People always tell me to start a blog and I resist. First of all, I can’t start a blog because I have a blog. I just haven’t updated it since the wayward days of August 2009—the month I did mostly nothing in Boston before starting graduate school. I did, however, blog—or more accurately, move personal musings from my MacBook desktop and childhood journal to the internet. Those posts really peak 1993-1995. Then the innocence is lost and my writing is motivated by intent to please an audience. Can you perceive it in every sentence? Oh well!
My blogging phase promptly ceased as soon as grown up school (graduate school) began. I submerged into life, and it was difficult to emerge long enough to write about it. While taking classes and teaching classes, forming my dissertation, buying groceries, handwashing my bras, digging in caves, finding love, honoring myself at yoga, eating, drinking, dancing, and recovering, who has time for blogging?
I’ve already put forth a treatise-lite about why I hate blogs, and yet have a blog (in my blog: August 22, 2009). However, those reasons are dated, and so here, I offer my fresh reasons for resistance and submission.
1) Time consumption. I won’t waste our time elaborating on this issue.
2) Suitable subject. For a moment I wonder, “but what ever would I blog about?” and then I recall that I have accrued an inordinate number of stories over the past decade.
There was that time when I inadvertently came across as Neo-nazi because of my AIM screen name. There was the time when I temporarily stored a dead cat in the mini-fridge and my roommates got mad. There was the time when I accidentally went to Germany and the time when I intentionally went with two days notice.
My mid-twenties are my material. A period characterized by debilitating academic demands and rehabilitating burgers and beers. A time of friends, brunches, and the perpetual pursuit of love, or at least a make out.
There hasn’t been much fulfilling love—any fulfilling love—but as a parting gift there have been enough men to keep the brunch conversations lively. For example, Enormous Dan—I met him at Enormous Room and entered his number as Enormous Dan. No relation to the magnitude of his manhood. While making out, his facial stubble left a very noticeable brush burn on my chin, which elicited inquiry from everyone and had no reasonable alternative explanation. “Annelia what happened to your face??” “Well Professor So-and-So, I made out with an Enormous Dan.”
Joey From the Bus. We met on the Number #1 bus. There wasn’t much more to him.
Vince. He made a lot of puns. These weren’t even real-time puns: he recounted puns once made. Bygone puns. There was a series that substituted naan, the Indian bread, for non, the prefix of negation. Naan-sense. Naan-sequitor. I will stop, but he didn’t.
I’m a collector of stories and need to conserve my collection in words. We anthropologists know how oral histories otherwise decay.
And why do I have such a fine collection? Like all accomplishments, it results from an alignment of circumstance, fortune, and effort. My circumstance is fertile ground for (mis)adventure: I am an archaeologist at Harvard, so work is hardly a 9-5 office humdrum. Myself and my colleagues spend months in tribal villages and discuss lemurs at the water cooler. Someone named Nat (pronounced like the insect, not the Gossip Girl character) studies Nuzi wear (an ancient pottery tradition of the Near East). Nat and his Nuzi wear! La la la! I wish I could make these things up.
As for effort, when faced with a decision, I choose the option that will likely lead to a better story. Decisions like: another beer? Live with cats? Go on the date with the perspiring man in the beadazzled Darth Vader shirt? Why not?* This theme is more appropriately and eloquently presented by a Robert Frost poem, that you can find hanging in your local fifth grade classroom.
But many of my stories are just from great fortune. Like having Creationist children, with Creationist helicopter mothers, when I taught a weekly Archaeology and Human Evolution club for kids. Or when a guy got a spontaneous bloody nose while kissing me. And not a cool, coke-induced bloody nose. An aridity-induced one. You can’t try for stories like that. You just must be blessed with predicament and coincidence. And I am.
It is my dream and my destiny to produce an amusing, inconsequential memoire that you will read in the bathroom. Towards that end, I will devote time and mental exertion to blogging. I recognize that this will probably get me fired, not hired, and out of favor with most people involved. But with one’s destiny cometh suffering! I learned that from Frodo and Jesus.
*Do not live with Cats.