You Chose Me

 I am more than likely the most difficult girlfriend in the world. I’m moody, sarcastic, and more violent than Boy would probably prefer. (No, I didn’t just punch you in the face. It’s a love pat. Because I love your face. Hard). More than once I have been described as a Sour Patch Kid, swinging from playfully cruel to sweet and loving in a matter of seconds.

Recently, as we were enjoying a delicious lunch on a sunlit patio, hand in hand, head on shoulder, dreaming about the days to come, something overcame me. I snapped. And punched the trash out of his sandwich. Smashed bread, and remnants of avocado lay strewn about the table, like a deli massacre, his face both amused and confused.

“You chose me,” was the only apology I offered.

Meant as a way to lay blame anywhere but on my own bipolar tendencies, the declaration rings truer than I sometimes want. He did indeed choose me. And equally as important; I chose him.

Our story is long and arduous, riddled with mistakes, doubt and an unworldly amount of patience. But instead of falling into love headfirst, emotions running high as we peered into each other’s eyes, stomachs full of butterflies, on top of the world, our relationship started by being placed on the line in front of us. Would we choose to cross the line, knowing the troubles, annoyances and worst faults of the other? Or would we choose to continue our search, hoping the next is a bit easier?

We chose each other. We chose this path.

Too often I find myself holding him at fault, reminding him of his imperfections with a passing comment meant to cut and reinjure wounds that we had laid to rest during our last spat. Slicing off the scab, my victory incomplete.

I chose him. Knowing it all, I chose him.  This wonderful man, who loves me in spite of me. I chose him.

The O.C. once taught me that ‘love is knowing all about someone and yet still wanting to be with them more than anyone else in the world’. That is about all the O.C. taught me that I have taken into my adulthood, oh, that and never dating the water polo captain.

My ‘and yet’ list may be long for him, but I can promise that his is longer. It is never easy to unveil your worst character traits, especially the ones you work hardest to hide.

1.    I have a wounding temper, and yet he steps into the storm every time.

2.    I gave up shampoo, and yet he still kisses my hair.

3.    I am selfish, and yet he remains selfless.

4.    I am flaky, and yet he is constant.

5.    I tend to laugh louder than most people scream, and yet he continues to tell me jokes in public.

6.    I show affection like a 12 yr old boy, and yet he grabs my hand.

7.    I make him eat vegetables, and yet he tells his friends I’m a great cook.

8.    I pee a little when I do my abs workout, and yet he does them with me.

9.    I don’t always act with respect, and yet he responds with patience.

10.  I am resistant, and yet he is always, unshakably persistent.

There are countless ‘and yet’ moments in every relationship you will ever be a part of. Why do we pretend that love should be any different?

If you claim to live in love, whether that is humanly or divine, you are claiming a life full of grace. Mercy must be underneath, around, on top of and through you. I have been hemmed in with love. Though easy to forget, the imperfections help us to see the true beauty of our lives.

What have you chosen that you complain about every day? Remind yourself that choices are not made once, but lived out and picked up daily. Choose those that matter. And choose them often. Choose them unfailingly. God chose you. And He will never back out of that.

“We Fall Apart” by We As Humans

You're a liar but I'm a coward so I can't throw a stone
We're so imperfect but so worth it because we're not alone

It's the wars that we wage, the lives that we take
For better or for worse

It's the lion we cage, the love and the rage
That keeps us wanting more

But isn't it beautiful
The way we fall apart
It's magical and tragic all the ways we break our hearts

Enter: Boy

Who doesn’t appreciate a good story? A perfectly crafted narratively following the rollercoaster of a building plot. A slow crescendo from turning point to climax, sloping to the denouement. Ahhh but in love, don’t we expect something different, dearies. We expect a rising upsurge of emotions, cresting in marital bliss followed by bundles of overwhelming joy that have his nose and her mouth. Something a bit like this:

