I am the youngest of four girls in a family that loved to talk. My parents came to visit me in college, and we went to [nearby city]. I didn’t own a car then, and had only a vague idea of how to get downtown. I sat in front and my father drove. When you approach [city] from the south, there is a point where the highway curves and you can see all the steel and glass of downtown glistening in the sun.
“I think you should take exit 56,” I said without confidence.
My mother, oldest sister, and grandmother were all crammed in the backseat. My father missed exit 56.
“Sam, that was your exit,” my mother said with urgency.
“Dad, shouldn’t you have turned there?” Oldest Sister said.
“Sam, you missed the exit,” my grandmother chimed in.
I was ready to get out and walk.
As a result of my upbringing, I hate not being able to say what I need to say, and I despise being misinterpreted. And, as DP loves to tell me, I interrupt him all the time.
I think this is why I love to blog. I don’t need to have the last word, but I do need the space to talk, explain, flesh it out.
Now your turn. Why do you blog? Can you get a word in edgewise?