Know that thing going around Facebook where people share random facts other people might not know about them? Well this is like that, only less coherent. And with pictures.
Sleeping is just sooo overrated you see. So instead I stay up catching up on all my favorite blogs, and window (Christmas) shopping, and thinking random thoughts that simply must be shared, right?
Now if that glowing endorsement didn't scare you off here are those random thoughts I've been telling you about, all eight of them, 'cause why not?
1. I'm kinda in love with the above picture of Michael Caine (which has been floating around Pinterest, obviously), but really I've been crushing on him since Batman (the first one).
Don't worry; this isn't news to Mikael. He knows I've got a thing for older men (think the cartoon guy in UP! who I think we can all agree is just too adorable. Although Mikael, you should be warned, this just in, he does exist!).
2. The other day at the grocery store there was a girl sitting in her car, using someone else's bare foot as a microphone. I assume it was a kid, but it was someone in the backseat, so I couldn't see.
The girl was really belting something when I pulled into the parking space in front of hers. This was odd enough, but you know how usually when you stare at someone for more than a second they notice, and stop doing whatever caused you to stare?
Well I stared a lot longer than usual and she didn't stop. That makes me creepy, I know. But it also makes her really cool. Right? Who does that? Cool people I think.
I mean, a hairbrush mic has been done. But a bare foot? You go girl! I can only hope this starts a trend (can you imagine how that'd spice things up on shows like The Voice?).
3. A lot of my stories revolve around the grocery store, 'cause I work from home, and it's the easiest excuse to leave the house. But another good excuse is... the pharmacy. 'Cause where else can you find super deals without having to trek across town to get to Target?!
My occasional couponing reached new highs (or lows) this week though, when I bought 3 large packages of toilet paper, just so I could earn the $5 in extra CVS bucks.
And when I say large, I mean really large. I couldn't see over the TP on my way to the car, or look my husband in the eyes when I walked in with them, but:
a.) I don't have to go through what I consider the embarrassing act of buying toilet paper for like week(s) now.
b.) That $5 is gonna come in pretty handy when I need a new nail polish, or 2 for $5 potato chips, or... CVS brand paper towels!
4. This might sound crazy to those of you who've known me a long time, but sometimes, just sometimes, I really wish I was Catholic. Like my Grandma. And the Pope. And, oh, some millions (maybe billions) of other people.
5. If you like coffee, and your dream weekend consists of three things:
a.) Spending one night at home alone with craft supplies.
b.) One night cuddled under a blanket with a loved one, pizza, and a stack of movies.
c.) And one with a handful (at most!) of friends who like to play board games, and drink caffeine.
Then I will like you. That's just a fact. (It may be sad, but it's still a fact.)
6. I really suck at being a grown up a lot of the times. Doing things like remembering to put oil in the car, or figuring out how to get burnt goopy stuff out of the oven... driving in traffic, choosing to vacuum after spending eight hours rearranging picture frames and poofing decorative pillows... those things don't come naturally to me.
Anyone else struggle with this, life after training wheels I mean? Or is that just me?
7. I used to love summer, but now that I don't get three months off with dad paying for my gas and movie tickets, I love it a lot less. Also, sweaters. So cozy. And lattes. So good.
And the romantic way the leaves change colors, making every walk around the park a unique and breathtaking experience... autumn is growing on me big time. And I'm so happy about that.
8. I cannot explain how much I love it, on the rare occassion, when I fall in love with a song - and listen to it on repeat thanks to YouTube - only to discover it's the internet rarity without a single "Thumbs Down" on it.
It makes me feel like I have good taste, but also that there's hope for the world. Not because my taste is that good, but because there are some things that transcend hate.
That makes me real happy.
So that's a bunch of stuff you probably didn't need to know. But thanks for letting me share, and for giving me an excuse to stroll memory lane looking for "stock art."
I really am so grateful for those of you who choose to read this little thing. It's a great gift you give me.
Now it's your turn. What makes you very very happy?
I hope Thursday makes the list, 'cause that's today, and today's always a good day to be happy.
And if truth is relative, then it won’t exist at all.
We’ll make it into nothing, by trying to say it could be something other than what we’ve been taught, what we’ve held so dear.
We cling tighter and tighter with each passing year, each war, each mindless shooting, each orphaned child…
Nothing else makes sense, so we hold tighter to what we do know.
Now we can’t remember if it was truth keeping us safe, or if we were charged with saving it.
We set out to protect it, at all costs. Just to be safe.
If we open our fists to look at it, much less share it, we might lose it altogether.
So we tighten our grasp, cracking whatever mutated form remains in our grip.
Better a small, broken truth, than no truth at all.
And that’s what we tell ourselves, and assure those in our closed circle, each with hands cupping his own invisible commodity.
We are indivisible. We are one.
Set apart from those outside, those missing the truth that saved us.
This is what I see.
And this is what I’ve known.
Certainty. Confidence.
At a cost.
Surely Truth was never meant to be held like this; like a vice. Like a right.
Like something to lord over others.
Something to beat them down with, and keep them in line with.
Nevermind that we claim to be the only ones who can see, or set, those floating lines.
Truth, to me, always sounded like Light.
Light like Love.
And Love like Freedom.
And Freedom like Grace.
Grace that can’t be clenched. Or controlled.
Earned. Or saved.
Grace that abounds in being spent up, given out, passed along, loosely held.
Grace that cannot be quantified, or calculated.
Grace that just is, with or without us.
Grace that doesn’t belong to any one person, or people group, or country, or religious sect.
Grace that is transformative, and transcendent.
Grace that covers the whole earth.
Grace best exhibited not by tight-knit circles, but by open hands.
The older I get, the more hurt I see.
Hurt too often inflicted by those fighting in the name of truth.
And I’ve felt like a traitor, for questioning what it is I’m doing here.
