It's Gonna Be Like A Rap Song

I have a confession. I like rap music. I get it, I’m not supposed to. It’s dirty. It is degrading. And it talks about sex. Like a lot. It talks about sex as much as I talk about food, and I start planning my lunch as soon as I walk in the door to the office, so yeah…that’s a lot.

I was jamming in the back seat en route to a wedding a few years back. It was just us girls and we were getting our groove on. I certainly was. Let’s get real, I have mad skills. (or should I say skillz because I live that thuglife) Upon hearing that sick beat, I simply take off my self-conscious driven constraint and put my swag on. I put it on thick. Mid body roll, I took a peek at my seat mate to see if she was awe stricken at my dance moves. She was not. Which was weird…and a bit rude. She was just sitting there looking a little constipated and incredibly uncomfortable.

She, like many people I know, feel dirty when they hear lyrics about sex. I get it, I probably should too, but let me explain why I don’t. In my head, I assume that every lyric is about a happily married couple engaging in one of God’s beautiful creations…super awesome sex.

Here’s where I am at. I’ve waited a long time to experience when a man and a woman become one in body and soul and all that jazz. I am sure that it is a life-changing, soul-moving experience. I don’t doubt it. And I’m pumped about it. I’m sure the heavens will part and doves will fly out singing melodies of the sweet sweet love that will be happening. Tweeting their joy at our union using hip bird lingo like “fly” “krunk” and Lord willing, “earth shattering” (fingers crossed).

Sex is like the snack pak in the lunchbox of marriage. Lunch in and of itself was always great and the highlight of my elementary days. I would delight in my sandwich, chomp on some chips, but the pièce de résistance of every lunch was my chocolate pudding treat. I think that’s all rappers are trying to say, right?

If you are incredibly offended right now, try reading Song of Solomon. That guy appreciated sex. He’s like the great great grandfather of hip hop. Solomon and his wife were sitting around the breakfast table, snacking on some pastries or figs or llama milk or something. Solomon was checking out his wife to the point of being awkward.

“Say girl, you looking good sippin’ on that llama milk.”

“It’s soy. I’m on a diet. Stop checking me out. You’re getting creepy. What’s your deal?”

“You’re just so hot!”

“Thanks, baby. Looking pretty good in that tunic yourself.”

“Seriously, I’m all about what you got going on over there. Hot. HoT. HOT.”

“I get it.”

“Girl, you don’t! You’re so fine, I’mma write a song about you.”

“Baby, use your syllables. I can’t understand what you are saying.”

“MMMMMMM. Girl, I love you! I gots to tell the world.”

“You’re so weird. Love you. Same time, same place tonight? I’ve been working on some new moves…”

“DANG!”

In my world, Solomon is a hoodrat and sex is a breakfast subject.

Breaking Out of Alcatraz

I have moved tables in this coffee shop four times since I walked in 15 minutes ago, the restlessness in my heart evident in my inability to sit still. I have been on edge since I posted last night because I refused to say what was truly on my mind. I’ve been moody, short-tempered and catty all day. God bless the men who have to traverse my emotional minefield on a daily basis. So, let me tear away the veil of sarcasm that has been my greatest defense for so long, for every person, everywhere, that has ever spent more energy trying to protect the last shreds of strength they have, rather than surrendering to the Grace that can cloak us in peace.

My femininity has taken a physical beating. I stood and took punch after punch allowing my heart to become so disfigured that I now stand on the brink of losing myself in a chasm of bitterness and hostility. I am like a dog that has lived its life in fear of the next beating, throwing any idea of companionship to the wind and simply taking up my sword daily to battle the onslaught of mistreat that slinks around every corner. Just like those battered dogs, I am fighting an internal war. Do I reject my purpose and build up the walls so high that I can never escape my personal Alcatraz? Or do I die to myself daily, laying down my fears and allow Alcatraz to be demolished, knowing that one day I may get hurt again?

Praise God I was never physically abused, or emotionally mistreated by anyone in my life. I am truly blessed. This beating is the daily misuse that slowly cracks the foundations of my heart, allowing my soft vulnerability to drip out until the well is dry, the reserve empty, leaving me searching to fill the void with something, anything.

