Something New by Janis Thomas Page A

Volvo is completely out of sight.
    I am still pondering Ben’s words as I move through my kitchen, assembling and preparing all of the ingredients for the cheese balls. For some reason, my thoughts keep driftingback to the
Ladies Living-Well Journal
and the blog competition. Am I actually afraid of entering the competition, afraid of failing miserably and looking like a jerk? If that’s the case, then, according to Ben Campbell, I should just do it. It’s not like I’ve never made a complete ass out of myself before. And the fact is, the blog competition is anonymous. Nobody would have to know how badly I failed.
    If you stop trying new things, you might as well just stop.
    Wait, when did I give Ben Campbell such power? The first time he gazed at me with those liquid brown eyes, that’s when. I am not blind to the fact that I have developed a slight crush on my cousin’s neighbor. It feels only slightly different than the crush I have on Hugh Jackman, and I would say that the
main
difference is the fact that I have actually breathed the same air as Ben Campbell. Yet both crushes would be categorized together in the same subfolder of
This could happen when pigs fly or when Republicans vote Jesse Jackson into the White House
. But the thought of Hugh makes me warm and tickly all over, and I find that thinking about Ben is having a similar effect.
    I am almost forty-three. I think about the last time I tried something new that frightened me, and fitting into a new size of underwear doesn’t count. As I grate the English Cheddar, I remember that six months ago, I tried a mojito at the Lancaster wedding. I am not afraid of alcohol,
obviously
, but I do fear the aftereffects of rum, so I am going to count that one. In fact, now that I think of it, I was so pleased to overcome my fear of a rum hangover, I drank three more. Or four. Five? Well, I lost track at four, but the important thing is that I tried something new.
    Wow. Six months. Have I really tried nothing new in the last half year? I
will not
include laundry detergent or face cream because that would be downright pathetic, especiallysince I already counted the mojito. When was the last time I tried something new that actually inspired fear in me? I shake my head at the mound of grated Cheddar before me.
    On my honeymoon I went jet-skiing for the first time; having had a childhood friend who died while riding one, I was deathly afraid of them. I remember now the terror I felt as I swung my leg over the seat, gripped the handlebars, and idled away from the dock. I recall how the terror quickly morphed into exhilaration as I got a feel for the machine and accelerated to full speed, the wind whipping through my hair, the spray of water splashing my face as I bounced over a wake, my heart pumping wildly in my chest. It was almost better than the honeymoon sex, if you want to know the truth. That was thirteen years ago, I realize now with something akin to horror. And before that? Parasailing in Florida with my ex. I was, what? Twenty-five? Eighteen years ago.
    Jesus, I really need to get out and do something. As I grab the paprika from the spice rack and a mixing bowl from the cupboard, it hits me that this whole reinvention thing I have embarked upon is completely enmeshed with “trying something new.” Exercising on the treadmill and avoiding Pop-Tarts are only a superficial Band-Aid. What I really need is to branch out, open myself up to the unexpected, take risks, embrace my fears. Clearly, these forty-two-year-old bones are not meant for some of the things I am afraid to do, like skydiving or surfing or anything else that puts excess amounts of pressure on any of my aged joints. But blogging?
    I turn away from the mixing bowl and regard my computer. The monitor seems to be calling to me. I have the urge to drop what I’m doing and go over and plunk my fingers down on the keyboard. But alas, I must make the cheese balls. And there’s also that little thing about my