The Eagle Has Landed

I'm all registered and set up for the conference here in Taos, but as the minutes tick by, it seems like less and less of a good idea. My intestines have tied themselves into a hangman's noose and all the moisture in my body has collected into a lump in my throat. Right now the only thing I really want to do is run for my life, run back to the pond where I can be invisible if I choose.

Something or another led me to do a little research on birth order last week. Several of the discussions of middle children mentioned our tendency to feel invisible. I sure did, and I hated it. Now as an adult, I've cultivated the ability to go invisible when I need to, to withdraw so far into myself that I imagine others can't even see me, let alone criticize or hurt me.

I know my cloak of invisibility exists only in my head. But I'll tell you this: when I go invisible, people don't talk to me much and I can go about my business without putting on make up or doing my hair. Strange but true.

Now I'm about to be as visible as it gets. And not in Carrie's living room among people I regard as family. Nope. This time it's among strangers in a setting filled with opportunities to make a fool out of myself.

(Sigh)

I've been watch the other writers arrive for 45 minutes now. They're all cuter and thinner and smarter than me. Much better writers, too. I can tell none of them feels out of place or out of their league. Not a single one of them looks as though they're contemplating hitching a ride to the airport or locking themselves in their rooms until this thing's over.

Guess I'll go put on some lipstick. It should go well with the dirty splotch down the leg of my white jeans. And, of course, my new cowboy boots.



Think Our Lady will protect me?