A few months ago, a friend of mine told me about a really cool blog called The Eleanor Project. The idea behind the project is to show the beauty of all women, not the airbrushed, unrealistic fantasy that hollywood and media portrays. They named it the Eleanor Project after Eleanor Roosevelt, one of my favorite people in the world, because she exuded beauty, vibrancy, elegance and intelligence throughout her life.
Every few days or weeks, someone is celebrated on their blog as an Eleanor, and the best part is that any woman can be an Eleanor. You just have to send a little email with an introduction and answer a few questions.
My friend, who told me about it said "You should totally be an Eleanor!" I thought about it for a bit. And then I thought about it some more. I read about all of the other Eleanors on the blog. I liked their Facebook page. I got updates in my newsfeed from The Eleanor Project, imploring me (and all the other women who liked the page) to join the sisterhood.
So one night, as I was wrestling with insomnia, I decided to take the chance. I opened up my email, typed up a bunch of stuff, pressed send, and then immediately second-guessed myself and wished I hadn't done it. Even though I have a blog and seem relatively easy-going around others, always quick with a joke, I really hate being the center of attention. That, and I suddenly felt inferior to all the Eleanors who preceded me. Their bios and their answers to the questions seemed so much more thoughtful and intelligent.
And the next morning, I got a gushing thank you in my email inbox, asking me for my photo (of which, I have about three that I like). So I got excited, and I couldn't believe that I was going to be featured on this really cool blog that celebrates really cool women. Me! I started to get excited.
I visited the blog every day, sometimes more than once (OK, probably about once every couple hours), anxiously anticipating my face, smiling from the page. The week seemed to drag on, as I talked myself out of my worthiness of being an Eleanor, because that's what I do. And let's be honest, this is what we all do at one point in our lives. And this is what the Eleanor Project is working against.
So this afternoon, when I checked the page, my heart almost stopped when I saw myself smiling at me from their page. I read my post like it was the first time, and I found myself inspired by . . . me! And there was a comment, from someone I've never met, who said she wanted to be my friend. And someone else sent me a sweet comment on my blog. And here I am, gushing and blushing, and not quite ready to share this with all my friends on my facebook page. But I'll share it here, because you have to come here to find out about me. It doesn't shove itself into your face and jump up to the top of your news feed with every like and comment. Because, while I'm still an introvert and rather shy, I'm still pretty damn proud to be an Eleanor.
Showing posts with label Social Media. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Social Media. Show all posts
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Monday, November 11, 2013
Hard Times
I got a phone call on my 40th birthday from my dad. I missed his call. I meant to call him back, but never got around to it. Every time I pick up the phone to call someone, the kids get into a fight, or one of them needs help with something, or suddenly there's poop on the floor, wall, and other surfaces of the house. Since we were on summer break, I couldn't call him from work, so I just didn't call. I kept telling myself that I needed to call him, but each day ended with no phone call.
On August 29th, 25 days after I missed my dad's phone call, I got one from my brother informing me that I would never get the chance. He died suddenly that morning, of an apparent heart attack. Motherfuck.
We all headed to California, dealt with the craziness of packing up his house, getting him buried, finding a caregiver for my grandmother, and moving forward with our lives. In less than a month, on September 27th, my mother's mother, the grandmother I grew up with and considered a second mother to me, passed away, just four days shy of her 96th birthday. Doublemotherfuck.
It took six weeks to get her funeral scheduled at Arlington to finally rest with my grandfather, her greatest love. It was bittersweet to say goodbye, but it was a beautiful ceremony, and so apropos to happen this close to Veteran's day, when grampa's picture is on my calendar to signify it. It was quite unfortunate that it also happened to be the exact day of my daughter's 5th birthday. Triplemotherfuck.
However, I've been trying to be zen about everything, stealing a line from Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five, "So it goes." Of course, whenever I think that line, it always ends with motherfuck.
Because of everything that has happened in such a short amount of time, I've become overly sensitive to mortality -- mine, people I don't know, my mother's, my siblings', my spouse's, and my children's. It is very hard to be zen about such things. so it goes, so it goes, so it goes. motherfuck.
I'm trying to slow my life down a bit, take time to smell the roses, and my babies' hair. I'm also checking their breathing on a regular basis, double checking their 5 point harnesses in their car seats, and cutting their food into the most impossibly small pieces so they don't choke.
