Death of a Sales...woman

I spent the weekend down in Houston with some old friends from highschool, two of which are getting married this summer, one of whom's bridal shower prompted the trip. The third friend is one I haven't seen since my own bridal shower, which was - eghad - FOUR YEARS ago. Time flies.

Three of us had girl time the traditional sleepover way, and it was lots of fun. Except, Leigh, I swear I didn't mean to put you through the hours of boredom looking at EVERY SINGLE SCRAPBOOK I'VE EVER made. Of course it's nice to have someone actually see the result of countless hours I've spent hunched over a table cropping, arranging and taping - but really, that wasn't my intention when I brought them all down. I was only expecting to show one or two of them, and I would imagine that even THAT would border on unacceptable levels of forced boredom.

Looking back at that paragraph, I'm realizing that there's no way any person with a brain bigger than a walnut would believe me. But it's still true. God knows. He's got my back. Yeah.

Anyway, I have come to realize that this is why I could never be a success as a salesman...er, saleswoman. I have guilt about advertising or forcing anything of mine on someone else, particularly someone I know. All those years of school fundraisers, bringing colorful overpriced junk catalogs to everyone in my neighborhood, church, and dad's office were TORTURE. Absolute torture. And I still have guilt from it that requires me to purchase something from every 10-year old with a catalog that comes through. Still paying my dues.

And no, that was not a suggestion to send your kids my way with their popcorn and wrapping paper. I also eat children to get out of committing to fundraisers.

Anyway, thank goodness for patient friends that don't make a big deal out of my occasional neurosis.