I have been babysitting ever since I was old enough to take the Babysitters Club Class at school. A real dream come true, then, after all the BSC books I'd read - it seemed the coolest thing to be at the age of 12 was a babysitter. At the present time [why yes, 14 years later, I am still at it] while I'm good with toddlers and pre-teens, it would seem that my specialty is babies. Word has apparently spread that there is a 26-year-old Seminary Grad with baby experience [magical words] who will still babysit. I would rather be pretty much anything other than a 26-year-old with a Masters degree who is still babysitting - so I'm not bragging - but I am in high demand. A hot commodity. What do you know.
At present, I nanny for this little tater tot who's about 11 months old. He can crawl at warp speed, he can pull himself up on just about anything, but now - I can see it in his eyes - he wants more than anything to walk. Over and over, each time hoping for a different result, he pulls himself up to standing, precariously lets go of whatever it is he's pulled himself up on [9/10 times it's some apendage of mine] and stands. Foooooor about 2 seconds. Then he falls squarely onto his little diapered butt.
And a funny thing happens at this point: he looks to me. There is a small window of time - just a couple seconds - in which to decide if he is upset about this fall or not; if he's going to pitch a little fit or if he's going to move along as though nothing happened. I have a lot of power here, as his reaction will be likely be a direct response to my reaction. If I rush over and act like I'm going to call an ambulance, he will probably cry. If I laugh and make a funny face, he will likely shoot me a little two-tooth smile and keep on keepin' on. It would seem we were born with the pause. Without fail, with the majority of babies I know [unless they are legitimately hurt, which is another story entirely, before you go calling CPS on me] there is an event [in this case, the fall], there is a pause, and then there is a reaction.
Somewhere along the line, though, I think the process starts moving a lot faster, and the pause is lost. Now we are adults and it goes like this: we fall, we react. Simple. That little window of time where our moms or nannies are constantly watching us is over. So one day we pause, look up, and realize we have to decide on our own how to react. It's up to me. Am I fine? Am I hurt? Am I upset? Am I going to cry, scream, laugh, yell, throw my toys around in a fit of rage?
Most of the time, I don't pause anymore. Maybe some days are better than others, maybe my reactions on a good day are calm and peaceful and holy. Emphasis on the word maybe. Regardless, something bad happens and I react to it immediately, on instinct. So many times I catch myself, twenty minutes, three hours, four days later, finally pausing to reflect on my actions. And what good is the pause to me then?
This whole train of thought took me to Paul in Romans 7: "I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, and what I hate I do... For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out." Even though I have the desire to do what is good, and most days I do, my inclinations aren't always right. My habits are not always healthy. And as such, my reactions are not always fruitful or productive. I will always be a dirty sinner, as it were, so praying for the erasure of sin and the arrival of perfection seems a little silly. But in watching the munchkin process his little life, I've come to realize that what I can pray for is a pause - a moment to process. A moment to look up for guidance.
Chances are I won't ever get it perfectly right.
Getting the pause back might be a step in the right direction, though.
April 18, 2011
April 16, 2011
your real thank you note is in the mail
I don't need to tell you [again] how much I love birthdays. It goes without saying that birthday week is one of my favorite times of the year. This year was no exception. I am having a great birthday week.
Another thing I love about my life at present is that I am known. I am known to the very depths and core of my being and that, that is a simultaneously terrifying and beautiful thing. I believed for a while the lie that if people knew me, they wouldn't like what they saw. They would reject and point and laugh and leave. But this week as people I love loved me in birthday ways, I realized that that scary fear is no longer a fear. It's a reality. A lovely one, at that.
The proof is in the pudding, as they say:
a surprise over breakfast tacos; a pink & purple cake with cream cheese frosting; a statue of a hand making the rock out sign; going to see my favorite band with favorite people; handcrafted cards and other handcrafted items; a ticket to a high school musical; my favorite book, fancily bound; a [big-ass] book of crafts; an art-capade; the perfect StoryPeople print; relief for the dire straights that are my finances; a movie about Unicorns; THIS; words of affirmation all over my Facebook; and quality time with so many people I love so much.
Some of those things are basic, perhaps, but others of them are not necessarily what you would call normal. I don't know that all of you would like a statue of a hand for your home or a movie about Unicorns or to go see a high school play. Which is why I call that list - perfectly crafted to somehow meet my every need and desire - perfectly delicious proof of how I am known and loved.
I don't mean to sound braggy, but honestly, I feel a little braggy.
And to those of you who know me, who know my crazy and my ugly and my broken and who have stuck around to love me, you should know that you are by far my most prized gift. Even better than that video of the Unicorn puppet singing Michael Bolton. Which is saying something.
Another thing I love about my life at present is that I am known. I am known to the very depths and core of my being and that, that is a simultaneously terrifying and beautiful thing. I believed for a while the lie that if people knew me, they wouldn't like what they saw. They would reject and point and laugh and leave. But this week as people I love loved me in birthday ways, I realized that that scary fear is no longer a fear. It's a reality. A lovely one, at that.
The proof is in the pudding, as they say:
a surprise over breakfast tacos; a pink & purple cake with cream cheese frosting; a statue of a hand making the rock out sign; going to see my favorite band with favorite people; handcrafted cards and other handcrafted items; a ticket to a high school musical; my favorite book, fancily bound; a [big-ass] book of crafts; an art-capade; the perfect StoryPeople print; relief for the dire straights that are my finances; a movie about Unicorns; THIS; words of affirmation all over my Facebook; and quality time with so many people I love so much.
Some of those things are basic, perhaps, but others of them are not necessarily what you would call normal. I don't know that all of you would like a statue of a hand for your home or a movie about Unicorns or to go see a high school play. Which is why I call that list - perfectly crafted to somehow meet my every need and desire - perfectly delicious proof of how I am known and loved.
I don't mean to sound braggy, but honestly, I feel a little braggy.
And to those of you who know me, who know my crazy and my ugly and my broken and who have stuck around to love me, you should know that you are by far my most prized gift. Even better than that video of the Unicorn puppet singing Michael Bolton. Which is saying something.
April 9, 2011
the right kind of home
New is exciting, and fun, and healthy, and necessary. Change can be good.
But I have to be honest, I like familiarity. And I think it gets a bad rap sometimes, like it's a lazy thing or it's about settling or we're getting "too familiar" - which means it's time for something else to take the place of said familiar. And in some instances, like I said, good. Great. It's not good to get bored or to settle or to be lazy. But sometimes I just like feeling familiar.
So I like it that I listen to The Cranberries Greatest Hits and instantly I'm transported to my senior year of high school and I'm in my '94 Ford Explorer and I'm late to softball practice. I like that the weird mural on the walls of the basement stairway of Wellspring makes me feel a surge of safety and community and welcome as soon as I turn the corner. I like that I know my house will smell like pumpkin for almost the entirety of autumn. And I like it that when I stepped off the plane last night in San Antonio and felt the nasty humidity blow through the jetway, it sent me right back to the years I spent here. I took a deep breath of wet air and I was walking home from the Kappa house on a Friday night. I was heading to the Murch study lounge to write a paper on the role of the femme fatale in Hitchcock films (best paper ever) and also laugh with my friends all night long. I was walking to Marble Slab on the Riverwalk with a bunch of high school kids. I was at the Taco C drive through with The Power Six at midnight, I was cheering for the Spurs [without fear of persecution, I might add], and I was getting thrown into the Trinity fountain on my birthday.