Straining under the pressure of trying to cling to something that slipped out of my hands long ago.
I worried what would happen if I admitted I’d lost it.
The certainty. The confidence. My shiny security.
Would I be accused of trying to outrun or outwit the truth?
An enemy of all I once loved?
Or, in accepting that my hands are empty, and giving up the fight, might I experience a Freedom I hadn't known before?
Might I find that Truth isn't made for keeping, but about being set free?
* I took a prolonged "vacation" from blogging there for a bit, and writing in general. (Sorta scary for someone like me, that processes best through internal dialogue followed by written, scribbled words.)
But the hiatus makes me all the more grateful that one little prompt could draw so much out of me. Stuff I've been struggling with for months now, unable to articulate.
These thoughts may still be a mess of rawness, scattered thoughts, but I, for one, am glad to get them out of my head. Thanks for "listening."
I don’t know what it is about music that is so transcendent,
but nothing is better at drawing me out of my own head than words set to song.
When I’m crazy, on-the-verge-of-losing-it, I like to drive
in the car with the audio at full blast. Somehow when the music is obnoxiously,
almost painfully loud, it helps soothe me. (It’s less soothing when I have passengers
with me, but thankfully, that’s been rare.)
I think the music makes me feel smaller, in a good way. The
way I feel when I’m watching waves crash onto the shore, or stars alone
lighting an otherwise black sky.
When I remember I’m a small part in a very grand universe,
it becomes a lot easier to let go of the weight of the world. And I’m thankful
for that.
Last week was hard, in a lot of different ways, like turn
the volume all the way up and yell at the radio, instead of singing along,
hard.
I felt isolated with my worries, and powerless to change
anything, much less fix anything.
But it was punctuated by something really amazing, something
I needed much more than I realized as we loaded up the car.
My sister and I drove (she drove, graciously!) 4 hours last
weekend to see a music festival in the tiny town of Guthrie, Oklahoma.
There
were tons of bands there, only a handful of which we actually got to see, after
parking nightmares and eating our weight in barbecue.
But even as a backdrop on our weekend, listening to Pandora
in the car, and to local bands perform as we explored antique stores downtown, I
was reminded how much a part of my life music is.
More importantly, I was made aware how much of a bigger part I wished it played.
Day to day it’s much easier to listen to other noises
instead. The kind that come along, uninvited. The dishwasher running, and cars honking…
my work phone ringing, or me hearing its phantom ring taunt me in a moment of
silence.
It’s all NOISE.
And it’s all I hear most days.
But sometimes, when I remember to withdraw for a moment of
quiet, of solitude, I hear the music creating a subtle soundtrack to my life.
The conversation hits a lull, and I notice a song playing in
the restaurant. I’ve never heard it before, and may never hear it again, but it
seems familiar somehow. It makes me feel at home.
It invites me up into the bigger story that’s happening, the
one beyond hasty dollar store runs and hospital visits.
Yes. Letting the music bathe over me reminds me that so much
of the bigger picture I can’t always see is beautiful. And what a shame it
would be to let the tough or dark points overshadow all that good.
Did I mention that concert we drove to was Mumford and Sons?
Most people love or hate them, it seems. I don’t know many
bands so polarizing. And I get that not everyone is into alt-folk music; it’s
not everyone’s cup of organic tea so to speak.
But man are they good musicians, like world-class,
incredibly talented musicians.
That’s not what drew me to drive (ride) four hours to see them
though. It might have gotten me to buy their CD, but it wasn’t reason enough to
stand in a crowded field on a humid Saturday night, covered in red dirt and
sweat.
What drew me to see them was this.
Seeing moms and their teenage sons both delighting in a
single song … witnessing bonafide hippies and hipsters, all sitting on blankets
in the middle of a field… watching people raise their hands, and clap along,
and laugh, and cheer, and I’m sure cry… that is why I wanted to be there.
That is why I needed
to be there.
I needed to be surrounded by people that had driven in from all different states, each leaving behind troubles of their own, that wanted to
escape from the noisy world for a while.
People longing to be ushered into something beautiful.
Something bigger than car maintenance, and time cards, and Intensive Care.
For an hour or so we got to be part of a unified community.
We got to close our eyes, and be swept up into a bigger story,
one musicians tell us about with words and melodies.
It's the kind of story artists paint about. And novelists write
about.
And occasionally, good preachers preach about.
And the weary, worn-out dream about.
No one musician, or artist, holds the rights to it, because no one will ever fully describe it.
But all the good ones point to it.
And the really good ones invite us to be a part of it.
And I love them for that. I am sooo grateful for that.
'Cause I need it, so much more than I realize most days.
I need to be one, of thousands, lost in a moment.
Lost in a melody.
When I’m happy nothing’s better than humming a cheerful song
all day.
And when I’m sad nothing helps like a songwriter totally
commiserating, and articulating, my emotional experience.
Loud and upbeat, or soft and slow… music always makes me feel less alone.
And ultimately, I think that’s all any of us really wants.
And on her cheeks, while hooked up to all those monstrocities.
They’re doing the things a body should.
Things her body was able to do, just hours
before.
But now she lies there, paralyzed not by circumstance but by
fear of the pain.
With flushed cheeks, and strained movements, and a fear in her
eyes I’ve never seen before.
Red.
Why God? She loves you.
Never has a woman loved you more.
She talks about you, with the nurses, with her guests.
She talks about you, and your will being done, and how you
have the power to heal, but that she’ll accept whatever lot in life you give
her.
Right now her lot is a mechanized bed, one filled with
scratchy sheets, and so many tubes, and she doesn’t have to say it.
I can see in her face she’s angry.
Still, she praises you.
That
one little fall could land her here…
I'm frustrated for her.
She says she went short on her quiet time the morning it
happened.
She blames herself.
But I blame you.
Why God?
