I recently received an email from a blog buddy, in which she broached the subject of a possible meet-up with other bloggers who reside in the greater Backroads area.
I find the idea of such a gathering a bit daunting. Not because I fear an undercover sting operation. Nor a bracing beat-down with bars of soap tucked into pillowcases. Nor the conclusion, when Ashton Kutcher comes out to say I've been punked. This may come as a surprise to you, but I am not a social butterfly.
It's not that I'm shy. I can hold my own in a conversation. But I don't initiate it. Who would want to hear what I have to say? If my life was A League of Their Own, I would be Marla Hooch. Without the slugging capability. I'm Carrie White without telekinesis. "Caddy" (it's KAY-dee!) Heron in Mean Girls, without the actress's substance abuse issues. Had Lord of the Flies been written as Lady of the Flies, I would be Piggy. I always feel like the fifth wheel, the sixth toe, the third rail. Well. Maybe not the third rail. I'm not that electrifying.
For the most part, people respond to me in a positive manner. But I'm always afraid of saying something really stupid. Not as stupid as Jerry Seinfeld and his "panties your mother laid out for you" stupid. Not even "when are you gonna breed these steers" stupid. Just mildly stupid. Where everybody stops talking and looks at me. In pin-drop silence.
When I write stupid stuff, I can go back and edit. Or maybe not, you might be thinking. But at least I can't hear the silence. Or even worse, the gasps. See the surreptitious glances. The clandestine finger twirling near the ear.
Val is a dish best served up in the print medium.