Let me be clear: I pretty much hate the weather here. I hate that I walked across the street this morning to get a cup of coffee and I got sweatier than I did in Zumba class on Wednesday night. I hate that when I'm here my hair becomes akin to a lion's mane the minute I step outside. This isn't one of those situations where I'm exaggerating for dramatic effect, either. Had I considered for even a moment the climate of San Antonio in my college choosing process, I probably never would have made it to Trinity University.
But I loved the four years I spent here. I love that wet air and lion hair and general sweatiness makes me feel, in a weird and sort of unpleasant way, like home.
I remember reading a study in my Social Psych class about familiarity and attractiveness. It showed [long story short] that when a person became familiar, they were rated as more attractive than they were initially, when they were unfamiliar. Their appearance hadn't changed, but [psychologically speaking] knowing their face made the subject perceive them as better looking, somehow. I remember thinking that that's kind of beautiful: that knowing a person makes them more attractive to us. Intimacy breeds desirability. Familiarity - for better or worse - has an effect on us.
I don't think it's a trick that our brains are playing on us. I think it's not about settling or getting too comfortable or being lazy. I think it's because we were designed for knowing and for being known, so the connection between knowing and liking is in our wiring. I think it's because familiarity makes us feel home. I didn't mean to love San Antonio, but San Antonio became home. I can't not love that.
New is exciting, and fun, and healthy, and necessary. Good.
But I think a case can be made that the right kind of home is all of those things too. And then some.
But I have to be honest, I like familiarity. And I think it gets a bad rap sometimes, like it's a lazy thing or it's about settling or we're getting "too familiar" - which means it's time for something else to take the place of said familiar. And in some instances, like I said, good. Great. It's not good to get bored or to settle or to be lazy. But sometimes I just like feeling familiar.
So I like it that I listen to The Cranberries Greatest Hits and instantly I'm transported to my senior year of high school and I'm in my '94 Ford Explorer and I'm late to softball practice. I like that the weird mural on the walls of the basement stairway of Wellspring makes me feel a surge of safety and community and welcome as soon as I turn the corner. I like that I know my house will smell like pumpkin for almost the entirety of autumn. And I like it that when I stepped off the plane last night in San Antonio and felt the nasty humidity blow through the jetway, it sent me right back to the years I spent here. I took a deep breath of wet air and I was walking home from the Kappa house on a Friday night. I was heading to the Murch study lounge to write a paper on the role of the femme fatale in Hitchcock films (best paper ever) and also laugh with my friends all night long. I was walking to Marble Slab on the Riverwalk with a bunch of high school kids. I was at the Taco C drive through with The Power Six at midnight, I was cheering for the Spurs [without fear of persecution, I might add], and I was getting thrown into the Trinity fountain on my birthday.
Let me be clear: I pretty much hate the weather here. I hate that I walked across the street this morning to get a cup of coffee and I got sweatier than I did in Zumba class on Wednesday night. I hate that when I'm here my hair becomes akin to a lion's mane the minute I step outside. This isn't one of those situations where I'm exaggerating for dramatic effect, either. Had I considered for even a moment the climate of San Antonio in my college choosing process, I probably never would have made it to Trinity University.
But I loved the four years I spent here. I love that wet air and lion hair and general sweatiness makes me feel, in a weird and sort of unpleasant way, like home.
I remember reading a study in my Social Psych class about familiarity and attractiveness. It showed [long story short] that when a person became familiar, they were rated as more attractive than they were initially, when they were unfamiliar. Their appearance hadn't changed, but [psychologically speaking] knowing their face made the subject perceive them as better looking, somehow. I remember thinking that that's kind of beautiful: that knowing a person makes them more attractive to us. Intimacy breeds desirability. Familiarity - for better or worse - has an effect on us.
I don't think it's a trick that our brains are playing on us. I think it's not about settling or getting too comfortable or being lazy. I think it's because we were designed for knowing and for being known, so the connection between knowing and liking is in our wiring. I think it's because familiarity makes us feel home. I didn't mean to love San Antonio, but San Antonio became home. I can't not love that.
New is exciting, and fun, and healthy, and necessary. Good.
But I think a case can be made that the right kind of home is all of those things too. And then some.
March 29, 2011
running errands [things that are my favorite]
I am not a particularly organized human when it comes to my personal life. I can do jobs and be successful and graduate from schools most of the time, but I can't find a correct pairing of socks on a daily basis to save my life. I do however, against the grain of my own personality, LOVE a good to-do List. I covet that wonderful feeling of scratching things off, of getting stuff done. Sometimes [if I'm honest] I feel a little put out that more people aren't applauding me for the major accomplishments that I am accomplishing. But it's ok, because at the end of the day, I know what I did. And I know I deserve a trophy. Whether or not you're willing to acknowledge it.
I do admit to occasionally doing that thing where I put things on my to do list that I've already done just so I can cross it off. But it's not cheating because it COUNTS. Just because you made the list as an afterthought to that particular accomplishment doesn't mean you didn't accomplish it. Get the credit. Write it on the list. I also write really inconsequential things on there so that at the end of the day I feel like I got more done than I actually did. "Check email" or "get dressed" probably don't merit a whole line on the List, but the longer the List, the better I feel when it's done. And don't judge me, because I'd be willing to bet you do it too.
Running errands then, you can imagine, is like the end-all-be-all of cross-it-off-the-list productivity for me. I love to spend a day running errands (which, if you think about it, is a highly ambiguous term that can mean actually anything I want). Yesterday was blissfully full of Errands, and today I was applauding myself in my head for all that I achieved. I gave myself a big huge pat on the back for getting my phone fixed. Why did my phone need fixing? I broke it. So was it an entirely counterproductive activity, a time-suck if you will, when I really thought about it? Yes. But did that stop me from feeling on top of the world leaving the Apple Store? It sure as hell did not. It's like how I feel when I purchase something and then return it. I feel great after the return, but could I have saved the time by not buying the non-essential in the first place? Quit raining on my parade, please.
Essentially what I'm saying is that I want to get special praise and acclaim for doing what all other grown ups do every day of their lives. I may never get used to being a responsible adult; I will always expect that someone should high-five me for paying my water bill, face-kiss me for returning the shoes I don't like to DSW, fist-bump me for filling my car up with gas. Is that too much to ask? I think it's really not.
March 25, 2011
you're not fooling anyone
what are you afraid of? she said &
I said, nothing & then I said
what are you afraid of? &
she said, people like you &
it was such a relief to know I wouldn't be able to fool her for long
[via storypeople]
I think when it comes right down to it, none of us really want to fool anybody
but I also notice that we go to GREAT LENGTHS to try and fool everybody
[I don't know about you,] but I'm pretty sure all I really want is to find somebody I can't fool
the moral of the story is this
we certainly are a counterproductive breed
are we not?
I said, nothing & then I said
what are you afraid of? &
she said, people like you &
it was such a relief to know I wouldn't be able to fool her for long
[via storypeople]
I think when it comes right down to it, none of us really want to fool anybody
but I also notice that we go to GREAT LENGTHS to try and fool everybody
[I don't know about you,] but I'm pretty sure all I really want is to find somebody I can't fool
the moral of the story is this
we certainly are a counterproductive breed
are we not?
March 23, 2011
one topic guy [categories of awkward]
I first noticed this category of awkward in the seventh grade.
It's the guy who only knows how to talk to you about one thing. The one topic guy.
I give you exhibit A: James.
A seventh grader named James. For the entirety of the time we were in school together, which was like 6 years, I'd say we talked a fair amount. But we rarely [try never] deviated from the subject of Latin homework.