Are you as angry as you seem?
So spiteful you would pick on someone already small, and
frail?
I don’t want to believe it.
I don’t want to feel it.
But I look out the window at a sea of cityscape and back in,
to nurses scuttling, and people struggling, and my heart aches.
The world is not as it should be.
Why, why God, don’t you intervene?
Please tell me you’re not a vengeful God, that strikes old women
down because they prayed for 30 minutes instead of an hour.
Tell me you’re not a tyrant, doing as you will, with
no regards for all the lives you’ve created, seeming pawns in a cruel cosmic game.
Tell me you see her, and hear her faint prayers as she
drifts into a medicated sleep.
Tell me you hear me, and the words unspoken, behind my own
tears and worries.
I am pleading for justice. And mercy.
But most of all for grace.
And I’m begging you to tell me you’re not at all the God the
televangelists have painted you to be.
Nor the meek shepherd hanging on so many wood-planked church
walls.
Tell me you’re more than the light we’ve seen you in before.
Tell me you’re greater, and gentler, than the Old Testament
stories used to bash gays and push political ideologies.
Tell me anything, God.
Say anything, God.
That I might not walk away from another hospital room, so
angry with you.
- 30 -
I haven't been able to write much lately. And what I have scratched out I've lacked the confidence to post.
I've had a hard time articulating to friends and family how I feel too, so these weekly free-writing exercises have been something of a life-saver, forcing me to examine my thoughts, instead of running from them.
I'm thankful they've forced me to ask the questions ever tiptoeing on my tongue, instead of keeping my mouth shut, silently choking on all that is unsaid.
This, apparently, is a raw season for me. A season of painfully slow growing and struggling to move forward, out of the stagnant waters I've been wading in.
For my praying friends, I hope you'll keep me in yours, and more importantly my family as my grandmother - ever a fighter! - begins rehabilitation after a hip replacement surgery.
It's gonna be a strange, winding road. But I hope to share it with you.
Not all of it, mind you, but just enough that those of you on the same dark path might know you're not alone.
My dad, very subtly, left a book for me this morning.
The chapter titles weren't appealing, but one did catch my eye.
Chapter Twelve: The Wisdom of God.
I'm still digesting what it said, but I'll leave you with the words that jumped out at me as I had my daily cup this morning.
"Wisdom, among other things, is the ability to devise perfect ends and to achieve those ends by the most perfect means. It sees the end from the beginning, so there can be no need to guess or conjecture. Wisdom sees everything in focus, each in proper relation to all, and is thus able to work toward predestined goals with flawless precision.
All God's acts are done in perfect wisdom, first for His own glory, and then for the highest good of the greatest number for the longest time. And all his acts are as pure as they are wise, and as good as they are wise and pure. Not only could His acts not be better done: a better way to do them could not be imagined. An infinitely wise God must work in a manner not to be improved upon by finite creatures."
- A.W. Tozer, The Knowledge of the Holy (italics mine)
Since my sister introduced me to Pinterest about two years
ago I have gone through spurts of using it like an addict, then avoiding
it like the plague. (Thanks Jessie.)
In theory it is a perfect tool for keeping my desktop from
becoming a dumping ground of screenshots of things I’d like to purchase (when I
win the lottery I don’t play) or blog links for recipes I will try (if I ever get
less scared of working unsupervised in the kitchen).
But in reality, instead of neatly corralling my own
inspiration, I’m far too often guilty of using it almost exclusively to stalk
the things filling other people’s electronic “inspiration boards.”
In reality, I gorge on ideas how to make my home pretty, while overlooking practical things like keeping it clean.
I watch, like a hawk, to see what other people are deeming
trendy, stylish, helpful, important, from fashion fixes to pallet furniture, and
food facials to family advice.
And as a result I OD on the inspiration, instead of doing anything useful with it. I pin and pin and pin, 'til I'm exhausted and disapointed that I've wasted yet another evening, without trying any one of those "genius," even "life-changing" tips I pinned.
It’s gotten so bad – at points – that my husband has
threatened to schedule a “Pintervention.”
And I couldn’t blame him if he tried, OCD as I’ve been about making it through the latest “Popular” posts.
But his concern, and my disappointment, haven't stopped me from logging on and loading up on ideas, ideas of what I think my life should look like.
Even when I realize I’m seeing the same three pins over and
over, or perplexed at how obsessed people are with Olivia Polermo (wasn’t she
just a backup star on The Hills?)… I have a hard time pulling away from the
draw that is Pinterest.
The time-suck alone should be cause for alarm.
But there's an even bigger problem that lurks beneath the 8,000 pins and 20,000 likes I've accumulated. A problem bigger than the time I've lost, and the overwhelmed feeling I get when I overdo it, combined.
It's the lie I buy into when I fail to realize what Pinterest really is.
It's not a peek into other people's lives. It's not an honest look at anyone else's existence.
It's a goal sheet, a shopping list, a bulletin board at best.
And, at its worse, it's a smoke screen hiding real life behind expertly lit photographs.
Pictures that tell half truths, the best parts, of other people's stories.
While highlighting the negatives in your own existence.
Seeming to pinpoint all the places your life should be, and could be, so much better.
When I log on to Pinterest I’m not actually
seeing people’s practical small kitchen storage solutions. I’m seeing a
stylized shoot put on by a woman with unlimited resources, like diva Martha Stewart.
I’m not actually learning how to affordably update my fall
wardrobe. I’m being bombarded with “Must Have” buys, many that bloggers are
endorsing (in spite of astronomical pricetags) because those items have been
C/Oed to them.
And I love Martha's tips. And I think it's great - incredible - when bloggers are able to earn a living - or fabulous shoes! - doing what they love.
But for readers (like myself) it becomes dangerously easy to confuse a highlight reel of other people's fashion choices, home decor, and dinner offerings... for what life needs to look like in order to be good.
