I wasn’t sure the day would ever come when I actually made my first blog post as Blonde and Blistered. Even though I always wanted it to happen, I managed to put it off and procrastinate enough that I never made it a priority. For well over a year I’ve been wishing and hoping, and telling people “I should start a blog”. The events of the last couple days have dissolved that fear, and I feel as though it’s either put up or shut up time. I like to tell stories. Stories about my life, other people’s lives, and life in general. I’m fascinated by the world around me and I want to share my stories with anybody who is willing to read it.
Blonde and Blistered was the original title for a blog that was supposed to be about marathon training. I thought I was pretty clever with the name and it fit perfectly with the running motif. Then I broke my wrist doing a double back-flip on my snowboard off a cliff…..just kidding. It was my second day out learning how to snowboard (which I am currently still doing), I took a bad fall while trying to get to the chalet, and I snapped that sucker like a twig. It’s amazing how fragile bones can be. That put the training on hold while I dealt with feeling sorry for myself, and the blog was put on the back burner.
Recently I decided that I am definitely going to start writing so I needed to come up with another name for my blog. I googled, and asked friends, and googled some more but I couldn’t come up with anything. That’s when I had the epiphany that I am blonde and blistered. My entire life I’ve been blonde and blistered. Not in the literal sense of course (well I’m literally blonde), but in the fact that I enjoy doing things the hard way. I never take people’s advice, I never make the choices that are “good for me”, and I have to learn everything the hard way. Just ask my parents. Picking up their then 19-year old daughter from a basement suite in the roughest part of Calgary, where she had been living with her boyfriend, his stripper sister and her daughter, his stripper sister’s girlfriend, no electricity, and a guy upstairs who sold drugs and regularly beat the crap out of his girlfriend, was probably pretty hard on them. That’s just how I roll.
So Blonde and Blistered it is. I’m going to write and hopefully somebody is going to read it but if not, that’s cool too. I’ll have a great collection of stories to read back and laugh at. Or cry. Or be horrified that that actually happened. Who wants to read about marathon training anyway?