I feel like it's not a stretch to say that we could have been involved in some kind of gas station hold up together over the weekend and Monday morning he would still walk by my locker and ask me if we had any Latin homework. Or if I had done the Latin homework. Or if I could believe we had so much Latin homework. Or if I thought the Latin homework was hard. Sometimes I think he would just say, "Latin homework," chuckle to himself, and continue his trek to Ms. Kehoe's class to get new conversation ammo for our next encounter.
There have been others since high school, and I have continually been blown away by their consistency and persistence in talking to me about only one thing. A guy I work with switches topics every few weeks, but for those few weeks he is unrelenting. [I see what you're doing, guy. Switch all you want, but I know who you are under this facade.] Maybe the first time I met you we had a conversation about how I love jukeboxes, and now my love for the jukebox has stuck with you as my only definitive characteristic. Maybe once it rained when we were together and so now the go-to convo starter is always, "HEY! Been in any rainstorms lately?!" So very clever, friend. Now let's dance around the topic of rain for 3-7 minutes until one of us can come up with a reason we have to leave.
The issue is super prevalent among dads of kids I nanny for. They are maybe the most awkward demographic of people I have ever come into contact with in my entire life. Once in college I was babysitting and the dad got home before the mom [which I think, to be fair, he wasn't expecting]. He fumbled for his wallet, shoved some money in my hand, barked a quick "BYE" and abruptly left the room. I skedaddle out of the house so as not to drown in my discomfort, walk outside, and realize that he has no idea how long I've been there or how much I get paid, and he has just paid me about $40/hour. I mean I'm not complaining, that's for sure, but when your awkwardness is costing you actual money, I think it may be time to assess it as a legitimate issue.
There is also the kind of dad who talks to you EXCLUSIVELY about his child. That's it. We will broach no other topics. Try to divert the convo and watch him squirm as he tries to bring it back around to the kid. Then there is the kind who, like Latin homework guy, will pick one or two topics [weather & traffic, almost always] and run with them until the end of time. Which gets really awkward if you nanny for them a lot. There is only so much that can be said about the traffic on I-25, you know? I'm not sure how we manage to talk about it three times a week.
But really, you just have to love one topic guy. They're making an effort, they're just sort of debilitated by their awkward ways. I recognize now that James just wanted to talk to me in the hallway, so what if he couldn't think of anything thrilling to say when he walked by? And if we on the receiving end are equally persistent, I have hope that maybe one fine day we can break the chains of the one topic and talk about something crazy. Like, I don't know, the traffic on I-70. Or biology homework. Or other kinds of storms. Who knows what scintillating conversation lies ahead.
There are very few constants in this world, so in the meantime I will find comfort in the stability of this dependably awkward demographic. They are almost as consistent as that Bruno Mars song, Grenade. I don't listen to the radio very often, but I swear that song plays perpetually. I think it ends on one station and auto-starts on another. Anyway, constants are great.
That's not one, but TWO constants in a world of crazy. You're welcome. We can all rest easy tonight.
It's the guy who only knows how to talk to you about one thing. The one topic guy.
I give you exhibit A: James.
A seventh grader named James. For the entirety of the time we were in school together, which was like 6 years, I'd say we talked a fair amount. But we rarely [try never] deviated from the subject of Latin homework.
I feel like it's not a stretch to say that we could have been involved in some kind of gas station hold up together over the weekend and Monday morning he would still walk by my locker and ask me if we had any Latin homework. Or if I had done the Latin homework. Or if I could believe we had so much Latin homework. Or if I thought the Latin homework was hard. Sometimes I think he would just say, "Latin homework," chuckle to himself, and continue his trek to Ms. Kehoe's class to get new conversation ammo for our next encounter.
There have been others since high school, and I have continually been blown away by their consistency and persistence in talking to me about only one thing. A guy I work with switches topics every few weeks, but for those few weeks he is unrelenting. [I see what you're doing, guy. Switch all you want, but I know who you are under this facade.] Maybe the first time I met you we had a conversation about how I love jukeboxes, and now my love for the jukebox has stuck with you as my only definitive characteristic. Maybe once it rained when we were together and so now the go-to convo starter is always, "HEY! Been in any rainstorms lately?!" So very clever, friend. Now let's dance around the topic of rain for 3-7 minutes until one of us can come up with a reason we have to leave.
The issue is super prevalent among dads of kids I nanny for. They are maybe the most awkward demographic of people I have ever come into contact with in my entire life. Once in college I was babysitting and the dad got home before the mom [which I think, to be fair, he wasn't expecting]. He fumbled for his wallet, shoved some money in my hand, barked a quick "BYE" and abruptly left the room. I skedaddle out of the house so as not to drown in my discomfort, walk outside, and realize that he has no idea how long I've been there or how much I get paid, and he has just paid me about $40/hour. I mean I'm not complaining, that's for sure, but when your awkwardness is costing you actual money, I think it may be time to assess it as a legitimate issue.
There is also the kind of dad who talks to you EXCLUSIVELY about his child. That's it. We will broach no other topics. Try to divert the convo and watch him squirm as he tries to bring it back around to the kid. Then there is the kind who, like Latin homework guy, will pick one or two topics [weather & traffic, almost always] and run with them until the end of time. Which gets really awkward if you nanny for them a lot. There is only so much that can be said about the traffic on I-25, you know? I'm not sure how we manage to talk about it three times a week.
But really, you just have to love one topic guy. They're making an effort, they're just sort of debilitated by their awkward ways. I recognize now that James just wanted to talk to me in the hallway, so what if he couldn't think of anything thrilling to say when he walked by? And if we on the receiving end are equally persistent, I have hope that maybe one fine day we can break the chains of the one topic and talk about something crazy. Like, I don't know, the traffic on I-70. Or biology homework. Or other kinds of storms. Who knows what scintillating conversation lies ahead.
There are very few constants in this world, so in the meantime I will find comfort in the stability of this dependably awkward demographic. They are almost as consistent as that Bruno Mars song, Grenade. I don't listen to the radio very often, but I swear that song plays perpetually. I think it ends on one station and auto-starts on another. Anyway, constants are great.
That's not one, but TWO constants in a world of crazy. You're welcome. We can all rest easy tonight.
March 21, 2011
posers for good
Book Club was Wednesday. I have not read the past two Book Club books because I am a Book Club Loser (BCL). I wasn't always this way, really I wasn't, but recently it's been the case and I hate it. I'd be ashamed to show my face at BC this time having not read. So last Monday, 30 pages in to a 300+ page book, I sat down to tackle that sucker.
I do, however, watch a lot of crap TV. (And we wonder why I am a BCL?) Some of it is probably acceptable but I mean, The Bachelor? I spent roughly two hours a week for the past six weeks watching crazy people pretend like they are making legitimate lifelong connections with their future husband/wife by riding in a helicopter and talking over and over about how they're "in it for the right reasons" and "totally falling for each other" on national television. (This vice is justifiable by how hard I laugh at the commentary of the funny people I watch it with, but unjustifiable for pretty much any other reason at all) I am learning a lot about Mormons from Big Love... well, ok, no I'm not. When I sit down and think about some of the stuff I am wasting my time on, it's upsetting. Pretty much on the whole it is really not enriching my life in any way.
But it's so easy. Sometimes it's nice at the end of a day to sit and watch stupid TV. And I don't think it's always wrong to do it. It's sort of like being really tired and debating whether you should eat a pint of ice cream or go do yoga. Ben & Jerry's isn't always a bad choice and it is immediately satisfying, but you will probably feel sick after. It is a poser for good. Yoga requires a little more work but will make you feel limber and awesome after. I don't always make the right choice. I fall for the impostors more often than I care to admit.