The Fall left our world broken and empty, and I allowed myself to become another victim of the epidemic rather than a vessel of the antidote.

Adam and Eve entered my life during Sunday School just about the same time that Noah and Jonas entered the scene. Now little me, a fiery ball of blonde energy that beheaded Animal Crackers with the vengeance of a guillotine during a revolution, thought little of the naked lady and man running around a garden eating apples. There was a guy getting eaten by a whale that needed my Crayola’s attention. The whale’s tummy looked oddly like mine, except insert a small man in a robe instead of some soggy disfigured zoo animals. Little did my tiny-self know that the sin committed in that garden altered my entire being.

The curse of the fall first became truly evident to me only a short time ago after my first and only heartbreak. The parting was not messy. There was no fight, no yelling, no particular reason that ended our two year relationship. We met several times in the following weeks for closure, whatever that means, and to try to figure out how it all went so wrong. In the beginning my mind was set that this was his fault. He chose to end this. He decided not to love me anymore. He walked away from what we had. But as we sat in the park on that sunny afternoon, tears in both of our eyes, it dawned on me that I was broken. I did this. I ended the healthy bond that we once had.

Several minor disagreements left me mistrusting and defensive. In my heart of hearts I knew that I was fooling myself. This was not the love that God had intended for me. He was not the man that I would spend my days with. We were just two people headed in opposite directions grasping at a connection that had dwindled into mere familiarity. In those last months, I became needy and demanding. I required every minute of his time and every ounce of his energy. I was no longer the Proverbs woman “clothed in strength and dignity”, and I certainly was not “laughing at the days to come”, I was clawing at the past and dragging his strength with me.

Lucky for me, I serve a God that is full of grace and strength. He was not too big nor too busy to climb down from His throne into the muck and mire that was my broken heart. He washed it with his blood, once again. Just like a mirror, my heart can only reflect what it is angled towards.

The sin of man left a longing in the hearts of men and women, and we are looking in all the wrong places. I am so tired of starting this game over again. How many times do I try to cram some guy into the hole in my heart that is perfectly carved to fit the cross?

This is my public cry that I will no longer hide the message of my feminine beauty from the world it was meant to love . I will protect and guard, but not defend nor stifle. I will cry for the pain of those around me, even though my mascara will run and my face will look like I got punched. I will celebrate their joys, laughing my stupidly loud laugh despite the confused looks of those around me. (No sir, that is not a 90 year old man laughing…that’s just me, sorry it’s so hearty)

I choose to offer my beauty to this broken world. I choose to reflect the grace that I have not earned. I choose to allow the Healer to make me whole and complete in Him alone, turning away from my weakness and running to the strength that saves.

Let's get real. I am going to stumble and fall because I am a crazy hot mess. I will be hurtful and mean, but I will strive to live out a life of restoration.

Alcatraz

I’m a ticking time bomb of emotions. For awhile I was really confused as to my sudden outburst of tears/unwarranted fury/joy/laughter/disdain towards the world/insert any other incredibly heightened emotion here…I’ve probably felt it…in the past five minutes. Lucky for me, my best friend is going to be a famous doctor one day and explained to me that I am at the peak of my hormonal Everest right now (except she probably used those medical-ish terms that make me stop listening).

That would explain why my womb trembles at the sight of any small child, or worse, a man carrying a small child.

It’s not like I want children right now, in fact, I can think of nothing I want less, except maybe the extra 20lbs that come with said child, or even worse…the physical act of getting that baby outta there. (umm…ouch)

As a single woman, I’m pretty sure the phrase ‘guard your heart’ has been slammed down my throat so many times, I wake up saying it in the middle of the night after one of those reoccurring dreams about an attractive man sitting in the park beside me on a gingham blanket playing softly on his guitar as I read Edith Wharton, while enjoying the sun on our face and some tasty treats (just me? C’mon, you know it sounds magical). Guarding your heart is all well and good, but what about guarding your womb? If those two could get on the same page, that would be great.

