I am so awkward.
Honestly, sometimes things seem perfectly normal at the time and then I just don’t know what I was thinking. This post is cringeworthy, so be forewarned. If you are uncomfortable with boobs, stop right now and go enjoy your weekend.
I have an author page on Facebook. I hate Facebook, but it’s out there and it reaches people and I have to use it, so I do.
I’m supposed to interact, comment, connect.
I love that readers can comment, readers are fun. They are sort of like my small group of sticker trading pals. I write it, they like it, it works.
But I’m also supposed to do my least favorite word in the English language, well maybe not my least because “whatever” really holds that honor, but definitely in my top ten of least favorite words is . . . networking.
It’s like nails on a chalkboard, shoes that are too tight. I hear that word and I want to get back under the covers. I look at networking as a high school cafeteria. I have my pizza slice, my tray, and I have to find a place to sit. Depending on where I am in the social hierarchy, there are certain tables I can sit at and others, not so much. It’s different from one day to the next. It makes no sense.
My new thing is I have been trying to go to other author FB pages and see what they’re doing, observe. I am only supposed to observe. Author pages are for readers, not other authors. I think I remember reading that somewhere, but sometimes I forget I’m a writer. I’m a reader too, so that can happen.
This one particular author. I like her books, I read her books. They are different than mine, her readers are different. I should have known, but sadly that’s not what happened.
She posts a question to her readers. “In the interest of boosting self-esteem, name something you like about yourself. It can be anything, your smile, etc. Don’t be shy!” Now keep in mind that she had just posted something about her bad experience with some trainer guy who was an asshole, so her whole vibe was body image and self acceptance.
I was in a groove. Maybe feeling funny and light, ready to mingle. I decided I was going to comment. I know this isn’t a big deal for normal people, but for me to interact, it’s a little huge.
Unfortunately I have no filter. I assume everyone is like me, wants honesty, wants to hear what is on my mind. She said, “Don’t be shy!” Remember?
I post, “Boobs. I’m kind of a fan of my boobs. They are my original factory parts and I like them. I’m also really good at cleaning the refrigerator, but I’m going with the boobs.”
I’ll give you a minute to let that sink in.
I posted that on a very well known romance writer’s FB page in response to her question about something readers liked about themselves. I typed it and hit enter.
That was me being genuine and engaging. What the hell is wrong with me?
After my comment, why “after” I will never know, but after my comment, I decided to read some of the other responses.
“I’m a great mom.” “I’m a great nana.” “I have patience with my teenagers.” “I like my eyes.” “I make people laugh.” “I have great legs.”
Into that pool of warm saccharine responses, I threw boobs. There’s no explanation for this. I looked like a complete weirdo. That strange girl in English class that bends to get her pencil and farts. That’s me at this point. My very appropriate mother is shaking her head. My grandmother is hiding behind a cloud somewhere in heaven.
I honestly don’t know why I do these things. I’m just being myself with a total disregard for my audience. I’m sure some of those other women like their boobs, or their ass, or other parts of their bodies. Maybe not, but this is a public forum, so they chose something appropriate. Appropriate often eludes me.
As I tripped with my tray, the entire cafeteria grew quiet. Cricket quiet. I deleted my comment, threw my lunch away, and ran to the library.
I should not be allowed out.
My thoughts from the laundry room. I’m Staying in Bed.