I sat down to speed-read that book though and I couldn't stop. I got wrapped up in the story and the characters and I could barely tear myself away to attend small group for two hours. (I did, because I'm very holy.) After those fools left my house I grabbed a diet root beer, shut myself in my room and read until my eyes were starting to cross and it was after midnight and at last, I was finished. I love doing that. I used to do that all the time. I genuinely book-worm nerd-style love reading; I love getting lost in books and caught up in stories and not being able to stop until it's over because it's THAT good. I shut the book and I thought to myself, that was so much better than watching Desperate Housewives on Hulu. TV is fine I guess. But reading is real good.
I think we know what is good and what is not as good but just sort of looks good. But it's super easy to forget and instead of going for what is good (because usually good takes a little more effort) I go for what is easy and sort of looks like it might be good. I go for the imposters. For me, reading a great novel is life-giving and enriching and makes me feel limber (sure, why not) and awesome. I know that. I know that reading does that for me. I know what is good and what is a poser but I often choose what is not good anyway.
I like being reminded of what really is good. I'm going to work harder at doing those things because I think in general they make me a better, more pleasant, limberer and more awesome human. Even if it seems like it might take a little more work, I'd rather feel limber than sick, I think.
I do, however, watch a lot of crap TV. (And we wonder why I am a BCL?) Some of it is probably acceptable but I mean, The Bachelor? I spent roughly two hours a week for the past six weeks watching crazy people pretend like they are making legitimate lifelong connections with their future husband/wife by riding in a helicopter and talking over and over about how they're "in it for the right reasons" and "totally falling for each other" on national television. (This vice is justifiable by how hard I laugh at the commentary of the funny people I watch it with, but unjustifiable for pretty much any other reason at all) I am learning a lot about Mormons from Big Love... well, ok, no I'm not. When I sit down and think about some of the stuff I am wasting my time on, it's upsetting. Pretty much on the whole it is really not enriching my life in any way.
But it's so easy. Sometimes it's nice at the end of a day to sit and watch stupid TV. And I don't think it's always wrong to do it. It's sort of like being really tired and debating whether you should eat a pint of ice cream or go do yoga. Ben & Jerry's isn't always a bad choice and it is immediately satisfying, but you will probably feel sick after. It is a poser for good. Yoga requires a little more work but will make you feel limber and awesome after. I don't always make the right choice. I fall for the impostors more often than I care to admit.
I sat down to speed-read that book though and I couldn't stop. I got wrapped up in the story and the characters and I could barely tear myself away to attend small group for two hours. (I did, because I'm very holy.) After those fools left my house I grabbed a diet root beer, shut myself in my room and read until my eyes were starting to cross and it was after midnight and at last, I was finished. I love doing that. I used to do that all the time. I genuinely book-worm nerd-style love reading; I love getting lost in books and caught up in stories and not being able to stop until it's over because it's THAT good. I shut the book and I thought to myself, that was so much better than watching Desperate Housewives on Hulu. TV is fine I guess. But reading is real good.
I think we know what is good and what is not as good but just sort of looks good. But it's super easy to forget and instead of going for what is good (because usually good takes a little more effort) I go for what is easy and sort of looks like it might be good. I go for the imposters. For me, reading a great novel is life-giving and enriching and makes me feel limber (sure, why not) and awesome. I know that. I know that reading does that for me. I know what is good and what is a poser but I often choose what is not good anyway.
I like being reminded of what really is good. I'm going to work harder at doing those things because I think in general they make me a better, more pleasant, limberer and more awesome human. Even if it seems like it might take a little more work, I'd rather feel limber than sick, I think.
March 13, 2011
gratitude [three ash wednesdays later]
[I will boast only in the Lord]
I discovered two things as I wrote this: (1) that [scripture] spoke my heart better than I could.
Also (2) that if you feel a twinge of deja vu, it's not your imagination. I've said a lot of this before.
[let all who are helpless take heart]
In March of [2009], I was a hot mess. And much as that phrase delights me, I do not mean it delightly; I was grieving a loss, fearing another, and feeling so broken I could barely stand. I walked into Ash Wednesday service at DCC, [very] alone, needing something and expecting nothing. I felt desperate. I wanted answers, strength, I wanted to understand. With my then limited understanding of Lent, I felt sort of silly looking for all of that at this service - how was giving up caffeine or whatever going to give me what I needed to survive?
[I prayed to the Lord, and he answered me - he freed me from all my fears]
But it was that night that I learned about Lent. I learned that Lent was a season to sort through mess and debris that life had left in the way. Through sacrifice and surrender we learn to depend on God again. I learned that we take on the ashes as a symbol of our repentance, as a statement and acknowledgment of our brokenness before God. Before each other. I read these words: Ashes are a prerequisite for Easter. Brokenness for healing. Death before resurrection. Our ancestors have given us Lent to help us find our way.
[in my desperation I prayed, and the Lord listened]
Brokenness for healing. There was an exchange possible here. Brokenness, even my own, wasn't nothing after all. There was a way to be found, and Lent could help. Maybe there wasn't hope just yet, but for the first time in a long time I had hope that there could be hope. And that, right then, was enough.
[the Lord is close to the brokenhearted;
he rescues those whose spirits are crushed]
A year later, [2010] I learned that in the ancient church, only the worst sinners were adorned with the ashes [sort of like a scarlet letter] so everyone could see that they had sinned. As the years passed the church began to see that they were not superior to these penitents, that their sins were no better, and they began to wear the ashes as well. And that, I think, is amazing. It's community: desperate and in need and humbled, each of us no worse or better than the next, standing together in our brokenness before God. What an incredible shift - something that once filled hearts with shame has become something that draws us close to God and to each other. Shame is transformed into joy, right before our eyes.
[those who look to him for help will be radiant with joy;
no shadow of shame will darken their faces]
I sat in church a few nights ago [2011] and I was flooded with familiar emotions and thoughts, comforts and pains. I was crying and I couldn't figure out if that was good or bad or if it just was. I listened. What resonated within my whole self was thank you.
Thank you for my community, that I am not alone. Thank you that broken isn't all there is, that death is nothing. Thank you for [ashes and] Easter [and brokenness] and healing [and death] and resurrection. Thank you for taking away the power of shame and putting something beautiful in it's place. Thank you that two years later, in the wake [and, at times, the midst] of hard and scary things, I am hopeful. For: helping, answering, freeing, listening, being close, rescuing, taking shame, giving joy, for never not being faithful: thank you. Thank you for proving me so very wrong.
As much as it may hurt, I don't ever want to forget that place:
I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall.
I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me.
Because it brought me to this place.
Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope:
Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.
We are not consumed.
[let all who are helpless take heart]
I don't understand everything. I still don't have answers. But I have hope. And that, for now, is enough.
I discovered two things as I wrote this: (1) that [scripture] spoke my heart better than I could.
Also (2) that if you feel a twinge of deja vu, it's not your imagination. I've said a lot of this before.
[let all who are helpless take heart]
In March of [2009], I was a hot mess. And much as that phrase delights me, I do not mean it delightly; I was grieving a loss, fearing another, and feeling so broken I could barely stand. I walked into Ash Wednesday service at DCC, [very] alone, needing something and expecting nothing. I felt desperate. I wanted answers, strength, I wanted to understand. With my then limited understanding of Lent, I felt sort of silly looking for all of that at this service - how was giving up caffeine or whatever going to give me what I needed to survive?