I was blessed with an over-active imagination and a soft spot for romance. Combining those two in the same body is the perfect storm for falling head over heels for any man that walks by with a Bible in his back pocket. Add some Toms, a good smile, a sense of humor, wit, a fanny pack, a love of sports and make him over 6 feet and my womb is doing back flips like some tiny gymnast prepping for the Olympics.

My head has it all under control…if by control you mean altering reality to avoid emotional commitment. After many years of research, I have developed what I refer to as Alcatraz, which is a nice blend of bitterness and sarcasm with an undertone of skepticism regarding love and subtle notes of mistrust towards mankind. Do I believe the string of lies I spew at the first sight of a good guy? Nah. But seeing as how I am capable of planning our life together within three seconds of meeting him, disdain is typically the safer choice because the alternative looks a little like this:

Him: Oh hey. I’m *insert bro name here*.

Me: He’s tall and nice. Did his eyes just flicker towards the wee child running amok next to us? So he likes kids?! Oh my gosh. That’s perfect. His skin tone would mesh perfectly with mine. We would have pretty kids. And since he’s wearing Toms he must be philanthropic…so he’s a giver. Which makes him the perfect husband. And he isn’t squishy, so he must be athletic right? Duh. We are going to have beautiful athletic children and he will coach their little league team on Saturday morning and then grill burgers for the team after the games during the backyard bbq’s that we host…because we are perfect. And totally getting married.

Did I mention I was crazy? Thus the formation of Alcatraz. Now, my thought process goes a little bit like this:

Him: Oh hey. I’m *insert bro name here*.

Me: He’s tall and nice. Did his eyes just flicker towards the wee child running amok next to us? Whatever. He’s probably just thinking how much he hates kids and never wants them. He’s going to be a terrible father. The kind that ignores his children and regrets the day they were born. That regret will then boil over into bitterness towards me for producing them and we will live out our marriage in unspoken rage.

Basically my head and my womb aren’t on speaking terms. My womb keeps telling my brain to lighten up and believe the best in people. My head tells my womb to stop being so naïve; and I’m stuck somewhere in the middle, try to make heads or tails of it all.

With the average marriage age rising, it is inevitable that the single population that chooses abstinence will have to withstand many a trembling womb. Now we are battling not only societal views of sexuality, but also our own biological clocks. My battle tactics have to evolve from the child’s play into full-fledged modern warfare, simply playing “he’s going to be a terrible father’ every time a hot guy walks by is no longer adequate. 

**Part 2 Coming Soon**

This Goes Out to All the Ladies

**DISCLAIMER: This entire blog is meant for a female audience. This post in particular. If you are a male, especially one that I work with or my father, this is NOT meant for you. Read at your own risk. I am not held responsible if you get grossed out. Seriously, you don’t want to read it. This goes out to all the ladies.**

I have a really big problem: the gynecologist. (Gentlemen who bravely forged ahead, stop now.) I am a young Christian girl. I ran into a guy when I turned the corner too quickly today…most action I’ve gotten. I think I held hands once in the 3^rd grade, but can’t be certain. I’m a self-induced sexual Sahara, which I am super pumped about, but for some reason, the medical world tells me I still have to be examined on a yearly basis. Why? The answer is obvious. They hate me. It is about that time again, but I am putting my foot down. I won’t do it because the last time was an absolute catastrophe that scarred me for life.

I was feeling thrifty and decided to go to the clinic on campus. How bad could it be? They are bonafide doctors. It will be great. I’ll take a nice stroll to the women’s clinic on the second floor where there is bound to be chocolate and diet coke to accompany me during this trying time. When I got there, something was terribly wrong. I was taken to the first floor surrounded by frat guys with the flu. Good thing I looked so cute and un-sick.

The kindly nurse put me in the middle room, flanked on either side by guys getting the typical flu procedure, a bit awkward for me, but I can overcome it. I was perusing the pamphlets when in walked Mr. Frizzle from the Magic School Bus. This is no doctor. This is a fictional character. Ma’am, I’m not sure you are welcome to explore my nether regions. You look like you have 37 cats. This is the first of many times that I should have called this mission off. But I choose to believe the best in people, so on we went.

