Liebe Liebster; a hard act to follow

Lisa Watts has outed me. Lisa writes Minding the Miles, a blog I think she writes while running. Lisa is my beloved sister Ellen's beloved friend and running partner, and in every story I hear about Lisa, she is running. I think maybe Lisa runs all the time, the way the rest of us walk around and open the fridge and then check email again. When Lisa crossed the finish line at the Cape Cod Marathon a few years ago, my memory says she took a swig of water, picked up one kid (hers) to pop on the breast, held another kid (also hers) on her hip, and had a couple of others (okay, I guess they were all hers) embracing her proudly. Lisa's sweet-as-that-swig-of-water blog is the only other blog I sort of know. Since I like it, I think it deserves the Liebster Blog Award, which spotlights good, small blogs. But the award accidentally outs the frauds among us. That may not be the overt purpose of the award, but in my case, that is the result. Because Lisa kindly nominated taotechu for the same award, a designation that means one small blogger (you can actually be fairly large, but the blog needs to be pretty small in terms of followers) (although Lisa happens to be sort of small, by chance) thinks another small blog is worthwhile. And now, like in an awkward game of tag where everyone else is older and runs faster than you do, it is my turn to pick five (5!) of my favorite small blogs and nominate them.

I don't follow any blogs. Unless -- weather.com doesn't count, does it? Sometimes I follow that.

I feel like a fraud, hoping for blog followers when I do not follow blogs myself.

I always felt like a bit of a fraud back when I was an English major in the 1970s, so I recognize the feeling. I could write papers well enough, but reading with a dried out highlighter and a dictionary wasn't as much fun as it sounds. 17th century poetry, as one fibrous example, was like eating unshelled seeds -- lots of parts passed through undigested, and the tiny kernel of meaning was small satisfaction for all the work it took to get at.

Sure. I cried when King Lear found Cordelia and began to outgrow his tight heart just before dying. And I have snorted over witty passages by Whatshisname and that other writer, too, that I wished in the moment of reading I would never forget. I like getting literary references that are meant to invoke only a secret, prideful smile among those in the know. But all that is easy, and came with the assigned syllabus. It does not make one a true reader. When given time to read for pleasure, back in college and to this day, I don't pick up one of the truly timeless novels that sits on the long list of books I should get to someday. If I were the real McCoy (ref. Macbeth, Act II, scene iii), I'd read all the time. I only read about half an hour a day (guess which one), unless you get me out of the house and onto an airplane, a guest bed, or a waiting room chair.

I can't imagine what I'm doing with my time, such that I don't know five blogs to introduce you to. It's not just blogs I'm not following - I'm not following anything. I couldn't tell you if the Superbowl has happened yet this year or not, or who might play or maybe did play in it. Until an alarming hoopla went off over some verdict, I hadn't heard about that woman who everyone thinks did something bad to her child but then got let off. I couldn't tell you her name. Baby Jessica?

I should follow more things, but I feel uncomfortable watching political debates, listening to stories of kidnappings and rescue missions. Or watching competitive figure skating; no thank you. I can wait for the replay or the summary; in the moment itself, I just want everyone to be okay. When others are guffawing at Whohe Perry for forgetting what federal department he plans to eliminate, I can hardly bear the embarrassment for him. And his family! Oh, God, poor things. Does he have a family? I wouldn't know.

I only skim the headlines to make sure the world isn't coming to an end, because I wouldn't want to be caught off guard if someone strikes up a conversation about it while I walk my daily loop. Every now and then I will ask my beloved son, T'ai, for a recap of the season's news, because though can be a serious flake, he is the real McCoy in terms of following and reading. "T'ai, what's going on in Egypt, really? What's this Cain stuff about? Just give me the gist."

Sometimes my clients think I am taking down a note about them, when actually I have picked up my pad to write down something they've said that sounds like they assume I know: L. Gaga, I'll scribble.

Authentic students of literature, authentic students of the world, spend their free time reading classics and blogs that aren't even assigned. I've never read Ulysses, and I've never read Middlemarch. Man, it feels good to get that off my flat chest. I have not actually read War and Peace. And though I am so grateful to Lisa for thinking of taotechu so kindly, I don't know how to pay-it-forward with names of other good, small blogs.

This is like it used to be taking off a tight bra on a hot day, coming clean about these things. It's freeing, but revealing in an awkward kind of way, too.

POSTSCRIPT: You MUST read Ellen's comment below to understand how DEEP MY AFFLICTION IS.