What's a girl without Coach shipping her free sunglasses supposed to do?
It's not like the idea behind Pinterest is new. Or that this dilemma - of wanting what other people have, but really just wanting your own life to look prettier, neater, easier! - has only existed as long as the internet.
HARDLY! I'm sure there were cave women discussing who wore the tiger skin best.
But I do think the more accessible, the more pervasive "inspiration" becomes, the harder it becomes to be present - and content - with where we are and what we have.
The more time we spend overloading our brains with ways to make our lives "better," the less time we spend enjoying, and being grateful, for how good they already are.
Please don't get me wrong. I really like Pinterest, and I know some people use it incredibly well (the way it was intended I'm sure).
I LOVE getting ideas, like how to maximize under-the-bed
storage. It’s why I have a four-foot tall stack of home magazines I just can’t
seem to let go.
I LOVE finding ways to rework my favorite shirts, and
dresses, into fun new outfit combinations.
I LOVE learning how to turn crayons and a hair dryer into unique art to fill my home, or how to transform dishwashing soap into an awesome, affordable Christmas present.
But the percentage of time I spend actually doing those
things, compared to how much time I spend envying the lives I think other people lead – based on
carefully curated pins – is sad. And really quite scary.
Because even though I know way better, I too often buy into the
lie, that what I see on Pinterest is real life for everyone but messy, frazzled
me.
And then I start worrying that my life is not as good as I once thought, because I don't own a Cost Co-sized tub of coconut oil, or because I have to improvise and use a fruit basket as a drying rack after baking one of the 90 bread loaf recipes I pinned.
With Pinterest, but really anytime I choose to start the nasty comparison cycle, the best of what others are presenting becomes the standard
to which I compare my whole life.
And I become obsessed with finding fancier ways of storing extra toilet paper, instead of doing practical things, like washing my clothes (with store bought detergent) or putting away my off-trend dishes.
The ironic thing is that Pinterest itself will tell you, and I’ve told you before,
as I've told myself many times…
I think deep down we all know it, that no one wins in the comparison game.
But it doesn't stop us from playing, or from getting carpal tunnel syndrome from pinning. So what will put an end to the madness? What will finally stop the vicious cycle?
Last week a bit of a revelation happened for me when I realized that the reason I often feel sad when I’m logging off of
Pinterest isn't because I’m sad to say goodbye to an “App” (one that too often
monopolizes my life).
It’s because after perusing so much "inspiration," I’m no longer satisfied by the wonderful things
in my life. I’m too distracted by all
the things I feel l need
to be truly happy, like all those other people must be.
No wonder the days I avoid it altogether I’m often happier
and more content with where I am, whether it's eating at a much-loved downtown restaurant, or enjoying a cheap frozen pizza on an ugly
couch with my very cute husband.
Even knowing it, though, it's hard not to open that app. The pull is strong, with that one. Pinterest, you don't know what you do to me.
As a sometimes recovering, sometimes full-blown, neurotic perfectionist, I know all too well how hard it can be to kick a bad habit. And I think it is particularly tough when the product itself isn't inherantly bad, as is the case with my love-it-hate-it Pinterest.
But that's why in this case I feel the solution isn't to go cold turkey, or accept my addiction.
Instead I'm trying really hard to rethink how I use it. And I'm training myself to use it as a tool once again, instead of a distraction, or a vice.
If I’m honest with myself - and you - the reason I haven’t written more
lately isn’t because I haven’t had things to share, or the time to do it.
It’s because I have been embarrassed that my blog isn’t expertly designed, or supported by sponsors like Ruche and J.Crew.
I've loaded up on inspiration from other bloggers, and ended up feeling inadequate, unworthy.
I've worried that because my voice isn’t succinct, or hysterical,
I must not have anything of worth to say.
I've worried that because I lead a very simple, small life, my story might not matter.
So I haven't said much. I've given in to the fears. The fears created by comparing. Fears that do nothing but keep me from being my best, boldest self.
And it saddens me so, that I've wasted so much time. Comparing. Cowering. Critizing myself.
Not because the world can't live without another blog, but because I need what I have tried to create in this space.
I need a chance to sort through feelings, and celebrate small victories.
I need to make my voice heard, the best way I know how, which right now is through this blog, this imperfect, maybe design-dated, but very personal, and very special to me, blog.
You may or may not care to know that I’m writing this post from a quaint little coffee shop, that
happens to be located in the nearest grocery store, and isn't actually quanit at all.
I thought being here would
make me feel more creative, more inspired, than doing it from that ugly couch I
mentioned before.
But honestly, the elevator music they’re playing sucks. And
I have a horrible view of the Mohawk-ed barista actin’ a fool behind the
counter.
This isn’t at all what I’d hoped for, when I left the house today.
But I’m so glad to be here, with a pretty good latte and the
time I needed to do this. Because, I needed to do this. For myself mostly, but
maybe for you too.
I needed to say enough with the comparison. It’s time to get
real.
And I think it's fitting I'm doing so in the greener grass I thought this coffee shop would be, only to realize all I really want is to be home. All I really want is to be back in my home, a place I belong, and frankly, a place I don't have to ask a stranger to watch my laptop in order to go pee.
Honestly, friends - and people who may have stumbled here from a technorati link (I still don't know what those are) - I’m a 29-year-old woman who gets most of my clothes when I
have the Kohl’s cash to cover them, or when Target goes red-sticker clearance.
My favorite meal of late is a turkey bacon sandwich. It’s
not fancy, or complicated. But it is delicious, and it’s not a Double
Cheeseburger (which for me is progress).
I work for wonderful people at a job that sometimes drives
me crazy.
And I still haven’t figured out what I want to be when I grow up.
But today I feel great knowing, finally, that I don’t want to be the bloggers I read
everyday, though I admire them so.