1.     Boy meets girl.

2.     Boy likes girl.

3.     Boy treats girl to a first date.

4.     Girl puts on her best Pinterest outfit.

5.     Boy in an awkward and precious fashion, plants his first kiss.

6.     Girl starts planning wedding.

7.     Boy and girl fall madly in love.

8.     Boy proposes.

9.     They live happily ever after. After their blog-worthy wedding.

But sometimes, just sometimes, a bit of the post-modernity fever slips in unawares. We all know that the Ayn Rand in me cannot follow the natural progression of any normal story. As such, sometimes it goes a bit like this:

1.     Boy meets girl.

2.     Boy and girl are dating other people.

3.     Boy and girl break up.

4.     Boy and girl date more people.

5.     Boy kisses girl.

6.     Girl loses her mind.

7.     Boy kisses 4 more girls.

8.     Girl dates 17 more boys.

9.     Boy meets girl’s family.

10.  Girl likes boy, so girl dates a different boy.

11.  Boy likes girl, so he waits patiently.

12.  Girl sucks at life for a while.

13.  Boy gets fed up and dates other girls.

14.  Girl gets unhealthily angry.

15.  Girl retaliates.

16.  Boy tells girls she is selfish.

17.  Boy and girl fall madly in love.

18.  Boy and girl go on their first date.

Life doesn’t always go according to your perfect plan. Luckily, your plan is stupid and doesn’t matter.

Pin in Private

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There is a rampant disease among American women today. Pushing Restless Leg Syndrome and whatever Jamie Lee Curtis keeps talking about during her awkward poop commercials out of the way; this sickness has crept into the lives of 86% of females between the ages of 20-38 (statistics are the result of a stringent survey done via my web browser). You probably have it. It’s called Binge Pinning.

Symptoms? Incessantly pinning every single jpeg you come across on one of you 73 boards on Pinterest. Because there is no other explanation for adding four different boxed brownie recipes adjacent to the nineteen ab workouts that you can do before the shower and look like that hot chick on your screen with the mini 8-pack. I mean, that’s feasible and all. Clearly it doesn’t defy the laws of fitness as we know it. Pinterest makes the rules here. And everyone who is creating these workouts is an expert. Duh.

Oh wait..it’s some stay at home mom, who is judging me and my hour long workouts, as well as my pitiful excuse for a dessert. “You didn’t include sprinkles, Oreos, a slice of apple and a caramel soufflé into one dish. Nor did you top it with a homemade edible replica of your child’s face? Pity. Peasant.” I hate those ladies.

Let’s get something straight here, Ladies. You are all doing a poor job of hiding your crazy. And for you single ladies out there? Let me tell you what isn’t healthy. Planning seven weddings. With no beau in site. Luckily for you, Pioneer women just started her week of’ impossible chocolate desserts that take twice as long to prepare and three times as long to cook as what is described’. Holler atcha girl. You now have something to do while you are watching TLC on Friday night picking out your perfect wedding dress…just in case of course.

I have your back. It’s called private boards. And all of you hookers need to get on that train pronto.

Look, I get it, you really like both mint and red, but you are really digging the whole grey and blush theme. And what if your parents suddenly hit the lotto or your new line of shabby chic furniture takes off and you can afford that $75k wedding. I know, I know. It’s possible.

Save us all some time and just start a Secret Board. Heck, you can even dedicate a board to each of your seasonally inspired weddings, and another one to those Ryan Gosling memes you so thoroughly enjoy.

If I have to hear one more girl say she just really wants a wedding ‘that is unique to her’, then I will literally kick a Corgi across the room. Thanks to Pinterest, and your idea-mooching lovelies, there is no such thing as unique ideas. Don’t believe me? Try clicking on any of those beautifully framed pictures popping up on your feed. Linked to another Pinterest board? Yeah, that’s because all you chumps are straight up licking up each other’s pins, in some Arkansas-esque incestual pool of DIY hell.

Just cover that trash up. Lock it away like your love of babies on a first date. Hide it along with your small, yet sturdy, collection of One Direction posters.

