It's all gone straight to my head, of course, and if I was depressed before (I wasn't! Swear I wasn't! I was just thinking aloud and writing in code.), I certainly couldn't be sad now. I don't have time to be sad, people. I'm too busy being inspiring! And, in case you didn't know this - being an inspiration is downright exhausting. I feel certain I can't be inspiring while wearing my oldest jammies at noon, so I actually have to make an effort to get dressed and put on socks and stuff like that. Really a lot of work for a weekend.
I've said this before, but here it is: I write so that I'll remember. In other words, I write for me. I want to have a record of the things I'm thinking and doing, so I put it all here. Sometimes, yes, it's a bit coded, because apparently people read this thing. Who knew? And no offense, but there are some things I just don't want to share with you. I still find it odd when people tell me they are reading. Example: a friend just told me he was TDY'ed to somewhere-in-Europe, and when he mentioned that he's posted in Amman, people in his training class started talking about my blog. What the what?
So okay. You all know all sorts of stuff about me, but I don't even always know you're reading. That puts me at a disadvantage, don't you think? I consider myself to be a hard-core introvert, which means that I keep to myself and don't go out of my way to talk to most people. Yet here I am, telling you all sorts of stuff, "Dear Diary" style.
Now. About the introvert thing. The other day, over lunch, a few of us were talking about introverts and extroverts, and I got the impression that my friends disagreed with my self-assessment of myself as an introvert. I got that impression because they laughed uproariously at my insistence that I just don't like talking to people. Something about how I never shut up? Dunno. They were all laughing. And laughing. I was worried they might start choking on their chicken bones, that's how doubled over they all were.
So right there on the spot, I coined a new term. Somebody call the trademark office, quick, because I need to TM this baby. Are you ready? I'm not an introvert. And I'm not an extrovert.
I'm an ASStrovert.
Seriously. It's the perfect word for me. I get kind of uncomfortable out in the wide world, trying to talk to people, but instead of shutting down and putting an awkward smile on my silent face, I usually move in the opposite direction and start clowning around, acting like an ass. Everyone laughs, then I go home, put on my jammies and go to bed. Being an asstrovert is exhausting business.
I know I'm not alone here. I mean, really, doesn't everyone put on a fake public face sometimes? It's just that, for us asstroverts, the public face is the exact opposite of the private one. When I'm out and about, I keep my serious side under wraps. Then I come home and blog my serious side, and everyone thinks I'm depressed or something.
All of this is to say: I'm not depressed. I'm in a good place here. I'm already finding my single mom stride. I have a few close friends to keep me afloat, even one or two to whom I can spill my non-bloggable secrets. The sky is blue, the kids are (relatively) healthy, the job is interesting, the world is infinitely fascinating, and I am happyhappyhappy, to be here, still in my jammies, pretending to be inspirational despite the fact that I forgot to buy milk again and I'm planning to phone in dinner.
It's all good, truly. I'm a lucky sort of asstrovert, and I try never to forget it. That said, I did appreciate all of the emails and Facebook messages and texts I got after my last sort-of soul baring blog post. It's a good feeling, to know I have so many people looking out for me all across this globe, even though I truly don't deserve it.
Tell me, my friend: what are you? An introvert? An extrovert? Or an asstrovert like me? Hit me up in the comments. I really want to know.