So now that I have to write something for a blog I’m petrified I have nothing to say.

Yes, I can talk incessantly.  Yes, voice mail systems have to cut me off mid-sentence at the ten minute mark.  Yes, I have opinions as long as the day, and the ability and propensity to spew them about until eyes glaze over and people start inventing places they forgot they suddenly need to go to.  Yes, I’m loud.  AND I interrupt.  You don’t want honesty?  Don’t ask me.  Seriously.  And although I can get mounds and piles and loads of work done, bets are that I could do more if I would shut up.  Secretly, I’m sure my boss feels the same way.  Oh wait, that’s not a secret.

However… I was born, and have lived my life, as a person who is painfully shy.  I realize that I hide it (really, really well) on the inside.  Way, way, way down deep inside.  So far down that most people who know me well don’t even believe me when I tell them I’m shy.  I get that same look that people give me when I say “No thank you, I don’t like potatoes.”  Not even mashed potatoes with gravy?  Not even on Thanksgiving?  What about french fries?  You have to eat baked potatoes….  Nonetheless, I don’t generally put myself out there so much.  I don’t often have any interest in increasing my awareness of the judgments that others have of me.  So to blog?  Scary stuff.

As my roomie puts it quite often:  At breakfast, the chicken is involved, but the pig is committed.

Oink, oink.