I always thought of myself as sort of a forge-my-0wn-path sort of gal. I’m not really a leader, unless no one else wanted to lead and people were floundering, in which case I’d step up and do my best. But I’m also not really a follower. I could care less what people are reading, or what they’re watching on TV, or what they’re wearing, or who they’re gushing over. None of it matters to me (and I usually disagree, anyway). I prefer the solitary road. Just leave me alone, and let me do my thing.
We all have friends – real, imaginary, and online – who influence us. They might not force us to do things, and they certainly aren’t standing there with large, heavy frying pans threatening us if we don’t follow them into whatever dens of iniquity they might be planning to traipse. Not generally, of course. But they definitely encourage us, through unseen and mysterious forces, to participate in all sorts of insanity.
My imaginary friends would prefer we not discuss them, and my real friends – whose numbers will probably plummet, once they find out about the imaginary friends – well, they know who they are. Friends like A and M, who pulled me down the twisted, winding path of all things yarn; and friends like B who dragged me (very willingly) into the woods for days at a time with a loaded backpack and, later, onto the river with a loaded kayak; these folks have shaped my life in grand and amazing ways.
Then, of course, there are you online people. I think you’re people, anyway. Some would suggest you’re robots sitting at a computer terminal deep inside the earth, doing your Artificial Intelligence homework or whatnot. Or maybe you’re really aliens from outer space, trying to manipulate things here on little old Earth with the help of a satellite up(down?)link. In any case, whoever – or whatever – you are, I have a total love-hate-love-love relationship with you all.
Reading your snappy little blogs, I come across all sorts of ways to
waste countless hours online spend my leisure (and the rest of my) hours. I’ve been enticed into cooking, baking, crafting, sewing, shopping, traveling, organizing, picture-posting, homechooling, exercising, reading, and lordie-knows what else. Oh, I know what else. Now I’m drooling over aprons, of all things holy, and writing blog posts about it in the hopes that some lady I’ve never ever met (nor will, since she’s probably a robot deep within the earth) sends me an apron she’s made. And I’ve done all this because some other robot, or alien, has suckered me in to clicking a link and then flashed pictures of apron-p*rn on my monitor, thus awakening my heretofore subliminal desire to own a couture apron when I have a perfectly serviceable white apron and a perfectly darling pink-striped-with-pink-piping apron (that I myself made), and when I rarely wear either perfectly serviceable apron ANYWAY. But, there is an unmitigable human quality that practically assures we will blindly scramble about, jumping through whatever hoops present themselves (even when said hoops are awkward and / or a bit embarassing) if there is a possibility that we might win a Prize at the end of said jumping.
Here I jump. Through this hoop. I am posting about These Aprons and suggesting that I might want one, although, really and truly, I think Sarah Bean should win the prize since she found out about them first.
Besides, she’s probably the robot in the cubicle next to the alien who sews them.
(But she makes lovely beady things on her lunch hours.)