She unrolled her bundle of tools that resembled a Medieval torture display and grabbed what can only be described as “metal duck bills of anger”. I’m not sure what I ever did to the duck population, but it must have been terrible. Did our foremothers slaughter a large number of them for some holiday I am unaware of? Is there a duck equivalent of Thanksgiving that has lead to this vengeance?

Now, I’ve heard that some doctors are super chatty during this hellish experience. Ms. Frizzle was no exception. While the duck was wreaking havoc on my body, she decided now would be a great time to start explaining why she was ruining my life.

“My, your cervix is a sneaky little one. It keeps running away from me.” Ummm yeah.  No kidding, lady. Fight or flight? It chose flight. You’re stabbing it repeatedly. I would run too.

“Your cervix is backwards. Interesting.” Wait, what? Backwards? BACKWARDS??

 “It’s nothing big, honey. It would be like if your nose were poking into your head instead of poking out.” Yeah. No big deal. IF I WANT TO SMELL MY BRAIN!!?!? What do you mean ‘nothing big’. My cervix is BACKWARDS! Slow down, Frizz. Let’s talk this out. What does that even mean?

As if sex weren’t already the most terrifying concept I’ve ever encountered. Now, the Frizz is taking it to a whole new level. It was at this point, while my cervix was running for its life and I was contemplating how I was going to learn how to stand on my head, that the tears started to flow…and Ms. Frizzle had the nerve to ask me what was wrong.

What’s wrong? Lady, you and your duck bill just ruined my life.

That was three years ago. My cervix hasn’t spoken to me since.

Vomtown, USA

It’s that time of year again. Bathing suits. I’d rather be a deer during hunting season. Seriously, just shoot me. I attempted my first shopping adventure with my best friend who found a suit that makes her look fantastic. Oh hey, congrats girl….that’s going to come in really handy for the boyfriend you already have, since you’ll be spending so much time looking for some ‘hot honeys’ while floating on a river somewhere or sunbathing poolside while some trampy 19 yr olds strut around with body’s that haven’t gotten squishy (I refuse to say fat). 

You thought this was going to be some silly vent about how fat I am (which is rude to think….since I am not fat, nor think I am fat), but in fact, this is more about our constant discontent about our current status, no matter how good or bad it may be. 

This time last year I was about 25 lbs heavier. I’m still upset at my so-called “friends” for letting me get so fluffy, without a courteous “umm hey girl, but you look a little fat in your pants..and by pants…I mean you’re really just getting chubby”. Awesome. Thanks girls. Lucky for me I have this nervous vomiting problem. I’m not a stress eater. I’m a stress puker, and when you mix two parts bad breakup with one part graduation and three parts job hunt, it’s like the perfect storm for my stomach to say “Food? Yeah, no thanks. I believe I’d rather convulse for a bit”. What with the stress and actually starting to work out again, I have somehow managed to make it back to my high school weight, though it doesn’t sit like I remember. 

In the beginning I remember looking in the mirror and being amazed at what was now my body. Radiating confidence as I walked into the room wearing pants that were four sizes smaller, but now four months later, when I look in the mirror all I see are the places I could stand to tone a bit more, or the pasty skin that needs to see some sun.

With our bodies, just like our lives, new things are exiting and fresh, but as soon as the new car smell wears off, you grow discontent and need more. Could this be just a reflection of how we were created? We were created to never stand still. To constantly strive towards a closer existence with God. Yet, instead of using this constant need to move forward in the way it was intended; we have transposed this desire onto less important things…like what the scale says.

When I think about my future, inevitably I begin to focus on what milestone I will need to pass to feel “successful”. My conceited materialistic self says that I need to have a nice home in the right area (and if I’m being completely honest I want one that makes people slow down when they drive past because it is that pretty), a fancy foreign car and a VP title with enough stock to support my post-retirement travels to remote lands of wonder.

But none of this matters.

What matters is that I find joy where I am at, whether that be in a remote and dusty country living in a hut, or if I am playing with my four kids at Nantucket. God created each of us differently and who am I to say that his plan for me is wrong? Whether he chooses for me to be dirt poor working as a volunteer in the ministry or as the CEO of a large technology company is irrelevant. I have to stop worrying so much about where I WILL be and where I AM. 

