I write a blog because I love to journal and often typing is faster, easier than writing with pen and notebook. While I doubt that I could ever completely give up my love of paper journals, and I do have a lot of them, my blog is where I do most of my journaling these days. Blogging is something that I have been doing for years and years, and I’ve had quite a few in that time. Most of my previous blogs were rather private affairs that I selectively revealed to a handful of people. Becoming Angela is really the only blog that I have ever made public, and, when I say public, what I actually mean is that I have opened the door of my soul wide for people to look into. And not just strangers around the world with internet access but no personal connection to me…oh no, that would be easy to do. No, I’m talking about revealing myself to those people who actually know me in some way or fashion, and that is what makes the act of blogging sometimes terrifying.
I am an introvert. I am not always the easiest person to get to know, not because I don’t want to know you but because it isn’t easy to lower my defenses. It might take some time to get to know me well, but I’d like to think I’m worth the effort. Blogging is the thoughts inside my head. It is the way I feel or think or the things that I do. I have no formal education. My writing skills are questionable, but written words come so much easier to me than verbal ones. Although my blog has been “public” for some time now, this isn’t something that I do for prestige or attention. Put me in the limelight and I will squirm most uncomfortably. I will be honest…very deep inside of me is the tiniest speck of desire for fame and glory and recognition. I suspect that we all have some measure of that desire within us. Mine is small and suitably tamped down and kept in control, because I know that I don’t have the personality for such things. I appreciate appropriate recognition, but the rest is mere fantasy. I am just an ordinary girl living an ordinary life.
And then this happened:
My chiropractor posted that this past Saturday after my powerlifting competition. He made me bawl like a baby. Ben’s words were so amazing and unexpected, and I half believe that they are severely exaggerated. Who is this Angela that he speaks of? I’d like to meet her, because she sounds amazing and interesting. Oh wait! That’s me? No! I am not that amazing, nor am I that interesting. Am I? As much as I struggle to believe Ben’s version of truth, the idea that this is how someone sees me is deeply humbling. If I’m not careful I will start crying as I am typing this post!
That was Saturday afternoon. Fast forward to Tuesday morning. I was at work, going about a typical day. I went on a break and checked my phone. There was a Facebook message from a name that I didn’t recognize. Apparently someone from a local TV station had read my chiropractor’s post and was interested in doing an interview with me and filming one of my training sessions for a little feature that would air on their station and be posted online.
I still find myself going back to re-read that message, even after I have since talked to the guy on the phone, because I still cannot believe that this is happening. To me. I told him that I didn’t think my story was very interesting, but that didn’t seem to deter him. Next Wednesday will be the most stressful of days for me, as I will be interviewed and filmed during that morning’s training session. Everyone keeps telling me that I’ll be great, but I think they fail to understand just how far out of my comfort zone this is. I am not photogenic in the least, let alone when I am dressed for the gym. Public speaking, in any way, shape or form, is something that I would prefer to do, oh…NEVER! My mind goes blank. My knees knock together. My hands shake. My voice quivers and cracks. I’m sure that I sound like an idiot. And really, what could possibly be so interesting about my story? I know I blog about it, but that doesn’t make it news-worthy.
I want to thank my chiropractor, and I want to strangle him. Ironically, he knows me well enough to have predicted that I would feel precisely that way. Of course, the fact that he knew how I would feel about it makes me happy, but I still want to strangle him.