Jinxed Blogger

Here’s the thing: every subject I write about becomes my next life challenge. It’s kind of like a psychology student thinking he has every disorder he studies. When once he thought he was normal, after studying for a mid-term he knows for sure that he’s showing all the symptoms of bipolar disorder: namely chronic bouts of depression followed by euphoria, extreme irritability, and the inability to use or understand language. This phenomenon is completely real and quite common (not to mention it sounds like my experience of what motherhood can sometimes do to an otherwise sane woman). I know because I saw it on an episode of Frasier. Only I don’t think I manifest the symptoms of every problem I write about. I know I do. I also know that by proclaiming I’ve found the answer to said problems, I’ve doomed myself to repeat them.

I first noticed this when I wrote an essay published in Runner’s World about why I like to run. By the time I got the call from the editor, I was pregnant with our third child and hadn’t gone running for months, having surrendered to the laws of gravity. I carried my babies so low, my belly always rested on my thighs even when standing. This made it painful to walk, let alone sprint through suburbia. However, I didn’t mention this to the editor. After the article and the baby came out, it took a long time to find my inner runner again. She was hibernating—after all, neither one of was getting much sleep. And there were strong indications that her hormones were out of whack.

But that wasn’t the only time I jinxed myself. When my youngest was four, Writer’s Digest published an article I wrote about writing amid distractions, namely children. Within a month of publication, I stopped writing altogether, realizing that I turned rather wenchy when faced with deadlines and a real paycheck. It seemed easier to silence my mind rather than yell at my family. 

But I forgot about these things when I started blogging. I sat in my little purple office, answering the door when the muse knocked, walked into the house, and began to chatter. I clattered away on my keyboard, inviting everyone to sample a few morsels of my personal life, in particular things that worked to solve my many hang-ups. Only, instead of keeping my solutions strong and effective, writing about them broke their spell.

I wrote about following the French way of eating small portions, using good manners and all that. The day after posting I said to myself, “What was I thinking?” and grabbed a bag of chips, which I devoured standing at the kitchen counter. “After all, I’m not French—I’m American.” I then proceeded to gobble everything in sight, including cheap chocolate that tasted suspiciously like soft sweet cardboard.  

Then I did a piece on green smoothies. Shortly after, I had no desire to drink them any more, even though they make me feel great and clear up my complexion (which at this point looks like a topographic map. The Pyrenees traverse my chin and Mt. Saint Helens looks like she might erupt from the west border of my lips.).

Following this, a friend gave me a terrific recipe for chocolate chip cookies. Even though for years I’ve micro-managed my dessert intake like Cinderella’s evil stepmother, after photographing the cookies and posting the recipe, I decide to eat “just one.” Famous last words. Let’s just say that “just one” turned into about a dozen times saying “just one more.” I could forgive myself for this slip-up if it only happened once in a while. But the following day it happened again. And when the cookies ran out, there were brownies to replace them.

Next I wrote about body image, using a re-touched photograph to show how tainted and manipulated our perception of the perfect body has become. That’s when I noticed how heavy my body feels, how much my gut has expanded from all the treats, how tight my jeans are around the waist. I considered joining a health club. Then I remembered how much I dislike people watching me exercise. Plus, I don’t want to have to buy cute outfits or worry about body odor, or someone asking me “Are you OK?” when I breathe laboriously and appear to be drowning in great reservoirs of flop sweat. At the very least, I tell myself, I will run one hour each day to erase the many mistakes, like body repentance. But the next morning when my alarm went off, I rolled over, cradled my belly in my hands and rationalized that my body is like my home, which looks awkward and lonely when it’s perfectly clean. When we have people over, I want to say, “This is what our house would look like if we didn’t live here.” I fell back to sleep, savoring the idea that my enlarged belly looks cozy and lived-in, like a big overstuffed couch. If my stomach somehow miraculously flattened, I would have to say, “This is what my body would look like if it weren’t actually attached to me.” Even though this image lulled me to sleep, when I finally woke up for real, I leaped past the mirror on my way to the shower just so I didn’t have to see my naked, lumpy body. So much for a healthy self-image. 

And as for the infamous post about cleaning the toilet with a spirit of service rather than resentment, let’s just say that for the last two weeks I haven’t thought of Comet as anything more than a gaseous extraterrestrial body that streaks through the night sky. I do still love my husband, though. Only now I express my affection by baking him cookies.  

So what’s a blogger to do? How do I rid myself of this jinx? How do I stitch up everything these posts have undone? First off, I don’t think I’ll write about things I thought I had solved. Because really, I don’t have a clue. I’ve only managed to keep my little tricks a secret from myself. It’s just like when I used to walk into my kids’ rooms as they stirred from a nap and had to tell myself, “Don’t make eye contact” because the moment I did, they popped up, hair smashed against their heads and eyes wild like a cat ready to play. Likewise, the moment I wrote about my routines and philosophies of self-management, my Self woke up. “You’re not the boss of me!” my Self said, sticking her tongue out.  And I’m not. I’m just the girl who won’t make eye contact with herself or this thin eggshell of an ego will fall apart. So stay tuned. The doctor is no longer in the house. But the patient is.   

PS

Check back tomorrow at 4 pm for a fun I Spy picture. Gather the kids around to see if you can find all of the objects!

Comments

[kayla rawle]

mmmmmm....sounds tasty!

[MaryB]

Please don't think of these things as you being jinxed. You are teaching others that it's OK to slip up. I was telling the kids that I have this thing about putting my siblings on this pedestal. I think you guys are all so awesome and never make mistakes and everything always works out for you. I hate for things to NOT go your way...but it teaches me that you are indeed human like the rest of us--but I still look to you all as my examples to follow! Don't despair the slips--you're still awesome!! :)

[Laura]

I am jinxed too. If I verbalize or write about a problem being solved, it becomes unsolved or a new one appears. I guess it means I still have more to learn.