I serve the “I Am” and that is enough for me.

Toots or Toodles

Society has placed strict rules around our social interactions. For instance, it’s probably not a good idea to pee in the bushes at a park because it’s illegal…and because you might come away with a tree branch stuck in your tights that your friends have to awkwardly detangle from your pants. You also probably shouldn’t talk loudly about this new rash you just discovered over a plate of nachos at a crowded restaurant. And you certainly should not any of these things on a first date.

This guy I know would beg to differ.

During a lovely dinner of burgers and a rousing round of hypothetical’s that climaxed with ‘would you rather eat a poop-sicle every day for the rest of your life, or have a working butthole on your forehead’, we ventured to the imaginary world of socially unacceptable dating. What would life be like if everyone was viciously honest from day one? In our magical world of bowel movements, no makeup and laying your faults out on the table, every couple would know exactly what they were getting into way before rings even entered the picture. Is this world even possible? Could one ever truly be them self when the butterflies were swarming and you still turn on the faucet when you have to pee during the intermission of your Harry Potter marathon on your first “couch date”? I say no. He says yes.

I understand that theoretically it could happen…but theoretically I could also wear a neon leotard while cranking out some sweet moves like a Richard Simmons lookalike, which is another thing that should NEVER happen. This is how that theoretical date would go.  After he bluntly said, “Hey. I think you are pretty cool. I think I could like you, so do you want to go to dinner to see if we could do this thing?” I would reply, “Yeah. You are intriguing as well. It would be swell to have a candid conversation about my wants and needs in a potential mate, without all the fuss and frill of the typical games we play. I’ll bring my genetic résumé along for you to peruse over queso.”

As I sit waiting on him to pick me up (duh. Gentleman.), I take a quick glance in the mirror to go over my outfit of choice. My favorite sweatshirt and shorts, plus my TOMS that smell like dump. Hair? Ponytail. Perfume? Eau de haven’t showered in two days.  Perfect. Let’s get real, if he doesn’t like me in this, he certainly isn’t going to want a piece of this when I have morning breath and am still in the same pair of sweat pants I haven’t washed in three weeks. He arrives at my doorstep and takes me to a trendy, yet casual eatery where I proceed to order a cheeseburger…with onions, both grilled and raw because they are my favorite food ever. If my greasy hair didn’t seal the deal, onion breath certainly will. If I’m really lucky I will string melty cheese all over my face and drop a ketchup-y fry on my cleavage….classy. Rather than waste time with small talk, we get right down to the nitty gritty. Where do you stand on abortion? Religion? Adoption? Gun control?

How many kids do you want? Do you snore? Plan on getting fat? Where do you stand on me getting fat? Do you give massages? One checking account or separate? Do you have a 401k? Are you okay with women making more money (duh…sugar mommaaaa)? What do you see your sex life looking like after five years of marriage? How do you handle conflict? Do you cook? Egyptian cotton or flannel? Fold or wad? Is blatant snarky sarcasm a deal breaker? And this is just while we are waiting for our food…

Burgers tend to make me gassy, which is totally okay because I’m going to have an open door policy when married. If he can’t handle a few toots at dindin, then having a convo about our taxes while I’m taking a dump probably will be a no go. (side note: if I hadn’t already solidified my single state before…I’m pretty sure that statement just took care of it)Of course, I ask every question with my mouth full, spitting little orbs of ground chuck at his face.

Gosh, I can’t wait to tell him about my latest lady doctor appointment, but I’ll save that little gem for date numero dos, then we will really know if it’s true love.

Now, if any first date has actually ever gone like this, I’m not sure whether to applaud you or punch you in the face. I hate to admit it, but he may be on to something. Poop, lady bits and spittle? That’s the makings of a lifetime of joy if I’ve ever heard one.

