From the title of this post–or if you know me, and/or are a Facebook friend–then you might assume this entry is about my recent excursion to see Wicked, the musical (thanks Mom!).
In fact, you might think it’s about how my review of the musical was: “There weren’t any catchy songs.”
Or, you might think it was about how disappointed I was that it was so different from the book. I think going to see a musical adaptation of a favorite book may be even worse than seeing a movie adaptation.
It might even be about how chagrined I was that nobody in my Wicked dinner party of six got my joke when we were picking restaurants (over email): “As long as we aren’t going to eat any Animals.”
You see,that’s funny not only because I’m vegan, but as I explained to my sister J, “It’s a literary allusion.” Animal rights was a central motif of the book, an allegory about race and class. But nobody got it, because:
A) They hadn’t read the book.
B) They didn’t know there was a book.
C) They read the book so long ago they forgot what it was about.
My sister even said, “I just thought you were capitalizing “animals” now.”
And in my most geeky and unintentionally withering tone of voice, I replied, “I don’t capitalize words that aren’t supposed to be capitalized.”
I’m such a dork.
But, no, despite appearances, that is NOT what this blog is about.
It’s about how I’m afraid.
I’m afraid to write about anything controversial. As in, the exact things I promised to write about on this blog. Things like love, sex, religion, politics.
You know, the things that matter.
But, as I told my husband all during the first whole month we were dating, “I’m an old-fashioned girl.”
You can take a look at my wedding picture and see how well that turned out:
Yes, I grew up in the 80s, that cultural mecca of old-fashioned values. Ha!
As a woman of 38 (and a half), I shouldn’t care about what anybody thinks of me anymore, right?
I grew up Catholic!
I grew up reading L.M. Montgomery!
I’m like an Easter egg filled with old-fashioned mores about what’s acceptable to talk about, covered in a heavy candy-coating of shame.
(Oh, that was an awful, AWFUL–though timely–description. Please accept my apologies!)
This is what I’m afraid of: people will judge me. People I know will read this and know more about me than I really want them to. Or, they’ll think they know all about me when they really don’t. Or strangers will read this and think I’m full of crap. Or delusions of grandeur. Or that I have no talent, nothing meaningful or remotely interesting to say.
I’m afraid if I write about my personal life it will interfere in my professional life.
I’m afraid I will hurt the feelings of family and friends.
I’m afraid nobody will read this (if you do, please comment–just let me know you were here!).
I’m afraid that if I don’t do this, I will always regret it.
I’m afraid that if I don’t find my voice at the age of 38 and a half, I will live the rest of my life in fear.