[I prayed to the Lord, and he answered me - he freed me from all my fears]
But it was that night that I learned about Lent. I learned that Lent was a season to sort through mess and debris that life had left in the way. Through sacrifice and surrender we learn to depend on God again. I learned that we take on the ashes as a symbol of our repentance, as a statement and acknowledgment of our brokenness before God. Before each other. I read these words: Ashes are a prerequisite for Easter. Brokenness for healing. Death before resurrection. Our ancestors have given us Lent to help us find our way.
[in my desperation I prayed, and the Lord listened]
Brokenness for healing. There was an exchange possible here. Brokenness, even my own, wasn't nothing after all. There was a way to be found, and Lent could help. Maybe there wasn't hope just yet, but for the first time in a long time I had hope that there could be hope. And that, right then, was enough.
[the Lord is close to the brokenhearted;
he rescues those whose spirits are crushed]
A year later, [2010] I learned that in the ancient church, only the worst sinners were adorned with the ashes [sort of like a scarlet letter] so everyone could see that they had sinned. As the years passed the church began to see that they were not superior to these penitents, that their sins were no better, and they began to wear the ashes as well. And that, I think, is amazing. It's community: desperate and in need and humbled, each of us no worse or better than the next, standing together in our brokenness before God. What an incredible shift - something that once filled hearts with shame has become something that draws us close to God and to each other. Shame is transformed into joy, right before our eyes.
[those who look to him for help will be radiant with joy;
no shadow of shame will darken their faces]
I sat in church a few nights ago [2011] and I was flooded with familiar emotions and thoughts, comforts and pains. I was crying and I couldn't figure out if that was good or bad or if it just was. I listened. What resonated within my whole self was thank you.
Thank you for my community, that I am not alone. Thank you that broken isn't all there is, that death is nothing. Thank you for [ashes and] Easter [and brokenness] and healing [and death] and resurrection. Thank you for taking away the power of shame and putting something beautiful in it's place. Thank you that two years later, in the wake [and, at times, the midst] of hard and scary things, I am hopeful. For: helping, answering, freeing, listening, being close, rescuing, taking shame, giving joy, for never not being faithful: thank you. Thank you for proving me so very wrong.
As much as it may hurt, I don't ever want to forget that place:
I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall.
I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me.
Because it brought me to this place.
Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope:
Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.
We are not consumed.
[let all who are helpless take heart]
I don't understand everything. I still don't have answers. But I have hope. And that, for now, is enough.
[Scripture from Psalm 34 and Lamentations 3]
March 8, 2011
a guest post [milestones]
Drumroll please...
Today I am a guest poster. In my (sort of secret) quest to become a legit member of the world of bloggerdom, this feels like a big deal. Really it's just a post that could easily be found here being found somewhere else, but I don't know, it feels exciting.
Head over to my great friend Sarah Ann Noel's brilliant blog - check out some of her beautiful writing as well as pictures of her beautiful new baby, Iris Ann! Sarah has a way with words unlike many people I know, plus she is a great friend and I have no doubt she's already a wonderful mama. I am thankful to have her in my real life as well as my blog life!
Oh, and I guess while you're there, read my guest post about my against-all-odds first best friend.
I have included a visual aid for your viewing pleasure.
Today I am a guest poster. In my (sort of secret) quest to become a legit member of the world of bloggerdom, this feels like a big deal. Really it's just a post that could easily be found here being found somewhere else, but I don't know, it feels exciting.
Head over to my great friend Sarah Ann Noel's brilliant blog - check out some of her beautiful writing as well as pictures of her beautiful new baby, Iris Ann! Sarah has a way with words unlike many people I know, plus she is a great friend and I have no doubt she's already a wonderful mama. I am thankful to have her in my real life as well as my blog life!
 |
| It should come as no surprise that I knew I liked Sarah almost immediately. |
Oh, and I guess while you're there, read my guest post about my against-all-odds first best friend.
I have included a visual aid for your viewing pleasure.
 |
| please take a moment to soak in the gawky awkwardness of the picture on the lefthand side. |
A few final thoughts: A big congratulations to Ryan, first of all, on his recent engagement! Hard to believe we are this old. A very special thanks to my first best friend for giving me permission to write about him and the magical story of our first meeting. Thank you for your friendship. And for walking me to the bus stop every morning.
here it is:
This is the story of the first time I met my childhood best friend. And about how before I had even learned his name I burst into tears, turned around, and quite literally fled in terror.
I spent the better part of my childhood standing at the very edge of the grass [I wasn't allowed to leave my yard] begging anyone within earshot to come over and play with me. Catalina Way was a veritable smorgasbord of playmates–even creepy Jeremy would occasionally look up from whatever insect he was dissecting that day and respond if I beckoned him.
When I was about 5, a new family moved in one cul-de-sac over. Here is how the story goes: the new kid showed up in my backyard with the Dixon sisters one day. (In my defense, to preface: at present, Ryan is 6’8”. He was an extremely tall child. And I was 5. Give me a break.) The way it is explained to me, I saw two things and two things only: he was a boy, and he was a giant, and I was not ok with either. Utilizing my most theatric theatrics, I turned around and ran inside, sobbing, terrified.
Honestly, I’m not sure I’ve changed that much since then. I think if it were socially acceptable, when faced with new people (probably especially new big scary boys), I would just run. And as a brilliant friend once asked: aren’t we all just kids who got old? Even when we were kids, relationships required risk. And we’re still scared. We’re still vulnerable. Maybe by now we’ve even risked and we know for a fact how much it hurts to be hurt. Scary people invade our swingsets every day and in very mature, grown up looking ways, we head for the hills. I wonder what and who we miss out on because of it.
Back to 1990. Somehow, my parents convinced me that my life was not in imminent danger, and I reluctantly tippy-toed my way back outside to give the giant boy a chance. Inexplicably and against all odds, Ryan and I were almost immediately inseparable. Every summer day when the garage door went up, Ryan was on the driveway waiting for me. When my mom had to go back to work, I ate breakfast at his kitchen table every morning before school. He walked me to the bus stop every day, and I collected X-Men cards for about a year just because Ryan told me that was cool. While I will never know for sure why he scared me so very much at the outset, what I do know with absolute certainty is that I adored that little giant.
When I met Ryan I was nothing short of terrified. And honestly, he probably should have thought I was nuts and fled himself. (But he was 5. And I did have a really killer swingset. Give him a break.) But we both took a risk that day–I went back outside and he decided to give the deranged screaming girl a chance–and because of it, for the entirety of my time on Catalina Way, that boy was my very best friend. Because of it, I learned about love. The thing is–and this is the catch – I wasn’t wrong about the risk. In fourth grade Ryan got made fun of for having a “girl-friend” and wouldn't sit by me on the bus anymore. It may have been my first little glimpse of heartbreak. We aren’t wrong to be scared, but risking it is so worth the gift of loving and being loved.
I am so glad I didn’t stay inside. If you find yourself fleeing, give yourself a pep talk and go back to your swingset.
People are worth loving. Even scary giant boys.
March 7, 2011
the only place for emoticons
I think emoticons are almost entirely a useless entity. If you like them, I mean, no judgment (maybe a little judgment. I'm just being honest). But really, it's your personal choice. Here's what I think it comes down to: I passed a copious amount of notes in my middle/high school career, and undoubtedly I was all about the :), ;), :p. You name it, I used it in excess. I think I just peaked early where the smiley is concerned. But really, to each his own. Use emoticons all you like. I won't de-friend you on Facebook over it or anything.
