Don't Hate Me 'Cause I Write

When I first learned that my essay would be published by the Globe and Mail  I was ecstatic.  Sure I had been published before and yes I had been rejected as well but I was certain the earlier rejections were a simple case of misinterpretation.  Ok, so my daughter's soccer coach really wasn't  a direct descendant  of Adolph Hitler (sure fooled me) and to whom I lovingly referred to as the "soccer Nazi!" ( I'm still not convinced btw).   And maybe I embellished the fact that I was in the movie industry somewhat.  When I said I was in the movies, in hindsight  I probably should have said I was at the movies.  But let's not quibble over semantics. 

 My point is, and I do have one, I was completely taken off guard and not prepared for the onslaught of negativity my simple, yet heartfelt, essay would have had on the handful of subscribers who evidently and for no apparent reason,  have nothing better to do with their remaining time (I can't be certain but I'll bet they reside in close proximity to the mortician's on deck circle) then to defecate (once burned) all over my written word. Talk about sticks and stones breaking bones.   Osteoporosis has lesser odds.

Do these critics with completely anonymous names like "yousuck" and "diealready"  have any idea how difficult it is to come up with an idea to write an authentic essay of 1000 words without maybe going online and purchasing one?  Ideas alone are difficult to come by.  I've tossed around more ideas than I have salads.  For instance, one in particular that has been on my mind for a while now is  "what happens if you wear night cream during the day?"  Oh, who's  kidding who?  I can't even take credit for that one.  My son asked me.  And to think I once thought writer's block was simply an excuse made up by some whining author so they had an excuse to drink alcohol.   Well not this whiner.   I don't need an excuse.

The essay in question was all about aging.  I was flirting with a number of titles for my piece like "The Social Security Network";  "The Old Lady and the Sea of Rejection"; and a take on Louisa May Alcott's Little Women-"Little Old Women".    Sexagenarian seemed to fit.   After all, sex sells or so I thought.  I just wasn't prepared for the brutal attack on what I had hoped to be received as a light-hearted take on turning 60. 

From the sounds of the responses there's nothing funny about aging.  Which is ironic because I set out to put a humorous twist on that very thing.   Well, it backfired quicker than my 2012 Dodge Caravan.  Boy did I have mud on my face.  I couldn't have had more mud on my face if I was in the middle of a mudpack treatment.  I'm talking large quantities of mud the likes that can only be seen in the hills of Los Angeles.  Mega mud I tell you.   Talk about being blindsided.  I'd sooner be tackled by Michael Oher then tangle with the critics. 

Who knew I could have such an effect on so many people? (Like 46 or so)  I didn't set out to insult anyone.  The essay was a means of therapy for me to accept the fact that I was entering into another dimension - a dimension of sight; a dimension of sound; a dementia of mind. 

I've actually lost sleep over this.  And for that I do not forgive.  I tried denouncing some of the more irritating comments but to no avail.  Turns out no one wants a piece of my mind.  People like a piece of cake or even a piece of pie but no one really wants a piece of mind. 

So I have taken it upon myself to write yet a follow up essay to try and make amends to those I may or may not have offended.  

So to wat2020 who wrote "I suspect you are single and deserve to be.  With any luck your negative attitude will reward you and you will not see 60."  My apologies for asking you if you had eaten paint chips as a child.   There are any number  of other causes for delayed development.  Who am I to presume it was caused by toxicity.  Forgive me.

And to marre who accused me of "navel gazing."  That was a new one on me.  The only thing that can be said of or about me to be remotely self absorbing is my  choice of paper towel.  Perhaps you should get to know me a bit better before reducing me to a stereotype. 

To cathyrules, my son, who has nothing but a kind word to say about his mom, the cheque is in the mail.

And finally, to Yukon-otter gloating about her two sets of 20 unassisted chin ups.   Look at you all pumped up!  Now I really have mud on my face (and chin).

Well there you have it.  I can feel a sense of relief washing over me already.   No wait.  That would be the last of the Chardonnay running down my shorts.  Must reach for my self-absorbing paper towels to go along with my self- absorbing personality to wipe away the fall-out.  Looking forward to what is sure to be some interesting commentary.  Let the games begin.