Last night I was pulled into the past by a photo from my college days, shared on Facebook. These moments don’t hit me as hard as they used to. Thanks to social media, I can peek in on the lives of people who were important to me from grade school to now, so blasts from the past have lost some of their power (and that’s a good thing).

Still, I was reminded of friends I haven’t seen (in person) in forever and noticed some have visited my blog over the last few months. Then I caught a glimpse of the pic I included with a recent post and thought, “My rag pile? What am I thinking posting my rag pile for all the world to see?”

Clicking through the status updates of some of my old friends is enough to keep me housebound, in a pair of paint-splattered sweatpants, for a week. My friends include published authors and bankers and lawyers and professional actors, living in major cities, living incredible lives, while I’m … waxing poetic about my rag pile?

My pity party was brought to a halt by my husband, who sighed and said, “You’re impossible to keep up with.” He’d read my blog and, instead of focusing on the pile of rags I wrote about, he saw my energy, my enthusiasm, and my fourth blog post in four days. I forget that while I’m judging myself so harshly, he’s using me as his benchmark.

So, new rule: the act of measuring shall now be restricted to craft projects and recipes, tree houses and little boys eager to see how much they’ve grown in the past year. Everything else is apples and oranges. Deal?