When I walked away from blogging the last time, I was pretty certain that I would not return. The whole concept of the mommy blogger alternately bored and offended me–and besides–I had shown up pretty late to that particular party . The “Who’s Who” social pecking order of online journaling had already been firmly established and this left the rest of us to create our own brand of relevance by any means necessary. Sort of like the high school cafeteria when you, clutching your brown bag lunch, had to walk past the gauntlet of crowded friend groups to that one empty table at the back and pretend you preferred enforced solitude to inclusion.

For the most part, I was okay with that. However, I made a couple of rookie mistakes in the process. I was still teaching at the time and my need to express some of my frustrations about the “long con of public education” in my state was exceeded only by my desire to have friends, family and a few co-workers on board with me as readers/commenters. Note to self: Not everyone who loves you as a person will enjoy the politics behind what you have to say. (Unless they are teachers and then they will completely agree with you and lovingly set up a GoFundMe page so that you can start a side business making stress-reducing Thundershirts like the sort dogs wear during storms, except these are for teachers because our job is dangerous and we get paid shit money).

In other words, I told too many people who didn’t need to know that I had a blog. They all had opinions and I didn’t have skin thick enough to deal with them. Anyhoodles….

Work friends were worried (and rightly so) that I might reveal too much and get fired. I didn’t, but it was a legitimate concern nonetheless and because of that, it really limited what I could say. Besides, the punishment for truth telling in our dumpster fire of a state is nothing if not draconian.

CASE IN POINT: In the summer/early fall of 2020, the CDC categorized teachers as “essential workers” which promised us a spot near the head of the line for the new Covid vaccine during what was called THE SECOND WAVE. The FIRST WAVE being reserved for healthcare workers and others on the frontlines. However, our Glorious Leader–er–batshit governor REMOVED educators from that esteemed list for reasons he never felt obligated to explain. Teachers returned to the classroom that September , but many couldn’t get the vaccine until March and some people even later than that. Naturally, it made a certain kind of warped sense that a politician who doesn’t mind if teachers die on the job–be it by virus or simply shot to death–probably cares even less about defending their right to state an opinion.

At that time, my own kids were mostly grown and their lives were off limits as was my marriage (still going strong–in case you were wondering). I wanted to write about my childhood, but family members would have probably called me out for being an ungrateful brat. So…writing about work AND family was off limits? How did others do it? How did they come up with so much content without pissing off everyone around them?

Then–one day some ass clown from another and more widely-read blog wandered over, saw what I had to say about a particularly rabid parent encounter at work and then wrote about it on her own site. She criticized what I had to say about the classroom, pronounced me unfit as a teacher and linked to my blog so that others could come over and take a shot. It was terrifying and, for a moment, I felt the sprit leave my body –so eager was it to distance itself from the likes of my corporal self.

I didn’t quit blogging that particular day, but suddenly, there were landmines everywhere which made offending anyone and everyone incredibly easy. Criticize how people on Facebook drove me insane by confusing “quite” with “quiet” or “your” and “You’re” and I’d get a lecture on learning differences. Write ANYTHING about my unhappiness with my weight gain and someone would claim I was indirectly fat shaming women. Taking a side about religion or politics was a fool’s errand. Make a joke about work stress and possibly opening a combination bar and fireworks stand with my department head? (Note: This was actually the Plan B for me and my friend Paula. ) WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING by making a joke about alcoholic teachers who enjoy setting things on fire??? Was I insane?

Was I?

Suddenly, it wasn’t fun anymore. Subtract the edgy and weird things I felt and thought about or experienced on a daily basis and what was left? Yes, the world and its people could be beautiful and amazing, but they were also horrifying and stupid. Besides, complaining seemed to be a skill that had me destined for a medal, should whining ever be given its own Olympic games. There seemed nothing left for me to write about and even searching for a topic was stressful. I had enough to worry about at work. So I stopped blogging.

Life went on. My writing was limited to work emails to parents and co-workers and Instagram posts. Occasionally I would compose something clever and then wish I had a place to publish it. Facebook was out of the question. Someone went and taught my elderly mom and her friends how to create Facebook accounts and THAT platform was suddenly flooded with mindless “REPOST IF YOU AGREE” memes about how nobody says the Pledge of Allegiance in schools anymore now that God got kicked out of the classroom and out to the curb. Jesus, be a fence around my mouth…I could say more, but apparently, that’s bordering on elder abuse.

All my kids graduated college and got jobs. Two are married and now the youngest and his wife live in the UK. I became a grandmother to the most perfect baby girl ever born. I retired from the classroom. At the end of this month, our oldest will pack up his studio apartment to move many counties south and then none of our children will live within even a four-hour drive from the house where they grew up. That will be weird. I started cross-stitching again and I was paid to write two articles for a well-known magazine. My father-in-law died a few years ago, but the rest of our parents, at 87, 88 and 89, are hanging in there and require more than a little monitoring. I joined a water aerobics class where I am one of the youngest members by about 15 years so that wearing a swimsuit in public feels less like an act of self-sabotage than it ordinarily would. Life is somewhat full for the time being.

Last year, a friend (who is also a relative by marriage) said I should pull some of my Instagram essays together and rework them. She’s a journalist and author, so her opinion is particularly important to me and she offered this thought in a completely unsolicited manner. She further suggested that she could help me get these essays published and the mere thought of the prospect was wonderfully thrilling and also completely terrifying. Either way, while that project is mainly what drives the creation of A Corner Table, I would be lying if the act of writing itself wasn’t also a damned good reason. My skin is thicker now, almost no one knows this site exists and I have some thoughts that need sharing.

Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my second chapter.