There is one exception to the rule though - one instance in which I am extraordinarily thankful for that little two (or three, depending on your preference) character magic trick: when they act as a buffer. It's very useful in any situation wherein your tone can't be read. A well-placed emoticon can be the perfect safeguard alongside saying something that is potentially a little bit questionable. So if I'm saying something that COULD be interpreted as offensive (but of course I don't mean it to be), maybe I add a little smiley guy to diffuse potential reactions. Not sure someone will pick up on your sarcasm? Wink that sucker. As a person who can barely go six seconds without saying something smart-alecky, I have to be honest, I require a lot of emoticon buffers. [This is not to be confused with the person who actually says something offensive or hateful and then adds a smiley so it looks like a joke but everyone knows it's really fully true. I'm not trying to rationalize an intentional jab, just a harmless sarcastic comment. To recap: the emoticon buffers sarcasm, not being a big jerk.] So I soften the blow of my brilliant wit with the occasional emoticon. I may have said something iffy, sure, but hello, I added a smiley face. So, what? You're going to get mad at me? How could you have possibly misread that... I used a smiley face. There's nothing confusing happening here.
I could just stop being so sarcastic. But probably I won't. So in the meantime I will continue to use emoticons as my life and humor necessitate. And likely shun them at all other times.
There is one exception to the rule though - one instance in which I am extraordinarily thankful for that little two (or three, depending on your preference) character magic trick: when they act as a buffer. It's very useful in any situation wherein your tone can't be read. A well-placed emoticon can be the perfect safeguard alongside saying something that is potentially a little bit questionable. So if I'm saying something that COULD be interpreted as offensive (but of course I don't mean it to be), maybe I add a little smiley guy to diffuse potential reactions. Not sure someone will pick up on your sarcasm? Wink that sucker. As a person who can barely go six seconds without saying something smart-alecky, I have to be honest, I require a lot of emoticon buffers. [This is not to be confused with the person who actually says something offensive or hateful and then adds a smiley so it looks like a joke but everyone knows it's really fully true. I'm not trying to rationalize an intentional jab, just a harmless sarcastic comment. To recap: the emoticon buffers sarcasm, not being a big jerk.] So I soften the blow of my brilliant wit with the occasional emoticon. I may have said something iffy, sure, but hello, I added a smiley face. So, what? You're going to get mad at me? How could you have possibly misread that... I used a smiley face. There's nothing confusing happening here.
I could just stop being so sarcastic. But probably I won't. So in the meantime I will continue to use emoticons as my life and humor necessitate. And likely shun them at all other times.
March 2, 2011
we need no longer fear the closet monsters
Love > Fear.
I feel like in a roundabout way I've been writing/thinking/talking/living about fear a lot lately, so I was excited when at church a couple Sundays ago our pastor talked about this equation and really brought things full circle. He discussed that the world is scary and unsure (long story very short & far less eloquent) and as a result we are often engulfed by fear. He discussed the story where the disciples are with Jesus out on a boat and as a storm surrounds them, they find Jesus sleeping. In the darkness, amidst the turmoil of the storm, Jesus sleeps. The disciples - I can only imagine feeling the sting of what looks like betrayal by the one they thought would protect them - wake him and say, "Teacher, don't you care if we drown?" [how often do my prayers sound just like this?] But then: "Jesus got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, "Quiet! Be still!" And the wind died down and it was completely calm." From the safety of my chair, I thought of my own storms. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Remember being convinced as a kid that there were monsters in your closet (or if you're me, that Corduroy Bear was going to come to life in the night and eat my face)? Maybe you ran to your parents' bedroom and found them, sleeping. Here you are, in mortal peril, your very life hanging in the balance, and they who are supposed to protect you have the audacity to sleep. But maybe now you are a mom or a dad (or a nanny or an aunt) and you know the other side. You know that even though the shadows look gigantic, they are nothing. That even though your child's fear feels huge, the truth is that there is no monster. Corduroy Bear will remain a stuffed toy when the lights go out. We sleep not because we are heartless, but because we know better.
The world was (is?) looking for a Messiah who would come in power, with force and might and strength. When the disciples were caught in that storm, I imagine they expected Jesus to be at the helm, steering their boat through the rough waters, conquering them. Instead, he sleeps. Think of it this way: if every night of my childhood my parents had taken turns holding watch outside my door to ensure that Corduroy Bear didn't slit my throat, it would have done only one thing - it would have validated my fear. It would have confirmed a danger that wasn't real. In the same way, had Jesus made a great show of steering through the storm, if the disciples had found him furiously bailing water from the deck, it would have done nothing but give power and credence to their fear. Fighting at all would imply that fighting was necessary in the first place. Which (spoiler alert!) it wasn't. It's still not.
And yet we pray: Jesus, don't you care if we drown?
I think the point is not that the world isn't scary or dangerous, because really, it sort of is. As grown ups, we sleep through the night because we don't fear the threat of monsters. But if the kid calls for me, I will go. I will double-check the closet. Even though we know better, we don't ignore their fear; we calm it. As grown ups we are afraid too, but of much realer dangers than closet monsters and demon toys. Jesus sleeps, but he doesn't stay asleep. In the face of the storm, as we cry out, if we listen carefully I wonder if we can't hear amidst the chaos: Quiet! Be still! And then? Calm. Instead of any big show of brute strength, the gentle Messiah calms the storm with a word. And seriously - how much more awesome is that?
"Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!"
To quote my pastor,
I feel like in a roundabout way I've been writing/thinking/talking/living about fear a lot lately, so I was excited when at church a couple Sundays ago our pastor talked about this equation and really brought things full circle. He discussed that the world is scary and unsure (long story very short & far less eloquent) and as a result we are often engulfed by fear. He discussed the story where the disciples are with Jesus out on a boat and as a storm surrounds them, they find Jesus sleeping. In the darkness, amidst the turmoil of the storm, Jesus sleeps. The disciples - I can only imagine feeling the sting of what looks like betrayal by the one they thought would protect them - wake him and say, "Teacher, don't you care if we drown?" [how often do my prayers sound just like this?] But then: "Jesus got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, "Quiet! Be still!" And the wind died down and it was completely calm." From the safety of my chair, I thought of my own storms. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Remember being convinced as a kid that there were monsters in your closet (or if you're me, that Corduroy Bear was going to come to life in the night and eat my face)? Maybe you ran to your parents' bedroom and found them, sleeping. Here you are, in mortal peril, your very life hanging in the balance, and they who are supposed to protect you have the audacity to sleep. But maybe now you are a mom or a dad (or a nanny or an aunt) and you know the other side. You know that even though the shadows look gigantic, they are nothing. That even though your child's fear feels huge, the truth is that there is no monster. Corduroy Bear will remain a stuffed toy when the lights go out. We sleep not because we are heartless, but because we know better.
The world was (is?) looking for a Messiah who would come in power, with force and might and strength. When the disciples were caught in that storm, I imagine they expected Jesus to be at the helm, steering their boat through the rough waters, conquering them. Instead, he sleeps. Think of it this way: if every night of my childhood my parents had taken turns holding watch outside my door to ensure that Corduroy Bear didn't slit my throat, it would have done only one thing - it would have validated my fear. It would have confirmed a danger that wasn't real. In the same way, had Jesus made a great show of steering through the storm, if the disciples had found him furiously bailing water from the deck, it would have done nothing but give power and credence to their fear. Fighting at all would imply that fighting was necessary in the first place. Which (spoiler alert!) it wasn't. It's still not.
And yet we pray: Jesus, don't you care if we drown?
I think the point is not that the world isn't scary or dangerous, because really, it sort of is. As grown ups, we sleep through the night because we don't fear the threat of monsters. But if the kid calls for me, I will go. I will double-check the closet. Even though we know better, we don't ignore their fear; we calm it. As grown ups we are afraid too, but of much realer dangers than closet monsters and demon toys. Jesus sleeps, but he doesn't stay asleep. In the face of the storm, as we cry out, if we listen carefully I wonder if we can't hear amidst the chaos: Quiet! Be still! And then? Calm. Instead of any big show of brute strength, the gentle Messiah calms the storm with a word. And seriously - how much more awesome is that?
"Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!"
To quote my pastor,
"The God of love, who sovereignly sleeps through our greatest fears, silences them with a word."
I am so tired of living in fear.
Even when the evidence points to the contrary -
even when the storms seem like they'll destroy us -
the fact of the matter is this: fear is nothing.
Spoiler alert!
Love wins.
February 23, 2011
I need an adult
Because I love to preface...
The following story has been slightly hyperbolized for dramatic effect. (operative word = slightly.)
Mostly I thought it would be funny to see the following chain of events on paper.
We've talked before, you and I, about how I am a highly irrational human. I have come to the conclusion that this irrationality is perhaps at the root of another of my flaws as well - (two, I know, you wouldn't know it to look at me) - I am indecisive. I hate making decisions. I'm terrible. I know that I'm a grown up and I'm supposed to be able to do things like decide what to eat for dinner or what movie to rent from Redbox, but some days it is just not that simple, you know? Recently we were invited to go to this swanky grown-up martini fundraiser, and we decided to get all dolled up and go. I felt great about it. Until the day arrived, of course, and I found myself on the brink of hysteria because it was already 4:00 pm and I still had approximately 287 decisions to make.
What should I wear? Should I go get something new? No. I don't have any money because I'm a nanny. Great, now I am stressed about my career path AND I have to decide what to wear. There's this dress - buuuut I wore this dress the last time I was trying to pass for a grown up. What if someone notices that on every grown up occasion I wear the same thing? (That's not a lie. I actually thought that. Upsetting on multiple levels.) Maybe if I style it differently? I could belt it. There's this skirt - no definitely not that skirt. Back to the first dress again. Maybe I can just do my hair differently? GOODNESS, my HAIR! Curly or straight? Curly. Natural curly or curling iron curly? What time is it? OH THE HUMANITY!
THEN (yes, it gets better. worse? better.) I get in the car with my dear, darling, wonderful friend. My friend who is a kindred spirit in general irrationality - which is both awesomely validating and double-trouble all at once. This is, I think, an accurate depiction of how the ride to the event went:
- I think I'm wearing too much eye makeup. Does it look trashy?
- No, of course not it looks great but do you think I shouldn't have worn nylons? Do people wear nylons? It's just that tights looked funny... Maybe I should take them off. Do you think I should take them off?
- No, they look great, you look perfect. Is it ok that I'm wearing a shrug? Maybe I shouldn't wear it. Do I look like a grandma? I look like an old lady don't I?
- No! Wearing a cardigan is totally acceptable. You look great. [We arrive.] Now get out real quick and look at my legs. Should I keep these nylons on? I really don't love these shoes...
- Should we wear our coats inside? It's not THAT cold, but do you think there will be a coat check? What if there's not and we have to carry it around? It looks like those people are wearing coats. Ok, let's wear coats.
Then as we walked in my friend slipped on the ice and onto her be-hind. It was the last straw. It was at this point I thought to myself, I need an adult. We needed one. Someone to step in and tell us to shut up, because really, we are smart, normal girls who know how to dress ourselves and attend functions. We just forgot for a minute.
You can laugh, it's ok, because the whole thing was ridiculous. To be fair, most days we get dressed all by ourselves like we've been doing since we were toddlers and go out and have a lovely time without spiraling into the pit of despair because we don't know if we're wearing an appropriate nail polish color. But we were just ever so slightly out of our comfort zone, and we panicked a little. At least we can laugh about it now. And since I know you are on pins and needles... you can wear a shrug, people do wear nylons, and there was, in fact, a coat rack.
Despite it's deceitful appearance, it seems to me that being a grown up isn't about not being scared so much as it's about doing stuff even when you're uncomfortable and unsure, indecisive and irrational. Learning with every heroic foray into grown-up-ish activities that yes, in fact, you can do it. The adult is in there, somewhere, and I bet with practice I'll start to hear said adult interject a well-placed "shut up" every now and then. Maybe one day I will walk into a fancy party and realize halfway through that I got there with grace and ease. One day...
In the meantime, I feel pretty lucky to have at least one person who understands what it's like to become slightly deranged when I get a little insecure. The more I'm honest about it, the more other people are too, and the less alone we have to feel in the face of adversity.
Yeah, adversity. Or, as the case may be, in the face of completely inconsequential daily choices.
Coat or no coat? We can do this!
The following story has been slightly hyperbolized for dramatic effect. (operative word = slightly.)
Mostly I thought it would be funny to see the following chain of events on paper.
We've talked before, you and I, about how I am a highly irrational human. I have come to the conclusion that this irrationality is perhaps at the root of another of my flaws as well - (two, I know, you wouldn't know it to look at me) - I am indecisive. I hate making decisions. I'm terrible. I know that I'm a grown up and I'm supposed to be able to do things like decide what to eat for dinner or what movie to rent from Redbox, but some days it is just not that simple, you know? Recently we were invited to go to this swanky grown-up martini fundraiser, and we decided to get all dolled up and go. I felt great about it. Until the day arrived, of course, and I found myself on the brink of hysteria because it was already 4:00 pm and I still had approximately 287 decisions to make.
What should I wear? Should I go get something new? No. I don't have any money because I'm a nanny. Great, now I am stressed about my career path AND I have to decide what to wear. There's this dress - buuuut I wore this dress the last time I was trying to pass for a grown up. What if someone notices that on every grown up occasion I wear the same thing? (That's not a lie. I actually thought that. Upsetting on multiple levels.) Maybe if I style it differently? I could belt it. There's this skirt - no definitely not that skirt. Back to the first dress again. Maybe I can just do my hair differently? GOODNESS, my HAIR! Curly or straight? Curly. Natural curly or curling iron curly? What time is it? OH THE HUMANITY!
THEN (yes, it gets better. worse? better.) I get in the car with my dear, darling, wonderful friend. My friend who is a kindred spirit in general irrationality - which is both awesomely validating and double-trouble all at once. This is, I think, an accurate depiction of how the ride to the event went:
- I think I'm wearing too much eye makeup. Does it look trashy?
- No, of course not it looks great but do you think I shouldn't have worn nylons? Do people wear nylons? It's just that tights looked funny... Maybe I should take them off. Do you think I should take them off?
- No, they look great, you look perfect. Is it ok that I'm wearing a shrug? Maybe I shouldn't wear it. Do I look like a grandma? I look like an old lady don't I?
- No! Wearing a cardigan is totally acceptable. You look great. [We arrive.] Now get out real quick and look at my legs. Should I keep these nylons on? I really don't love these shoes...
- Should we wear our coats inside? It's not THAT cold, but do you think there will be a coat check? What if there's not and we have to carry it around? It looks like those people are wearing coats. Ok, let's wear coats.
Then as we walked in my friend slipped on the ice and onto her be-hind. It was the last straw. It was at this point I thought to myself, I need an adult. We needed one. Someone to step in and tell us to shut up, because really, we are smart, normal girls who know how to dress ourselves and attend functions. We just forgot for a minute.
You can laugh, it's ok, because the whole thing was ridiculous. To be fair, most days we get dressed all by ourselves like we've been doing since we were toddlers and go out and have a lovely time without spiraling into the pit of despair because we don't know if we're wearing an appropriate nail polish color. But we were just ever so slightly out of our comfort zone, and we panicked a little. At least we can laugh about it now. And since I know you are on pins and needles... you can wear a shrug, people do wear nylons, and there was, in fact, a coat rack.