Part of my slow down plan includes limiting my social media time. It has become such a time suck for me. I found myself in groups on Facebook that did nothing for me, and only made me angry, posting advice to people I don't know and shouldn't care about that they're not going to read or heed anyway. I don't have time to worry about other peoples' problems. I have two beautiful children and a husband to worry about. THEY need me, not names associated with profile pictures that may or may not portray the actual person. I have actual people to think of and care about.
So, I spent one evening removing myself from all but a handful of groups on Facebook. It was liberating.
My next step is to limit my time on said time-sucking social media website. I haven't quite figured out how to do that, whether it's to set a timer or have a specific time of day when I can access the site. I've already cut back on my time, and I think it's because I'm not reading all the posts on all the group pages that I'm no longer on.
I've also decided to start writing more, because I have a lot to say. I have so many ideas in my head that are dying to get out, and quite honestly, I can't handle any more death right now, so I need to let them out. I have a lot of half-started blog posts saved, as well as ideas jumping up and down in my brain shouting "Pick me! Pick me!" as I sit down in front of my computer to type away. My fingers don't work as quickly as my brain does, so they will have to wait a little while. But I will write. By God, I will write. I may not get it all down in one sitting, but that's because I have children, and a husband, a job, laundry, and a shit-ton of squash to turn into sweet bread tomorrow. But I will write. I promise you that. I will write.
On August 29th, 25 days after I missed my dad's phone call, I got one from my brother informing me that I would never get the chance. He died suddenly that morning, of an apparent heart attack. Motherfuck.
We all headed to California, dealt with the craziness of packing up his house, getting him buried, finding a caregiver for my grandmother, and moving forward with our lives. In less than a month, on September 27th, my mother's mother, the grandmother I grew up with and considered a second mother to me, passed away, just four days shy of her 96th birthday. Doublemotherfuck.
It took six weeks to get her funeral scheduled at Arlington to finally rest with my grandfather, her greatest love. It was bittersweet to say goodbye, but it was a beautiful ceremony, and so apropos to happen this close to Veteran's day, when grampa's picture is on my calendar to signify it. It was quite unfortunate that it also happened to be the exact day of my daughter's 5th birthday. Triplemotherfuck.
However, I've been trying to be zen about everything, stealing a line from Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five, "So it goes." Of course, whenever I think that line, it always ends with motherfuck.
Because of everything that has happened in such a short amount of time, I've become overly sensitive to mortality -- mine, people I don't know, my mother's, my siblings', my spouse's, and my children's. It is very hard to be zen about such things. so it goes, so it goes, so it goes. motherfuck.
I'm trying to slow my life down a bit, take time to smell the roses, and my babies' hair. I'm also checking their breathing on a regular basis, double checking their 5 point harnesses in their car seats, and cutting their food into the most impossibly small pieces so they don't choke.
Part of my slow down plan includes limiting my social media time. It has become such a time suck for me. I found myself in groups on Facebook that did nothing for me, and only made me angry, posting advice to people I don't know and shouldn't care about that they're not going to read or heed anyway. I don't have time to worry about other peoples' problems. I have two beautiful children and a husband to worry about. THEY need me, not names associated with profile pictures that may or may not portray the actual person. I have actual people to think of and care about.
So, I spent one evening removing myself from all but a handful of groups on Facebook. It was liberating.
My next step is to limit my time on said time-sucking social media website. I haven't quite figured out how to do that, whether it's to set a timer or have a specific time of day when I can access the site. I've already cut back on my time, and I think it's because I'm not reading all the posts on all the group pages that I'm no longer on.
I've also decided to start writing more, because I have a lot to say. I have so many ideas in my head that are dying to get out, and quite honestly, I can't handle any more death right now, so I need to let them out. I have a lot of half-started blog posts saved, as well as ideas jumping up and down in my brain shouting "Pick me! Pick me!" as I sit down in front of my computer to type away. My fingers don't work as quickly as my brain does, so they will have to wait a little while. But I will write. By God, I will write. I may not get it all down in one sitting, but that's because I have children, and a husband, a job, laundry, and a shit-ton of squash to turn into sweet bread tomorrow. But I will write. I promise you that. I will write.
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