In a world where you trade in spouses like cars, always upgrading to a new model, this may actually be the safest way to date. Why do we waste so much time going through the motions that someone else dictated for us? Why do we subscribe to the archaic idea that guys must make all the moves and actually admitting that you are interested in someone is as taboo as walking around naked? Maybe I’ll throw my inhibitions to the wind and lay it on the table. Every wound, every desire, every need, every fear, every hope and every fault. Just dump it at his feet and let him sort through the muck of my life, deciding if it is worth his time to clean-up.

Or I won’t.  

What They Never Told You

Though my mother would tell you differently, I believe from a young age I was spoon fed the notion that after college I would be married, popular and having tons of smokin’ hot sex. Erroneous, erroneous on all accounts. Not even a morsel of truth in that fantasy. In fact, post-college was more like taking a huge swig of a drink that you thought was sweet tea, your usual midday treat, but turned out to be diet coke because you made a game-time decision to go against the grain and get some carbonation today. Surprising, catches you off guard, not bad, just…different than what you were expecting.

 I thought I would start my life in the bustling city with a trendy vibe and a happening nightlife. That city that journalists visit and write cover stories about because it is cutting edge and the hippest up and coming spot in the country. God had other plans. I live in the city that everyone looks down on. The city is known for its lack of a social scene, especially its single scene. If you are over twenty here, you are married with kids and a minivan. This started out as a snarky commentary on trying to make friends when you are out on your own, but as I was headed to my favorite sandwich shop to write, I passed this building that I had never noticed before. It’s one of those buildings that is alive with character. Standing on the corner baring the marks of old age, the imperfections in the brick like laugh lines on a face that always sees the glass half full. God said to try it. So in I went.

I walked into a place that felt like home. It is yet another surprise that I found hiding in a neighborhood that most would call seedy. There is so much soul to this city that I find myself overwhelmed on a daily basis. God throws these blessings at us all the time, but do we have the guts to accept them? Can we overcome the insecurities we have about going it alone? Can we face the unknown so we can receive the holy?

They never told you that community comes in all forms, and that it doesn’t find you. They never told you that it is a daily struggle to create a life for yourself. And they certainly never told you that there are some days when you think you just can’t eat yet another meal alone. Daily I am reminded how small-minded I am. I judge the world around me based on the unwarranted prejudices of my youth. This place has grabbed a piece of my heart. In this small, volunteer-run coffee shop that a church decided to start on the wrong side of the tracks, I have found a home. I do not know the name of one person around me, but I have been spoken to with love and looked at with the compassion that only those who have been uprooted can muster.

If you have never been thrust into a world of unknowns, try it. Your twenties is a time of discovery and adventure. I get butterflies every single time I undergo another adventure on my own, but I have yet to be disappointed. I have been blessed to be incredibly rooted throughout my life. I had super tight parents who gave me a home filled with love and challenges, and friends in college that have been my support and my lifeline. Roots were great, but being uprooted has stretched me and molded me. I am closer today to being the woman that God intended me to be than I was yesterday. Peter’s story wasn’t just about faith. God wanted to bless him with an amazing experience, but needed Peter to get out of his comfort zone to receive the full benefits. Stop playing it safe all the time; get out of the boat.

Table for Two

Table for two? That’ll be about 12 years….

Isa 30:18, Ps 130:5-6, Ps 27:15

I walked into Chili’s a few weeks back (pff classy) and asked for a table for one. The girl, a ripe age of 16, in her really sweet pre-’I lost the last ounce of my pride in an accident involving a curb and my Crocs back in ’02’ voice said “ummm so you’re not like waiting on anyone?” Yeah. No. Just me. Thanks though. And this little precious bundle of Abercrombie sat me at a table that could’ve fit a small blessing of unicorns and a gnome or two to enjoy a great meal of pretending to read, while I’m secretly praying my cell phone will buzz to remind me that I do, in fact, have a life.

But that’s really the question of the hour isn’t it? Am I waiting on anyone? And why am I waiting?

With all of the dating books out there, you would think there would be a book that’s dedicated solely to women. Not women AND relationships. Or women AND work. Or women AND anything. When I think back on all the conversations I have had with women about their future, there is always an understood theme of ‘waiting’.

