Who Cares?

Not nearly as important as I think

My self-esteem, forged in the crucible of a Catholic education in the 1960s, has always been rather shaky. So why, when confronted with the obvious global indifference to many of my own choices and practices, am I bewildered and, even, a bit hurt?

Case in point: NO one, with the sole exception of Ya-Jhu, seems to have noticed that it is November and I am not writing a new blog post every day this month! I took on the challenge of daily postings six Novembers ago, and prided myself on consistently adding 30 new mini-essays to my total during the 11^th month each year. Whenever inspiration faltered, I imagined my legions of fans (OK, my handful) logging eagerly online for their daily dose of Elise style wit and wisdom, and I soldiered on. 

 

To be fair, in November, 2022, my life situation has utterly changed. “Retirement” for me has been a significant shift from writing part-time to full-time. Previously I patted myself on the back for any scribbling not connected to my church job. Now—well, I have no excuse for not churning out oodles of lucrative prose. So far, I’ve had a steady stream of paid writing gigs, and I’ve been diligent about pursuing new leads and calls for submissions and pitches. Much as I took a measure of satisfaction from my annual blog-a-thons, they weren’t exactly payin’ the bills. And so, at least for now, I decided to pull back and post an entry just once a week. 

 

Where is the outrage, I ask? Incredibly, the sun still rises and sets, babies are born, autumn leaves continue to flutter from branches. Rumor has it that we even had an election (just kidding, I voted at 7 AM yesterday, mostly for an end to those ridiculously dark and dystopian TV ads). In any event, in the grand scheme of things, my bold blogging non-move hasn’t caused even a tiny ripple in the pond of life. 

 

Something else that doesn’t seem to matter? How many steps I walk! Even my long-suffering hubby has wearied of my joyful noise when I top 10,000, and my corresponding sorrow on those blah days when my total is a measly 1500 steps (bed to desk to refrigerator to sofa). In Europe, where I logged over 20,000 nearly every day, there were no ticker-tape parades in my honor (annoyingly, Europeans just naturally expect to walk a lot). 

 

Be it physical fitness or literary output, it seems clear that, whenever I do chalk up a personal win, I’ve been expecting it to be top of mind FOR EVERYONE. But no more! Henceforth I will be comforted by the fact that people, generally, really don’t care that much one way or the other. Which sets me free from both imaginary great expectations and scathing critiques. 

 

Maybe next November (or April—why not?) I’ll get back to a daily blog. I may also work up to enough steps to break my Fitbit. 

 

If not, we’ll all be just fine.