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Not long ago I received an email informing me that my blog had been nominated for a top mom blogs list. It doesn't matter which one, but the fact that I hadn't nominated myself - and I've never been nominated for such a thing before - was flattering and exciting.
That feeling does not last long.
One of the catches in this type of contests is that the nominees have to campaign for votes, which probably wouldn't be as onerous a task as it quickly becomes but for the fact that the voting periods stretch into weeks.
That's weeks of reminding your readers, Facebook family and friends, Twitter followers and Google plus creepers that you need them to trot over to the host website and hit the thumbs up button. Every day. For a month. Ish.
So heading into the umpteenth day of voting, and having exhausted my social media options, I give up. I am not cut out for vote whoring. I'd withdraw completely but for the fact that so many of my friends and family have rallied behind me and bowing out makes a mockery of their efforts and faith in me.
I don't blog for trinkets from companies or PR firms. In fact, I don't even run ads on my blog. I just write. Because I enjoy it and sometimes, I think, I have something to say. But this contest awakened not as dormant as I lulled myself into believing feelings of inadequacy. It brought back memories of my fat teenaged self. Valentines that never came and all the rest.
Do you remember the carnations, or maybe it was roses for you, that some school based group or other would hawk to raise funds just before Valentine's Day? They would set up in the cafeteria every day for a week and kids would line up, pay their buck or three and then crib the card as they wrote down the name and last period classroom number of the recipient of that special flower.
Back in the bad old days, we didn't send Valentine flowers to our friends. It was strictly a couple's thing. You sent a flower to your boyfriend or girlfriend. Some sent secret admirer greetings. But it was all about being prettiest and popular, and not receiving at least one carnation at the end of 7th period on Valentine's Day just confirmed your rank in the pecking order of existence.
Blog contests are kind of a grown up version of those Valentine's or maybe it was candy canes before Christmas. It's like not being asked to the prom or losing the student council rep seat in your homeroom to someone who won't go to the meetings anyway.
When I taught middle school, I ached for those kids in my last period class. I knew their studied indifference fooled no one. Being recognized matters and being overlooked hurts.
I haven't been overlooked. I was nominated by someone who thinks my blog, and what I have to say. matters.
However, I have been forced back into that ages old popularity game at which my gender excels, and even delights, and I don't like it. Anything that reminds me that even once in my life I felt bad about being me, well, it's not something I should be doing.
