Michael Bywater’s Big Babies whacked the nail on its head, full on.

I quote:

The crucial difference is my grandfather’s lack of self-consciousness, and that self-consciousness is a hallmark of the perpetual, infantilised adolescents we have all become, monsters of introspection hovering twitchily on the edge of self-obsession, occasionally aware that the life that exists only to be examined is barely manageable; barely, indeed, a life.

I can name at least one person in my life who believes that life should be for living: my husband.

“You analyse too damn much,” he often tells me.

“A life unexamined blah blah blah,” is my usual reply.

With blogs, we air our insecurities, our introspections, our neverending analyses to whoever may be interested to read about how bad we all feel about not cleaning up or cleaning too much or whether or not we should be cleaning at all and instead get help, or if that will make us look like inadequate housewives and mothers and yada yada yada.

“Why do we have to dwell on these things so much? Why can’t we talk about things, instead, about the future? Things that make us happy?” asks my darling man.

“A life unexamined blah blah blah.”

Blah indeed.