During the BlogHer ’12 conference this week, I saw a few Tweets from the bloggers who were home. Some of y’all organized for the BlogHerAtHome conference and others of you resolved to go next year. I felt for y’all– there I was having a fabulous time learning more about blogging and eating the generous desserts Hilton offered at various session, while y’all were at home in your pajamas feeling deprived and left out.
Well, today’s a day of reckoning. As I grit my teeth through the reentry back into my normal life, I can assure you, non-BlogHer attendees, that your life this week is infinitely more manageable and your psyche is considerably more in tact than mine.
It’s only fair I share the reasons why:
1. You probably won’t be spending hours this week returning unworn outfits to the Gap and J. Crew and every other damn place I had to pick something up for this conference. I am not sure when exactly I confused BlogHer with Project Change Your Clothes 50 Times in 72 hours, but it happened. I just spent 35 minutes looking for a receipt for some jewelry from Francesa’s. And I just noticed my J. Crew receipt ominously warns: “All Sales Final.”
2. You won’t get escorted out of J. Crew in handcuffs for refusing to accept you cannot get a refund for the dress you bought as part of the so-called “final sale.”
3. You, having been at home in a natural and safe environment, probably remember how to talk to your husband and other men who cross your path. I, on the other hand, went 72 hours without any male contact, other than cheering wildly for Neil Kramer when he read his piece at the Voices of the Year keynote. So, you are busy going for a run or balancing your check book, while I am trying to remember how to be married. To a man. Or just talk to him.
4. I had a roommate all weekend, and we had other bloggers crash in our room. You know what that means, right? It means I never felt comfortable “releasing” fully during the whole weekend. So while you stayed home and ate your ProActiv yogurt and kept your body humming along, I have a bit of a backlog and when it’s ready to exit my body any second now, it won’t be pretty. It just won’t. I just can’t poop around strangers.
5. Are you going to be spending the next 5 days trying to explain to your daughter what those purple boxes of triple-pleasure vibrators in your suitcase are? I am. Because I chose to unpack my suitcase in front of my 3-year-old daughter, and she now wants to know all about those vibrators that were sitting right there on top in a purple box. Purple is her favorite color. “Those are mommy toys, honey.” “No, you can’t play with them.” “Yes, you’re right, those are bubbles for mommies. Let’s go to the park.”
6. You, dear home-bound bloggers, missed the rare opportunity to meet the Hilton staff members who served our conference. Largely, they were a competent and professional bunch. But, there was a ginger-haired bouncer who looked like Danny Bonaduce’s Botoxed younger brother, and he was a real stickler about checking badges. He touched my breast once trying to verify my badge’s credentials. I’ll be having nightmares about both him and that overly-aggressive wait staff who tried to clear our lunch plates before we were ever done eating. You spared yourself this. Be grateful.
7. If you are blessed and insured enough to take anti-depressant medication, you probably took it all weekend long without missing a single swallow. But, when I was busy packing all my baubles and business cards, I forgot my Zoloft. Now I am trying to bounce back from the conference while being under-medicated for 3 days. Why am I suddenly on the floor in the fetal position keening? AWE.SOME.
8. Did you have the following conversation with your spiritual advisor/husband/sponsor today:
Her: So you enjoyed the conference?
Her: Were you inspired by all the great people you met?
Me: Totally inspired! And that’s why I am now suicidal.
Her: Makes perfect sense.
Her: NO! What are you talking about?
Me: There were so many great people there. They can write so well and they are hilarious and successful and entire nations follow their every word. It makes me feel like small potatoes.
Her: Small potatoes is not the worst thing in the world. You don’t have to kill yourself because you are not a big potato.
Me: You don’t understand. It’s not that I am a small potato, like a mini-red-skinned one you put in stew. It’s like I am barely a french fry. Right! I am not even a French Fry from stupid McDonald’s. I am that burnt little nib that falls off and lands in the corner of the french fry pouch that you have to lick your finger to get me to stick so you can pop me in your mouth. I probably only have about 8 calories to offer.
Her: I like those little nibs. They are salty and crunchy. I love licking my fingers and pressing them into the corners of my french fry bag so I can eat them up.
Me: You are so sick.