End of the Year Blues

I find that I usually have the blues this time of year. We have the big build-up of Christmas preparations, lasting a couple of months. But the actual delivery of the holiday is over in half an hour, if you really work at dragging it out. 

Ever since I was a small child, I've tried to deal with the "is that all there is?" feeling of Christmas afternoon. And I would feel guilty that I wasn't still excited and ecstatic as I had been that very morning. Alas, the best part is over, and there's no going back.

I really wish sometimes that other people could hear the soundtrack in my head. This blog post has a great blues track. It's slow and plodding, with a smooth guitar back and me singing my heart out. But you can't hear it, and actually, it changes every time I try to think about it.

I don't really do the resolution thing, and I'm not going on a new diet. I don't like the feeling that all of America, if not a good share of the world, expects me to follow the rest of the herd, and start dieting. I gave up dieting in the 80's when it was either stop obsessing about my scale, or be overwhelmed by my neuroses, and curl up in a little ball in the corner for the next decade. I threw away my scale, and now only get weighed when I go to the doctor.

And that's traumatic enough once every three months. I don't sleep for two nights before any doctor appointment, because I know that no matter what, the scale is going to lie. I know I'm pleasantly plump, to put it mildly. I don't need to step on a scale and worry about the fluctuations to know that. And I'm happier without the guilt. I'm a fat white woman, and glad of it. I embrace my body type, and love myself the way I am. How many other women in the United States of America can say that?

I qualify that as an American obsession because when I've lived in other places, Brazil and Germany to be specific, I didn't find anywhere near the same paranoia about fat as I do here. People in these other countries don't despise me automatically because I'm not willow-thin. In Brazil, I was considered a beautiful woman that old men wanted to talk to, and little boys would follow down the street. It was a new thing for me. I finally saw myself in a more favorable light than I ever had before. I am a beautiful woman, with flashing blue eyes, and (when I was younger) striking blond hair.

But enough Maundering for now. I've got the blues. The only thing I can do now, is HOKAIC. For those of you that don't know the acronym, it means Hands On Keyboard, Ass In Chair.

I'm going to take the New Year, and get back on schedule. I'm going to write.

Miscellaneous Maundrings

While it may seem perfectly natural for writers to long for a blog of their own, where they can express their thoughts, both deep and shallow, it did not seem at all natural for me to have a blog. I don't spend a lot of time reading blogs, so why would anyone want to spend time reading mine?

And, besides, what would I say? How could I keep random strangers entertained week after week?

But I have finally dragged myself, kicking and screaming (well, there was very little screaming, but I did give myself some rather harsh words) into a blog.

Why Manic Reclusive, you may ask? It would be a very good question, after all. It really all started in August of 2010, when I sat in the lobby of the hotel where NASFIC was about to begin. My husband and I and a couple of friends were waiting for other people we may know to appear, especially Eric Flint. He is the publisher of the magazine that has previously bought pieces from myself and my husband Kevin. We were on the NASFIC program as participants in the mini-con. Kevin had a panel on Steam power, and mine was on Chocolate, with samples.

As we were waiting, a very pleasant man approached me with hundreds of un-inflated balloons  hanging from all the pockets of his white lab coat. He asked me if I wanted a hat made from balloons. I politely assented to his request, and he proceeded to inflate balloons with a hand pump, and tie them together. Then he suddenly placed the hat on my head before I had a chance to assess the situation. Then he was gone, and there I was, shy and retiring Karen Evans, sitting in the main lobby of a busy hotel, wearing a balloon hat. It was four feet above my head, and was beyond the boundaries of ridiculous.

The balloons were brown, for the chocolate, and it had a red heart on the top for chocolate lover.

I kept the hat on for most of the rest of the day. I was informed that the hat would not be allowed on my panel with me, but all of a sudden, I was reveling in the brazen status of an exibitionist. I made the most of the attention that my wonderful balloon hat brought. I was no longer a frightened reclusive, I was a maniacal show-off.

That was when I realized that I really am Manic Reclusive. I swing from the need to be almost invisible in the back or to the far side of a room, to a blatant attempt to become the center of attention.

Needless to say, many people who attended NASFIC will remember me for the balloon hat alone.