I just want to be me. Cheesy as that sounds.
I just want to be who I am, who I really am.
Less apologetically.
I am a woman that hates drying dishes, and my hair.
A daughter to parents that I don’t call often enough (Hi!).
A
sister that reaches out mostly to talk about Lifetime movies.
And a friend that
buys wonderful birthday gifts then forgets to mail them (text me Wyndi).
A wife that isn’t a ton of help in the kitchen, but
likes laughing through the learning.
And a writer still finding my voice, after years and years of trying.
Basically, my name is Jennifer. I’m a Pinterest-aholic. It’s been about
two hours since my last pin. And I’ve never been happier.
This is another in a series of post inspired by the Love Yourself Linkup founded by Anne the Adventurer. I'm so grateful for the challenge to dig a little deeper, and accept myself - and my life - more wholeheartedly.
Thanks ladies for inspiring me with your words and your bravery. But thanks even more for the push to join in on the movement, instead of watching from the sidelines.
A few weeks ago, before the big haircut, I had an amazingly
awkward encounter with a local pizza shop employee.
I don’t know exactly how old the kid was, only that he was
in (or possibly just out of) high school and despite my best attempts to
explain to him old I truly am, he just kept… well, not getting it.
I wasn’t gonna share the story online ‘cause I was scared no
one would believe me. But even though I am sometimes prone to exaggerate, the
details of this story are absolutely true. As the saying goes, you just can’t
make this kind of stuff up.
I’d like to dedicate this post my seventeen year old self
who NEVER got hit on, by pizza employees or otherwise.
At first I thought the guy was just very thorough, but bad,
at customer service. I had gotten there a few minutes before my pizzas were
ready, and took a seat in the corner of the tiny pick-up place.
And this kid – this Abercrombie shirt and
khaki shorts wearing, “After” image for an Apple Orthodontix commercial - started
bragging about how he was probably gonna join the Air Force. And how he’d just
gotten back from Hawaii. For the fifth time.
I kept looking for one of the other employees to come to the
front and rescue me or talk some sense into him. But no one came, and he just
kept talking, bragging about his awesome life, and also asking me increasingly
personal questions about mine.
He went from asking if I was in school (I’m wayyyy out of school I said) and where I
worked (an online college), and if they paid me for that work (Umm, yes) to…
“So, do you, like, live around here?”
“Yea, I said. We
get delivery a lot,” a point I had mentioned before. Surely this narrows the
radius plenty.
“So, do you, like, live with your parents?” he finally
asked.
“Nope.” I’m pretty sure I literally LOLed at this point. He
had moved from behind the counter, and was now standing suspiciously close to
the bench I was sitting on.
“I live with my husband,” I said, after regaining composure.
And I pointed to the ring that’d been on my left ring finger since I walked
into the store, and since I awkwardly accepted the handful of parmesan and
crushed red pepper packets he had handed me long before my pizzas were ready.
I kept looking around for someone to explain to me what the
heck was going on, or if I was in fact on candid camera. But nothing, except
awkward silence and one kinda crushed, mostly embarrassed looking 17(?) year
old.
Maybe it was the fact that my hair looked crimped from
sleeping in braids. Maybe it had to do with the glitter nail polish I was wearing.
But I swear to goodness I was sure the Mom shorts I was
wearing would offset all that. The last thing I thought, when running to pick
up pizzas was that the heir to a franchise fortuneanyone would consider me a viable option for an attempted senior-year
summer fling. Or a date to prom.
Still. Strange things happen everyday. And this, this,
definitely met the quota for that day.
After showing the kid that someone had already put a ring on
it, he scurried off to the back pretty quick, either to restock some pasta
sauce or to call one of his friends to tell them the absurd story.
Soon after a nice woman – probably close to my age, who I’d
asked him if she was his mother – brought me my pizzas, and I headed home. To
my husband, you know, who lives nearby.
When I got there I told him about the strange encounter, and
that I was sorry for letting it go on as embarrassingly long as it did. But
Mikael and I both knew I was only partly serious.
Come on. When you’re pushing thirty, you take most any awkwardly
flirty attention – totally inappropriate – you get. At least long enough to
have a good, good chuckle on the car ride home.
I suppose the moral of the story, if there must be a moral,
is that married women should never, EVER, wear their hair crimped.
But also that maybe pizza employees should stick with
offering ridiculously small packets of dry cheese.
And husbands, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry to inform
you there is definitely a double standard when it comes to accepting
flirtations from teens. If a Sonic carhop tries to offer you more than
cheesticks politely, but quickly
decline. Trust me.
Some days I feel small, because I stay at home. I lead a
simple life.
I see the same four people every day.
I visit the same grocery store. The same bank.
So often ordinary feels simple.
And too often simple feels small.
But then I think about how much I love this small and simple
life.
How thankful I am that the few people I see make my heart
happy.
How grateful I am to have food on my table, and a roof over
my head.
How lucky I feel to be leading this “small” life.
And then I know that small is not bad.
Small can be meaningful. Small can be intimate. Small can be
special.
Small can be a good thing.
Small, right now, is
a good thing.
I really need this time, for learning to bake homemade
bread.
For learning to reach out to the friends that live too far
away, not only by text, but by mail too.
For growing herbs in the windowsill. And picking socks up of
the floor.
For making the bed. And creating routines.
And enjoying quiet, still moments.
Right now I’m enjoying the small before the storm.
- 30 -
* I was really happy writing that last phrase. But when I read back over what I had written I started to think it made no sense.
I wish I could say it's 'cause I'm not a rule breaker that it's still there, but honestly, I just really liked the sound of it.
Plus, if I'm allowed to stretch a bit to make it make sense, I do think life comes in seasons. Excitement ebbs and flows. Chaos almost always comes after the quiet. But peace almost always comes after that surge of crazy.
