The Book of Me by Angie Pederson

I got this book in from Amazon yesterday, and I have to say, it's a really neat book for creating scrapbook pages about your own life. I don't seem to have any problem making pages with my family in them, but it's the same as the picture situation... I'm just not there. Seems like everybody's glad to leave all the picture taking to me, and they don't care if I'm in any of the pictures. I finally got to the point of handing the camera to my nephew and asking him to take some random pictures with me in them, so that I'd have them someday. :) He very nicely cooperated, and digital cameras make things easy anyway. Even his little brother took a really nice picture of me when he was 7.

Anyway, I was going thru the chapters starting some sample layouts with some random thoughts, and it got more and more depressing the further along I went. It bothered me when I got to the "Soul Mate" chapter and I realized I couldn't put anything there. And of course the next chapter is the one where you gush over your children... and never having found the love of my life, of course I don't have any children either. :) Then the "Homemaker" chapter. Sheesh. Somehow I just don't think you can call me that when it just refers to one person. I think I'll have to call it "Houseowner" because it doesn't feel like a home here by myself. I know I can agree that I'm glad that at least I'm not paying rent. And I'll admit something right now... my house is always messy because I'm always unhappy here by myself. What's the point of turning this place into Martha Stewart's hangout when I'm just about the only one who'll ever really look at it? It's hatred for the space and situation that makes me disrespect it this way.

So I've come to the conclusion that my "book of me" will wind up being pretty short. But there won't be anybody to read it anyway, so I guess it won't matter. LOL Having to skip all those chapters of the book... feels like a painful reminder that I've had to skip those same chapters in my life. I think I'd almost rather go back to just sticking my thousands of pictures of everyone else into scrapbooks than taking such a close look at myself.

I'll probably substitute layouts of my dog where my kids should have been, but there's no way on earth I'm going to commemorate any of the few ex-boyfriends I've had. None of that ever turned out well, so why would I want to remember any of them? Well, maybe I could do a special page where I could remember what it was about each one that makes me glad they got out of my life. Is that mean? :) Or is it just fair, considering what they each put me through?

Don't get me wrong... the book is absolutely wonderful. On the other hand, I am not, so I'm going to have a hard time committing to my project that just oozes depression. I have to admit that I'm a little jealous looking through some of the stories in the book that describe how that person is so thankful they had that special person beside them all the time for support. That must be nice. :)