Winter sniffles of a habitual voyeur

I looked at the sheet of paper, busy with a merry list of names yet bereft of mine. How strange: I was quite capable of auditioning for the small speaking role, and arguably had quite a good idea for how to perform it. But it was like a force field had got in the way. I found myself making excuses. I'll fill up my water bottle and wait until the queue dies down....what, no pen? Oh, what a shame - I left mine in the rehearsal hall. I could go back and get it... but wait, the conductor's about to lift the sheet and start calling names. Oh well. That's fate for you...

Earth to self: what the ...?! Me, not sign up for something? Better yet: me, pass up the opportunity to talk even more?

Blur called it a "preference". Now, as an intermittent blogger I guess I could qualify as a "habitual voyeur", and if you'd asked me before last Monday I too might have deemed it an optional emotion which can be summoned at will, but not any more. Nope: that night, try as I might, my confidence was nowhere to be found.

But why? I come from a wonderfully supportive family: ever-encouraging parents, a loopy but loyal sister, and an incorrigibly cheeky yet unquestionably devoted husband. I have excellent friends: the very best kind who never judge the absences but simply celebrate the time we do spend together, and who rejuvenate, refresh and recharge - oftentimes without knowing it. And I have positive colleagues: supplying a daily stream of inspiring attitude, collaborative endorphin and self-raising respect (these latter two phrases makes perfect sense to me but I'm quite aware they may not to anyone else. Oh well. Author's prerogative.).

So what happened? I might add that I wasn't entirely devoid of pluck: had I wished, I reckon I could have called on that last bastion of bravery: the do-it-really-quickly-so-you-won't-have-time-to-change-your-mind tactic. I've employed this on more than one occasion in the past: force your fingers to quickly dial the number for that awkward phone call; take the first few steps on to the stage and muscle memory will take over; let that train go without you so you'll simply have to talk to that cute boy when he arrives at the station in the next taxi (who knows; you just might end up marrying him). But these "surges", as I think of them, are to be used sparingly I believe, otherwise you'll lose the charge. So last Monday I didn't go there, but quietly chose to let the moment pass.

And maybe that's the key. Maybe as I get older I'm content to let things go. Maybe I don't need to grab every opportunity; to say yes to everything; to volunteer for whatever experiences life throws at me?

Hmm. I'm not convinced. What do you think, dear reader? Do we become less anxious for new adventures as we get older? Perhaps we all become more self-conscious, gradually putting ourselves forward for fewer and fewer things? Or are these mental meanderings of mine nothing more than an impossibly subjective snapshot of a temporarily off-kilter chemical state: as everyone around me coughs and sneezes, have I simply caught a confidence cold?

I'll let you mull this one over for a bit. No need to rush - just have a think about how your own confidence waxes and wanes over the next few days. Is it as it always was? In the meantime, whichever way I look at it, it's time for tea...