For more than 15 years, I’ve been a journalist, working both as an editor and as a freelance writer. I live in San Francisco with my 3-year-old daughter, 11-year-old son, and husband Steve.
At long last, I’m putting the “free” in freelancing and join the masses by writing a blog. I wonder: Why blog when millions do it? I’m not sure what, really, is the point. But what really is the point of anything since in the end, we all die (I mean death in a happy, Buddhist sort of way…takes the pressure off the little worries and makes you wake up).
I worry if this blog name is too negative? Is “neurotic” too self-consciously, urban, liberal, elitist? Is “mama” too cutesy? I fret about buying “eco-friendly” detergent in plastic containers that won’t be recycled even though I feel more-eco-than-thou about all the trash I’m recycling. I obsess about malls taking over the world, about what a pit the planet may be by the time my children grow up, about fluoride and microwaves and all those acronyms you should be worried about if you’re not already: ADHD, PBDEs, BPA, on and on and on. I worry about the acronyms I don’t know about, because I’ve never met an acronym that was up to any good.
I worry about the people who aren’t worrying. Shouldn’t they be? Shouldn’t they stop driving SUVs and eating Big Macs and expanding their houses with old-growth wood? I worry I’ve become too insufferably self-righteous.
I worry I’m worrying about all the wrong things.
I worry I’m not enjoying this precious life enough.
I worry I’m spending too much of my time worrying.
Who me, neurotic? And you say it like it’s a bad thing.
