"I don't know if I have it in me" has never been a problem of mine. My problem is more "What the hell do I do with all this inside me?" Too many hopes, dreams, intentions, aspirations, and random tangents to keep straight. Hence this blog...a place to get on my soapbox about social injustices...a place to post that phenomenal recipe...to lament writer's block...and to inflict on someone else one of the random songs from the unending radio in my head (and perhaps to exorcise it--or at least have company as I hum along. Alas, my singing voice is dreadful!).
"I don't know if I have it in me" confounds me, and I am fully (albeit contritely) aware that I seem less than sympathetic to those who suffer from this malady. Perhaps because I grew up with a great-grandmother who regularly admonished us, "Well, no one else is going to do it for you..." To this day, I assume that if something is important I had better get off my butt and take care of it myself. Unfortunately (as my poor husband will attest) this has resulted in my becoming a wee bit of the martyr. Ahem. But, by gosh, at least I am quite certain of my ability to be the best darned martyr around. (After all, no one else is going to do it for me.)
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