. My boyfriend kept reassuring me, telling me I would be fine, but one of the worst parts of skiing for me is getting to the top of the mountain (okay--I KNOW it was a hill, but it FELT like a mountain!) and exiting the J-bar, T-bar, chair lift--whatever. WITH. GOOD. REASON. My boyfriend elegantly exited the ramp as I tried to ski away, but I wasn't able to move. Terror washed over me as I lunged forward only to remain where I was. Well, not where I WAS exactly...the bar had SOMEHOW worked its way up the back of my jacket and began CARRYING me down the mountain. I was floating in air like the freakin' coyote after the road runner gets him that ONE last time before he FALLS OFF A CLIFF! The "ride" stopped and the person running it put it in reverse so that I might find land again. I swear the same kids who shot snow at me years ago were ON THAT T-BAR laughing at me that day. I don't blame them--if I hadn't been laughing hysterically, the mortification of what had happened may have caused me to stay at home. FOREVER.
Back to my point--logic. I employed my sense of logic when I went into labor with my son as well. In between tears and cries of agony, I "calmly" told my husband (in my "a helicopter will surely come to save me!" voice): "Just tell the doctor to cut me open and lift the baby out THAT way. Really. It just makes the most-AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHH SENSE. Have him cut me open and take it out. It's fine--I'll be fine if he does that. Tell him. Tell HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMMMM!" Needless to say, the doctor did not support elective C-sections while the mother was currently laboring a healthy baby (who CLEARLY hated his mother). Duly. Noted. What REALLY makes me laugh is that a story about how to make money blogging ended with the delivery of my son--and when I put it THAT way, it sounds so very wrong! Only I am able to go on THAT many tangents. Who will EVER pay me for THOSE?!