So maybe it is possible to enjoy small before a storm.
And I'm so thankful for that.
Five Minute Friday, for those new to the game, is a chance to write, without worry. To let loose. To let the words fly.
And oh how I enjoy it so.
I'm a little late (a lot late actually) to this week's prompt. But so glad to have stopped by, and had the chance to think about "small."
But then I’d get bored. Or split ends. And give up on my goal.
But this year. This was the year. I put it on my bucket list and everything.
My brother did it. My friend’s husband did it.
There were no more excuses.
I started growing my hair out two years ago for our wedding.
I had chopped it off a few months before we got engaged, as a sign of independence and clamoring for control when so much of life seemed up in the air. (Have you been there?)
Then Mikael and I fell in love, and started planning our wedding in a tight three-month timeline. So I let it grow, and after the I do’s I let it keep growing.
And growing. And growing.
The goal was to donate it to Locks of Love. That was the plan, the whole intent behind all that growth.
But somewhere along the way I got a little more attached than I’d intended. (Note to Self: Do not puppysit. Or test drive sports cars. Much less… )
I got a few trims to keep my hair healthy-ish, but mostly I just let it be.
I have always dreamed of beautiful, wavy hair, but aside from the young years with ridiculous 80’s perms, mine has been stick straight.
And honestly, most days of the last two years my poor, forgotten hair found itself shoved in a bun. A sloppy, simple bun.
I didn’t blowdry or flat iron it most days.
And only curled it a few times.
Still, I liked my hair, more than I should have maybe. And I think it’s ‘cause it made me feel strangely safe.
Though I knew, realistically, a 29-year old woman can’t hide behind a curtain of bangs, I felt like I could. The option was there. And I liked that feeling.
Knowing I had a way to hide if I had a bad skin day, or a fat day, or a … (isn’t it amazing how many ways a woman can feel bad about herself?). No matter what happened to my weight, or my pores, I could still be the girl with the long pretty hair (nevermind that it was always in a ponytail).
There was the option of having really pretty, long locks. The ability to “copy” any celebrity look, or to attempt it at least. And I liked that.
Stupid as it sounds to admit aloud (or in print) I relied a lot on my hair to feel feminine, some days, many days, I saw it as my only potential at being pretty.
Still, after spending months of checking my mane’s progress with a ruler, and swearing to myself I’d chop it off when it got long enough, I discovered a week ago that I’d reached the requirement.
I couldn’t turn my back on children suffering severe medical treatments. Surely there’s no better motivation to do anything.
And so, I set aside my fears of looking like a boy without my hipster-ish bun. Or worse, a frazzled soccer mom if I got a bad haircut. And I asked my mother-in-law, a semi-retired hairdresser, to give me an angled bob.
I don’t think any woman wants to admit to herself, or others, just how deep her insecurities run. Or how superficial she really can be.
I’m sure there are women that don’t struggle with this by the way. I am just NOT one of them.
Nope. I’m the kind of girl that had to fight tears this weekend, as I listened to two years worth of growth being chopped off my head (wow, dramatic!). The kind that made awkward small talk to distract from the sound of scissors hacking away at the one thing I’d relied most on, for my confidence, weak as it was.
I admitted last week that I struggle with feeling good about myself because of the ways my looks differ from the girls in magazines. And because I don’t wear the same size pants as I did in high school.
I struggle to feel confident in myself, as I am. Just as I am, without “ifs” “ands” or wishing for a smaller “butt.”
And I struggle with accepting any progress towards being happier and healthier as something worth celebrating, when so often I feel drastic measures are the only ones worth taking.
Why lose five pounds healthfully when you could lose fifty by crash dieting? (Ever had those damaging kind of thoughts?)
I shared that because I think I’m not alone in those feelings. And because I think being honest about them is one of the first steps in getting past them.
I don’t want to make excuses for living an unhealthy lifestyle.
What I want is to give myself permission to work towards becoming my best self, not trying to warp myself into someone else.
I want to be happy in the skin I’m in, not wish it was Jennifer Aniston’s. Ya know?
But not wanting to face the insecurities Saturday I tried to convince myself it wasn’t that big of deal.
“It’s just a haircut,” I told myself, while brown locks fell to the floor.
“It’s just hair,” I said, when I looked at the braided ponytail (creepy, I know!) she’d set aside.
But trying to minimize my feelings hasn’t served me all that well in the past.
I might think something sounds silly or stupid, usually ‘cause I feel like no one will understand, but that doesn’t mean I am stupid for feeling that way.
It doesn’t mean it’s wrong to feel that way.
And that’s something I need to learn, accept. Which might explain why I’m here, writing a ridiculously long post about getting a haircut.
Knowing it’s just hair doesn’t mean I can’t also feel overwhelmed at what was/is a pretty drastic change (to my appearance at least).
Knowing that it will grow back doesn’t mean I can’t feel a little sad to let it go.
Knowing… and feeling… are not the same thing.
And I’m learning that’s not a bad thing.
I can feel the way I do, without letting my intellectual side bully me into believing I’m an idiot for getting emotional.
Just like I can be happy with a decision I’ve made, but a little sad too.
I can now report that a few days later I feel even better about my decision, and my new do.
It feels good to have a fresh start with my mane, and better to know that it's an outward sign of some inward progress.
Yes, sometimes growing up feels painfully slow, kinda like trying to grow out one's hair. But ultimately every little bit counts. That's something I'm reminded of as I play with my new pixie-like locks.
It's funny, really, how much a haircut I tried to minimize really has helped me feel happier and healthier overall.
Probably because bravery, in any shape or form, including a bob, is something worth celebrating.
*For those interested in donating hair, or helping financially, I've linked the above picture to the Locks of Love site. You'll find lots of ways to get involved, including how to nominate a kid in need, or to purchase a sweet teddy bear that benefits the cause.