Despite it's deceitful appearance, it seems to me that being a grown up isn't about not being scared so much as it's about doing stuff even when you're uncomfortable and unsure, indecisive and irrational. Learning with every heroic foray into grown-up-ish activities that yes, in fact, you can do it. The adult is in there, somewhere, and I bet with practice I'll start to hear said adult interject a well-placed "shut up" every now and then. Maybe one day I will walk into a fancy party and realize halfway through that I got there with grace and ease. One day...
In the meantime, I feel pretty lucky to have at least one person who understands what it's like to become slightly deranged when I get a little insecure. The more I'm honest about it, the more other people are too, and the less alone we have to feel in the face of adversity.
Yeah, adversity. Or, as the case may be, in the face of completely inconsequential daily choices.
Coat or no coat? We can do this!
February 14, 2011
a smattering of love-type things
I'm something of a rebel, and as such, I don't just love rules. And I feel like Valentines Day carries with it a lot of rules for how we're supposed to feel and behave. Speaking exclusively in sterotypes, boys are [as a rule] irritated in anticipation of the pressure of we-the-females' expectations. And girls, as a rule, have seen about eleven too many rom coms starring Ashton Kutcher and as such have irrational and unrealistic expectations for aforementioned don't-stand-a-chance dudes. Single people are supposed to wear black and call it 'Singles Awareness Day*' and make fun of people on dates and hate boys (or girls, as the case may be). Which in my experience really isn't that fun and Mondays are bad enough as it is, you know?
I have only ever bought one Valentines gift for a boy, and I'm proud to say that it was a Bryan McKnight CD when I was a freshman in high school. I stressed so much about what to get, but the aforementioned boy loved the song "Back at One" [repeat steps one through threeeee] and I decided this was the perfect way to tell him that after being together for a week and a half that my feelings for him were real. Looking back, the fact that he liked that awful song enough to warrant wanting the whole CD should have been a real sign of things to come, but alas, love is blind. Especially when you're 14.
Honestly, my favorite Valentines Day was senior year of college and it involved copious amounts of Bella Sera with assorted members of the Power 7 and sort of unintentionally sneaking into the neighbor's house when they weren't actually home. The Bella Sera was pretty business-as-usual but we saved breaking & entering for really special occasions. So top THAT, future Unicorns of my life. I dare you to try.
Speaking of Unicorns (when am I not?)... here is, as promised, a smattering of love-type things:
a favorite (possibly only but who's counting) lovey dovey blog post: remixed below, original here
a favorite love poem: i love you much (most beautiful darling)
[and if what calls itself a world should have the luck to hear such singing
everyone certainly would (my most beautiful darling) believe in nothing but love]
a favorite love song for your listening pleasure:
and lastly, mostly because I can't resist: a favorite super snarky valentine e-card:
And so, happy Valentines Day. May yours be filled with love-type things. And Unicorns. And the kind of joy that one can only find in cheap wine and accidentally kind of committing a misdemeanor.
* Probably not a coincidence that the acronym for this is SAD. I'm just saying.
remember that time I admitted to believing in Unicorns? [a valentine re-mix]
Having a blog is a little bit like writing an ongoing novel about myself. I write my life, that is true - but I am fully in control of what about my life I write. It is a great thing that I can be real and authentic and write truth... to the extent that I see fit on a given day. The truth is the truth, but I can spin it how I like. I get to choose. When it comes to my life on paper, I am the author, creator, editor, and mastermind. I can write something completely untrue if I want (I don't do that, for the record). I can write something and delete it if I don't like what I see. I'm in charge. I have control. And for your information, yes, the weather is lovely in delusionland.
In the life that I write, I try very hard not to write about the L bomb. Love.
I don't mean love as in a "love your neighbor" or "I like my new Sketchers, but I LOVE my Prada backpack" kind of way. I mean love... like, LOVE love. Romance love. The subject of every movie geared towards my demographic love. DOYOULIKEME check-yes-or-no love. It's not a subject I feel super comfortable positing my opinions on. On the one hand, to be a 25 year-old single girl writing about love feels stereotypical to me, and I genuinely never want to be described as predictable. But admittedly, I also secretly fear becoming that girl. I feel like you've probably met her - the one who talks about nothing but. It is possible, however, that my refusal to accept this topic has caused me to err on the side of never acknowledging it, which is a kind of predictability in itself. Foiled again! So here we are.
Against my will, the yucky love stuff (I will face kiss anyone who gets that reference) has been stalking me lately. Believe me, I fought it... but this past summer I was invited to 8 weddings. 8 save the dates, 8 invitations, 8 RSVP cards (typically late, because, I'm me), 2 pretty great bridesmaid's dresses, 1 maid of honor speech, many bachelorette parties, rehearsal dinners, plane tickets, road trips, and blisters (from excessive dancing in heels) later, way more of my friends' last names have changed on Facebook than I am comfortable with. (Seriously. I hardly know who anyone is anymore and it's very stressful.) I get that it's unavoidable at this stage of life, but still. I'm surrounded. And at some point, one must put on one's big girl pants and DEAL.
Which brings me to the topic at hand: Unicorns.
Yes. Unicorns. Those mythically wondrous sparkly horse-like creatures with horns growing triumphantly from their majestic brows. Sunlight beaming from every inch of their lithe, irridescent bodies. Unicorns. The concept of the Unicorn is wonderful (don't argue, I won't listen) and magical but at the end of the day, we don't think they really exist. Which is why one day, when speaking of a friend's fiancé, another friend and I dubbed this particular man a Unicorn. He was so great that we weren't sure he was real. It came up a few more times as other good guys showed up. Again, we thought, "is this real?!" Months have passed since we first coined this phrase, and one by one, Unicorns have continued to strut into the picture of our lives. Fascinating.
I can no longer pretend that Unicorns (the man kind, anyway) do not exist. The evidence is there, albeit sporadic, and I can ignore their existence no longer. I'm going to resist the urge to go all Nicholas Sparks on you - I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I did. And I will add as a caveat that in the midst of all the wedded bliss I was privy to during the summer of oh-ten, I learned too that these things rarely look like we think they will. That the timing we have in our heads is never accurate. That there is the potential for a lot of heartbreak on the way there. And while I don't believe in "but even after all that they found each other and they lived happily ever after and nothing bad ever happened ever again because they were both beautiful and in LOVE" Disney fairytale crap-ola, I do believe in Unicorns. Which, if you know me, is a big deal for me to admit.
Since we (the females) first gazed longingly into the eyes of Jonathan Taylor Thomas in the shiny pages of Teen Beat and discovered what True Love really felt like at the tender age of 11, we have hoped (some of us more quietly than others) that Unicorns were real. I just want you to know, girls, that I'm starting to think it might be possible. You need not settle for horses that will kick you right in the teeth if you let yourself get close enough. (To be fair, I've always been a little a lot afraid of horses, so my opinion of them may be slightly exaggerated, but it's all in the name of the metaphor. Hang in there.) Quit hanging out with horses. Hold out for a Unicorn.
And boys - I'm not trying to be subtly hateful, so before you get your boxer briefs in a bunch, listen up. You, too, can (and probably will) be someone's Unicorn. Let me rephrase - you get to be someone's Unicorn. Yes. I've seen it happen too many times not to believe it's possible. We're waiting for you. I think I may already know some of you which is equally encouraging. Thank you for being so swell already. Thank you for acting Unicornly to me even though you aren't necessarily my Unicorn. Congratulations. You, well, you're the rarest of rare.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)