If I applied for a job for a newspaper and aced the interview, you wouldn't know anything about it until The Call finally came, congratulating me on my new position and by the way...I need someone to go shoe shopping with me so I can pay stupid money to for something no one will ever see as I hide my feet under my desk while I peck out other people's stories.
If you knew me In Real Life before Real Life became one with the Dot Com after my name, you don't know about my book or it's subject or that I'm more afraid that I will get an agent and a book deal than I am that I'll never see my dream come true because the former means you will see my thoughts on paper and the latter that I can still hide behind the if that come after what.
Even something as inconsequential as trying to lose five pounds wasn't announced until after the goal had been met. I've always felt safer that way.
No harm...no foul...
Call it a personality quirk. Call it superstition. Call it crazy. But I've always operated under the impression that nothing could be announced to the world until after...well...after, because if and when I breathed truth and hope into a thought I was instantly damning myself/the relationship/the job interview/the weight loss to absolute failure, not because I had dared to dream but because I had dared to dream out loud.
I called him by anything other than his real name. Every time my fingers began to move the pen into the familiar shape of his name, I found myself hesitating. So I played tricks on my own memories in order to preserve my future.
When Buttercup was nothing but a twinkle and a wish, I forced myself to stay mum to all but a few close confidants about our 18 month struggle with infertility. "So when are you two going to finally..." was easier to sidestep than admitting that my body was working against us. I smiled and hugged and congratulated every woman I knew who announced her pregnancy while I tried reminding myself that my uterus wasn't the deciding factor of my self worth.
Then one day, I think I must have dreamed loud enough for the wish that was my daughter sitting upon a star to look down through the clouds and choose me for her own. We got our miracle. All because, I still believe, I had had the sense to whisper my hopes loud enough for the Universe to embrace but quietly enough so that no one else could hear.
I must have whispered too loudly this time, I think. My wish is still looking down from a star.