I've gotten my feet wet; now I'll jump right in

I’ve been going through a very interesting exercise over the last few days, and it may change how I view social media and how I participate in it.

I was made aware of a blog post that had to do with the industry in which I work, and there were a number of comments made that I felt were misleading, misguided and self-serving.  I decided to post a comment myself, anonymously (because what I said may be seen to conflict with the work I do), and see what happened.  My comment was one of two that didn’t agree with the original opinion expressed.  What happened was interesting. 

In my comment, I offered a lengthy, fairly detailed explanation of why I thought the blogger – and those supporting his opinion – needed to look at things differently.   I was not rude; I was not unkind.  At worst, I was blunt. 

It didn’t take long before there was a comment on my comment – it came from someone I’ll call Commenter #1.  Commenter #1 was condescending  –  he or she pretty much said that I should run along and bother someone else – my comments weren’t valuable or valid. 

I couldn’t help myself – I replied, and offered a fuller explanation of where I was coming from and what my experience had been.  I also said that some of his or her arguments didn’t hold water because they were irrelevant to the topic and the conversation.   Again, I wasn’t rude, I wasn’t unkind and I most certainly wasn’t condescending.  Okay, I was blunt.

Then there were three comments to mine.  The first was actually reasoned and articulate and appropriate.  I appreciated that.  I still didn’t agree with what he/she said, but whoever it was presented his or her case very civilly.  The second response was less reasoned and appropriate – the writer suggested I was lying, that I was uninformed and that until I knew what I was talking about I shouldn’t be making any comments.  I should mention that I know more about the subject than I was letting on.

And then there was a response from Commenter #1.  He or she was condescending in the first message; they were downright rude and insulting in the second.  Suggested that I was totally wrong, I was lying and I had no credibility whatsoever.  Hmm. Really? 

And I couldn’t help myself – I posted another comment to respond to the last three comments, noting my appreciation for the first, and then explaining to Commenter #1 in detail why my credibility was just fine, thank you very much.

So … I am now waiting to see if there is any further response.  I’m not sure if I’m getting tired of this game or not.  It’s not like I’m invested in this particular issue – I just thought it was interesting.  I wanted to be part of the blogging community beyond writing my own little blog.  And for my efforts I was called a liar and told to run along home.

Part of what is so interesting is how the anonymity of the blogging process – no one used their names, just initials or descriptors – can take away people’s desire to filter what they say.  I doubt that some of the comments that were made to me would have been made to my face; they probably would have been worded differently if we were all identifying ourselves. 

Once I started thinking in that vein, I wondered how much I filter – or don’t filter – what I say in my own blog.  There are friends who read my comments and they know me – they know if what I’m saying is true to who I really am.  So I obviously filter a few things.  What would I say, though, if this was totally anonymous and I just wanted to blow off steam? 

It’s been a fun experience to contribute to someone else’s blog.  I’m glad I resisted getting angry or hurt by what others wrote to me in their comments – and there is no mistaking that they were writing “to” me – because I can see where that would lead to saying things that are hurtful in response.   

Up until now I’ve been afraid – for what reason I don’t know – to participate in other people’s blogs; I believe that now I’ve gotten my feet wet, I’m ready to jump in further.  I have identified some blogs I find interesting, and I think I’ll feel freer to comment – good or bad – and see where it leads.

Vacation is over

We've just gotten back from a two-week vacation.  What a treat to have two weeks away from home responsibilities, dog responsibilities, work ... all the things that require routines.  It comes to an end tomorrow when it's back to normal and back to work.

I had forgotten how refreshing holidays can be.  Through all the years I was unemployed or underemployed, vacations were pleasant and a wonderful time to be together as a family; I always enjoyed them.  And I've always enjoyed the short breaks I've taken with my girlfriends or with Jim - they are a nice little change of pace from the everyday.  But now that I'm back at work, vacations are more than enjoyable - they are a necessity, and I didn't realize that until I actually took one.  This vacation has made me feel like I now have more to offer; my batteries are recharged. 

A few weeks ago, I had to formalize a plan for how to approach multiple projects that are underway and will continue til the end of the year.  Before I even left for holidays, I was dreading going back because I knew what I will face when I return.  And then the magic happened - the whole reason why vacations are important.  The total break from routine and a bit of travelling and visiting with family and old friends has given me a new perspective and a fresher outlook on everything.  I had a chance to think about what's ahead at work and how I want to do it, and now I'm looking forward to going in and moving in a slightly different direction than I originally intended.

Tomorrow I will groan when the alarm goes at 6 a.m.; I will look at the clothes in my closet and wish I had something different to wear.  That's part of my routine.  And then I will - with more enthusiasm than I've had for awhile - go in to the office and move forward with what awaits me there. 

The baton is passed but the race isn't over yet

Is anyone else who is, like me, a woman of a certain age (I love that phrase.  It’s so much nicer than middle aged or older) surprised when they look in the mirror?  And I don’t mean surprised in the best way.

When I look into the mirror each morning, I expect to see my former face – the one I saw when I was in my 30s.  That expectation is based, I think, on how I often feel – like I can do anything and the future is waiting for me.  For the most part, I still feel young.   And then I see my face, realize that it’s 20 or 25 years later and that future is now.

I see my mother’s face.  I’m not an exact replica of her, but the general shape of my face is the same and my (real) hair colour – which makes itself apparent annoyingly often – is hers as well.  It’s always a big surprise to see her staring back at me.

The bigger thing for me, I think, is that I not only see my mother in the mirror, but I feel like I’ve turned into her.  It’s like we were running a relay and now she’s passed the baton on to me.

It started when I had a child of my own and started using the phrases and not-so-subtle guilt trips my mother used on me.  I always swore I would never use those phrases or guilt my son into doing anything the way my mother did me, but – lo, and behold (one of my mother’s phrases) – there I was, as exasperated by my son as my mother was by me, and saying to him exactly what my mother said to me.  At some point I realized what I was doing, and I mentally gave myself a piece of my mind (another of my mother’s phrases).  It didn’t stop, though … what I heard and learned as a child I passed on to my own. 

The next step of the transformation was turning into a domestic ... I was going to say “goddess”, but that would be pushing it.  I was a stay at home mom who cooked real meals every day, had baked snacks waiting for my son when he came home from school, organized the household  … everything that my mother did. I started thinking that her weekly cleaning of our house – a thorough, spic and span cleaning – wasn’t such a bad idea, even though I had pooh-poohed it throughout my teens and twenties.  (I even tried doing it for awhile, until I realized that I was the only one in our house who cared what it looked like, so gave it up.)  I often visualized my mother doing the same things in the kitchen and around the house where I grew up.   Even though the days of my own domesticity have long gone, the images of my mother remain. 

And now I look in the mirror and discover that I’ve taken on not only my mother’s face but her body as well.  Gone is the shapeliness of my youth; instead, I have the thicker-set middle aged body that looks remarkably like my mother’s.

The baton has been passed.  I never even knew we were in this race until I realized the baton came to me.  But now I get to choose how the rest of the race will be run.  Will I continue in my mother’s course or will I get off track and find my own way?