And thanks to the many friends who inspired me to get involved with their own generous donations. I'm so glad y'all finally spurred me to take part in such a neat program.
*And last little plug, I would have never written this, much less "published" it if it weren't for a wonderful community of writers forming, who are encouraging women to embrace their own beauty and to love themselves.
Culture tells us to put a brave face on. To blend in with the crowd. To torture ourselves for perceived flaws. To paint over our insecurities.
Several weeks ago I shared why I love What Not to Wear. And I
do.
And I hope others will watch the show, ‘cause it sends a great message to
women, about self-acceptance.
But this week it’s time to get a little more personal.
(After a long time of being a wuss and sharing absolutely nothing at all.)
If I’m ever going
to grow into the woman I want to become I have to start somewhere.
And this seems small and silly. But it is still a start.
This is my start.
I have never had great self-image, like ever.
I have never had a lot of self-confidence in general. But
I’ve always been particularly insecure about my looks.
Since the tender age of ten or so, I’ve been self-conscious
and awkward in my own skin.
I’ve been quick to pinpoint every perceived flaw, and dwell
on it. With vigor.
I’ve also been extremely slow to find the beauty with my own
body, this flesh vessel I’ve been given, (the only one I’ll get).
Instead of trying to make the most of it, I’ve taken it for
granted or full-out-loathed it for much of my life.
I’ve longed to be different, thinner, prettier. (Which is unfortunately pretty common I think.)
What I haven’t done is accept myself for who I am.
Or, take steps toward overall health, instead of unreasonable expectations.
I’m a perfectionist
by nature, a trait that’s served me well at school and work.
But this same trait that’s driven me to do my best in many
aspects of life, has been completely debilitating in other areas.
It makes it hard for me to tackle any project or goal I
think I might fail at, for example.
Worse, it makes it hard for me to accept any imperfections,
most especially when it comes to myself.
From admitting I needed glasses (thick ones I might add) in
first grade, to realizing I would never be able to achieve Victoria
Secret-esque cleavage, or squeeze my hips into a size 5...
I have always felt like I fell short of the standard, the
ideal of beauty, be it the prettiest girl in school or the models seeming to
mock me from the pages of Seventeen.
By sophomore year of high school I was as thin as my frame
would permit (thanks to keeping busy with things like basketball and tennis).
But even then I wasn’t happy with my body.
My hips were too big, my boobs too small.
Thus began (really continued) the negative self-image story of my life.
I also started dressing better that year (meaning not in oversized
sweatshirts clad with cartoon characters). But I still felt slobby and
unstylish, especially compared to my designer-wearing peers.
Even wearing makeup, (Bonne Bell lipgloss and the like) did little to improve how I felt about myself.
Not only were my blemishes still apparent. My flaws were pretty much all I saw, when I looked in the mirror.
I felt plain on my good days.
And downright ugly on my worst days.
What I never felt, and desperately desired to, was beautiful.
I wanted to believe I was beautiful.
But I didn't.
Instead I tortured myself with "ifs."
I would be cute IF I lost ten pounds, or IF I could find a true miracle bra.
I would be pretty IF I found a better foundation. BUT still not as beautiful as my best friend, or Britney Spears.
I just wanted to be beatiful. Period. Without any qualifiers.
I wanted to hear that. But I needed to feel that.
Instead, I was my own worst critic, scrutinizing everything about myself I wished was different. (And turning down any compliments that came my way.)
It's a wonder I don't look like Eyeore in all of my yearbook pictures, as hard on myself and void of hope as I was.
I just couldn’t see anything in myself worth paying
attention to, anything that would cause a boy to turn his head, or my peers to
want to put a crown on mine.
And really, that perception of my outside reflected the fact
that inside I didn’t feel much better about myself.
Because I wasn't perfect, whatever perfect looked like at the time (probably Jennifer Aniston as Rachel on Friends, but a devout Christian who knew the New Testament by heart, wore a purity ring, and more modest clothing).
Because I didn't fit that bill, I didn’t feel like there was much about
me worth noticing, much less admiring.
And because of that, I started to feel like I didn't have a lot to give the world.
(I felt like that for a very long time.)
Because I was disappointed with what I saw in the mirror, but also fearful of trying to improve my looks and still falling short of anything less than perfection, I wasn’t apt to try too hard at improving my appearance.
Why bother, I figured.
The only thing worse than being unattractive, is looking like you're trying not to be, I reasoned.
In fact, trying, in my mind, was almost synonymous with failing.
So in a lot of ways, my formative years, were about teaching myself to give up.
I wanted desperately to be noticed, to be deemed beautiful.
But I was also terrified of being found out.
If anyone looked too closely I was convinced they’d see all
the ugly imperfections I saw.
So I resisted the urge to stand out, to make any real attempts at feeling beautiful.
And instead I
resolved myself to live in the background, to be content with hiding out in the
shadows (or the ill-lit halls of my high school at least).
If people did pay attention to me, I tried my best to keep them at arm's distant. I didn't want them looking close enough to see all the flaws I focused on daily.
If someone paid me a compliment, I prepared myself to be the butt of a cruel joke, or bet (see every Teen Movie made in the 90's).
And because I felt alone with those feelings, and because I
thought things would never get better, I developed methods of coping with my insecurities (instead of digging
to the root of them, the way I should have done).
I learned to be funny (or to try to be funny anyways). I found
people were grateful for my attempts at good humor.
I learned to be sweet, soft-spoken and low-maintenance. Since I knew I’d never be the pretty friend, I figured I
could at least be the one with the “good personality.”
Mostly, though, I learned to hide.
I hid first under layers of clothing, and then makeup, and then busyness.
I hid by being quiet, or telling jokes.
I hid by being adaptable, always letting other people
take the lead.
