My youngest daughter is in first grade, and wants to be popular. She wants to be popular because she’s unsure who she is. Popularity must be good, it’s a form of acceptance. They’ll do anything to be popular at that age.
And I have the same problem, at 43. I’ve been assigned shit projects at work which I accepted with glee, because I thought I had been chosen, I thought it was about me. I think the thing about popularity is that it’s not about you, and that’s the thing to remember.
I’m grateful one of my posts got chosen last week to be featured on the WordPress ‘Freshly Pressed.’ Secretly, I wondered if that would ever happen — and then, what would happen if it did. Blogging, social media, hits, it all feels like Las Vegas to me. More, it feels like the fair that used to come to my town, and the games of chance where you swing a mallet to make a puck fly up in the air and strike the bell, win a prize.
I had a moment where I thought I’d really arrived somewhere, which was nice. I got sweet notes from fellow bloggers who’ve been following my posts for a while. And many new people liked my blog and started following me. In fact, one offers an online dating service which is intriguing, and must have been meant just for me (thanks, but I’m taken).
I’m not much farther along than my seven year-old in figuring things out, finding myself. I don’t know that popularity helps out any and in fact, it may just get in the way.
Post title taken from R.E.M., Disturbance at the Heron House — released September 1, 1987:
When feeding time has come and gone
They’ll lose their heart and head for home
Try to tell us something we don’t know
We don’t know