I have a confession to make. Most of the time, I’d say a good 90%, I have no idea what I am doing.
I have no idea what is for dinner tonight. Or any other night, for that matter. Once, I planned a week’s worth of menus and bought all the supplies. It was nice, I have to admit. I’m not sure why that isn’t a regular practice.
Some people think I’m a pretty good cook. Mostly, I think it’s just luck. I can usually tell when the butter and sugar are creamed enough, and when something is “done”. You can smell it. But there have been plenty of misfires – the famed Gnocchi Incident, for one. Let’s just say I leave that to the Professor now.
Now that my kids are getting older, my failings as a parent are becoming more evident. It’s harder and harder to fake it. A handful of Cheerios is probably not going to cut it now. Talk about crossing your fingers and hoping for the best.
I can make a decent knit and purl stitch and make sense of some patterns. But when it comes to execution, I usually end up winging at least part of it.
I can take photographs and some of them are pretty good. The camera can take full credit as I barely skimmed the manual. It’s like a foreign language (which is weird, since languages are one thing I actually am good at.)
I have a job, but not a career. Entirely my own doing. Some would say I’m pretty crappy at running a bar, too. But at least it’s still there.
What’s my point? Actually, I’m not really sure. I write this blog like I do most everything else. It comes into my head and I put it out there. Sometimes that can get a person in trouble. And I don’t know what to make of the fact that this blog will get 40 hits after I post this, but maybe 2 comments.
Maybe I’m hoping to hear there are others out there feeling their way by Braille, that I shouldn’t worry that I’m long past grown-up but still waiting for the real grown-ups to take over.