I can’t wait to own my own home one day…when I get married of course. I want to backpack around Europe…with my future husband. I really want to try out that new Italian place on the corner...it would be a great date place.

Since when did my twenties become a limbo between my childhood and “my real life”?

I refuse to live a life full of Lean Cuisines and Say Yes to the Dress marathons simply because there isn’t some good-lookin’ man walking beside me. God never promised us a ‘soul-mate’. He is our soul’s reason for existence. He is our soul’s desire. Not a warm body next to me at night.

The only thing we were meant to wait on is God and God alone. Be strong. Be strong and wait on God. What up Psalms. Strength doesn’t sit on the couch all day because it’s too scared to go to the Olive Festival by itself (oops). Strength doesn’t order take-out because another evening of a corner booth alone seems daunting (guilty). Strength certainly doesn’t avoid the grocery store because the Veggie Steamer Singles won’t get off her back (seriously though...they need to get out of my face).

Now, before you start throwing Rebecca St. James’ lyrics at me, yes waiting is still necessary in your sex life. I’m not saying to go give it up in the name of single and in your twenties power. Close ‘em up, ladies. I’m simply saying that God built you to be an independent creature that can think and act and do, dependent only on the one who crafted every inch of you, down to your fingerprint. He created you to wholly worship Him, in whatever circumstance, with everything you have. He created you to live a life of reckless abandon in Him. Singleness isn’t a disability; it’s a freedom. A freedom that is overwhelming.  A freedom to see the strength that God grants us to live this life he has blessed us with.

He has come to give you a full and wonderful life. Stop wasting it on waiting.

It's Not Stalking if You've Seen the Person Before...

Social media is super great. Super great for making me a Creeper McCreep Pants to the one millionth power. We ladies think way too much, not in a ‘women’s rights are a joke’ kind of way, but in a ‘oh hey I met you five minutes ago and I’ve already compiled a document of every profile you’ve ever created including but not limited to your college blog you made just for that one hip hop feminism class’ kind of way.

Good thing my smartphone now has twitter/facebook/linkedin, oh, and google. Don’t forget that little gem. It’s not like I was struggling at all to not throw all semblance of restraint to the wind before I had the key to my romantic future in my hands… Lucky for me, my company uses nametags. So when I see that little cutie walk past my desk, and sneak a quick peek and boomtown. It’s stalking time.

There are several stages of stalking. I have created a short quiz (circa Seventeen magazine 2001 style).

1. How soon after the first encounter do you attempt a stalking session?
     a. When we actually have a conversation
     b. A week or so. Whenever I’m bored
     c. That evening..duh what if someone sees me at work…or worse my company knows that I’ve been stalking because they are a tech company and can probably trace that trash
     d. Immediately….ummmmmmmmmm this is the future father of my children we are talking about. Isn’t he worth my undivided immediate attention?

2. What is your next step when their profile is private?
     a. Befriend him. Duh. We know each other
     b. Glance at the info. It’s great that he is interested in ‘women’.
     c. Try linkedin and twitter. Then google.
     d. Obvi go through his mom’s page who he is linked to. Mom’s never have their profile on private…they were born in like 1940. And since she and I are going to be best friends it’s the natural first step.

Okay…so it’s only two questions, but oh so telling.
If you answered Mostly A’s (I get it there were only 2 questions…you’re shooting 50% off the line. Figure it out, girl!): Congrats for being normal. This blog isn’t for you.
If you answered Mostly B’s: You have your life together. Touche.
If you answered Mostly C’s: You a smart stalker. You show some caution and still have your soul, but you’re only one small step from Crazyville.
If you answered Mostly D’s: Thanks for getting off your fire escape for a bit to read this. How are those restraining orders treating you?

But on a serious note, stalking potential mates isn’t a big deal. We all do it. In no way does it contradict the natural order of things, like a conversation or the small joys of learning something new about someone. Seriously, this is what singleness is all about, the search for the ever-elusive love. It’s like that missing sock. The really cool one with the grips on the bottom and the knitted duck, that you’ve been missing for years. It’s not like we can live a full life without it. C’mon, that’s just silly talk.