And in teaching myself how to hide, I learned, sadly, to be less of myself.
Less secure. Less opinionated. Even less
confident (which I wouldn't have thought possible).
I learned to fade into the background, which was what I had wanted.
I thought I would feel safe there.
But becoming nearly invisible didn't accomplish what I had hoped.
I didn't feel any safer or happier in the hiding, than I had in the open.
I only felt even more alone. Even more unworthy. Even less lovable, than I had before.
This is where I would LOVE to tell you I woke up one morning, at 20, or even 28, and
resolved to think differently.
And did.
I would love to tell you that I’m currently living happily
ever after, and that I only have positive, self-assuring thoughts when I gaze in a mirror.
I’d love to end the story saying it turns
out I was a beautiful swan all along, and that I haven’t had a bout with
insecurity since then.
I'd love to tell you I'm actually writing from a castle, or a studio in Hollywood, right now. And that I'm featured on hair commercials late at night.
I'd love to tell you I found some Pinterest secret to flawless skin. Or a miracle fruit that made me shed all kinds of pounds.
Or that a talk-show host inspired me to love my curves, once and for all. And that I'm now a plus-sized model in constant demand. Who speaks to teens on the side, about how to love themselves like I do now.
But that’s not the truth.
It’s not even close to the truth.
The unfortunate inconvenient truth is I'm 29 years old, and I still struggle, on a daily basis, with how I
see myself.
I’m still tempted, most every day, to focus on my flaws
instead of looking for the positives.
I still don't LOVE my body, or my blotchy skin.
I still don't LOVE what I see in the mirror most days.
But, what does make this a happy-ish “ending” to this post, (and a positive start to a new chapter) is that I am finally starting to make a change.
And I’m not doing it by starting some fad diet. Or taking experimental meds to improve my skin.
I'm starting by completely rethinking the way I see
myself.
By painstakingly destroying all the misconceptions I've believed for so long.
I'm starting this journey to beauty, not with new mascara, but by retraining my brain.
By learning to be kinder. More accepting. More patient. And more realistic.
Instead of being my own worst critic, focusing only on the
things I like least about myself, I'm learning to dwell on stuff that matters more.
I’m reminding myself that I am not defined by what is reflected in the
mirror. Or the number on my pants’ tag. Or the way I measure up against the
airbrushed faces in magazines.
I am reminding myself that I am greater than the sum of my
body parts, and that my worth and lovability don’t fluctuate like the numbers
on a scale.
I'm reminding myself that my looks pale in comparison to what really matters.
Which is my heart. My hope. And the unique traits I bring to this world.
I'm starting by looking in the mirror and smiling at myself. Knowing I have beauty and purpose, just as I am.
I will likely spend the rest of my life trying to
recover from my pesky perfectionism.
But it’s so nice to know I’m not alone on this journey.
I
think sharing our stories is such a helpful step to take; one I wish someone
would have showed me when I was at the tender age of seventeen.
It’s also nice to know that the finish line for this
particular journey isn’t a dress size or the result of a perfect facial.
The finish line is accepting myself, loving myself, as I am, each step of
the way.
And because acceptance, even appreciation for this journey, is the ultimate goal, failure isn’t all the
things I once feared.
Failure isn’t getting there slowly, or even in dead last
place.
Failure isn’t getting there covered in sweat, or dirt, or
bloodied knees from falling along the way.
Failure isn't getting there with acne scars and stretchmarks, crow’s feet and grey hair.
The only failure in this journey is giving up completely when
things get hard.
Failure is stopping altogether, instead of continuing (even
limping) on.
Failure is quitting, anywhere before the finish line, that moving target that keeps beckoning me to grow and change and learn with each breath I take.
Failure isn’t an option.
That's the truth I see now, as I train myself to smile at the face staring back at me in the mirror.
The entire series is filled with brave women's thoughts on true beauty and how we can become more confident, bolder versions of ourselves, namely by being kinder to our bodies and our brains.
The loneliness of
being a person trapped in her own mind.
But then, somewhere along the way a conversation happened.
And a light bulb turned on. Shedding light on those cobwebs
in my brain.
Maybe there is another way, the light said.
Maybe you don’t have to feel so alone.
A beckoning followed.
At least I finally heard it clearer then.
Please come out of there. Talk to me, he pleaded.
Just be here, with me. Just let me in.
And it was awkward. Even painful. Trying to come out of that
safe place.
The shelter of isolation, that was actually not safe at all.
The place I inflicted the most self-damage.
Where I flogged myself, time and time again, for perceived
flaws.
For misperceived failure.
But somehow I did it.
I found myself on a couch with my husband.
Or at lunch with my sister.
Or in the kitchen with my dad.
Or having coffee with a friend.
Pouring my heart out, in words, and hand gestures.
Letting my soul speak, instead of keeping it all inside.
And I realized, in those conversations, that I wasn’t alone
anymore.
I realized, in that connecting, that I wasn’t alone at all.
And now I see that I'm not lonely, unless I choose it.
Unless I choose to crawl back into that dark place, trapped
with only my own torturing thoughts.
I’m not lonely unless I want to be.
And I don’t want to be, when so much love surrounds me.
I don't want to be lonely anymore.
- 30 -
Five Minute Friday seems to be the only way I can conquer writer's block latey. The prompts have drawn some important stuff out of me, and they've really encouraged me to be more free with my thoughts, my words.
So for anyone interested in joining up, here are the basics of how "it" works, straight from Lisa Jo Baker's blog.
"Let’s just write and not worry if it’s just right or not. Here’s how to play along:
1. Write for 5 minutes flat for pure unedited love of the written word. 2. Link back here and invite others to join in {you can grab the button code in my blog footer}. 3. Go and comment on the post of the person who linked up before you. This is the one rule of this community.
It’s a great way to catch your breath at the end of a long week."
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