And for the love of Bette Midler, don’t show it to the guy you’re dating. Or to anyone who considers Sportscenter a hobby. It’s disconcerting enough to know your lady is planning your wedding when you haven’t even dropped the L word, it’s terrifying to know that every woman in America is doing the same, including the already married ones. Ya know, just in case.

Help stop Binge Pinning. Pin in private.

Dairy Aisle

On Sunday evenings, after a long run down the river, I always make my way to the grocery store. Sweaty, fulfilled and finally feeling ready to take on the inevitable heartache of the week to come, I fill my basket with the sustenance needed to nourish me throughout the week. Turns out, what my body needs more than vitamins and minerals is a rather large quantity of hummus and a family sized bag of pita chips…..for a family of one. I mean I got the whole wheat version, so don’t judge me. They are like little organic farms smushed into chip form. Way better than getting my chubby hand caught in the Pringles can.

Shivering in the dairy aisle, I wait patiently as the line of people in front of me slowly turned the cartons around looking for the expiration date, all of which are well over 2 weeks away. Each shopper snubbing the carton in the front for one of the newer, fresher, less sad versions sitting pristinely in the back, just off the milk truck.  One after another, these people would look the first carton over, deciding it looked too war-torn to be a part of their basket, too frazzled and bedraggled after its journey not only to the store, but its long stint of patiently and silently holding up the weight of the other cartons.

Finally at the front, my turn to choose my carton, I looked the first carton up and down, it’s beaten, crusty shell with one rather large dent at the top still bowing under the pressure of the row above it. And then, I grabbed the carton towards the back of the shelf.

Expiration date identical. Contents exactly the same. Yet, different because of the outer face earned from a life lived on a road with a few more bumps. A few more heartaches. A few more hard lessons learned.

Do you ever feel like that milk carton? Like the weight of the world is carried on your back, supporting the hardships of others by baring the burden of others. Crushed, beaten and less than perfect.

One of my unspoken fears (until now when I decided to make it public to anyone with a web browser), is that singlehood will leave me marred and unwanted. The carton in the front, too battered and scarred to be worth anything to anyone. It’s as if weekly, a new weight is added to the already crippling stack I tote around. Who knew your ‘carefree’ twenties could be so full of things worth caring about?

God has given us all our cross. If he hadn’t…he wouldn’t have told us to pick it up. The choice is not whether or not you have a struggle that God has laid at your feet, the choice lies in your reaction. Do you pick it up, daily, every morning dusting off the wounds and muck from the day before, knowing that there is only more to come? Or do you halfheartedly accept God’s will for your life? Journeying into the trenches of our broken world only when it is convenient to you.

There is beauty in the mess. Though your carton may look as if it has been to hell and back, your contents remain unscathed. We do not live in promises of ease and comfort, we live under the covenant of a Savior who will not let you go, and does not put you through anything that He himself did not withstand.

God’s will is not painless. It can be brutal, but there is a promise that He makes us that you can take hope in. Though difficult and seemingly relentless, it is full of a richness and depth that is incomparable to anything you will find on the wide path that so many choose.

As your carton gets hammered and worn, remember that hardships do not spoil the insides. The do not reduce the expiration date, leaving you half as effective as you once could have been. God has created in you a resilience, supported by His Spirit. A spirit not of timidity, but of strength, confidence and patience.

Let your bruises show as evidence of the war you have fought, for a prize that is unlike any other.

 ^“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.” Ephesians 6: 11-12

Diet Dump Cream

Who doesn’t love a good diet, right? Can I get an Amen, ladies? C’mon. With the plethora of diet options out there, it is easy to stay on track, see results and more importantly, feel utterly confident that you are, indeed, worthy of the self-high five you inevitably give yourself in the mirror every morning. It’s like a little ‘say girl, you’re looking lovely. Congrats on not nomming on that cookie dough last night’.

Or so I thought...

Let’s make a few really important points off the blocks. I am not on a diet; this is a lifestyle (I’m judging myself too, don’t feel bad about it). You know what I’m talking about. Working out? Check. My life is one mid-jog faceplant away from being it’s own fitness video series. It would probably be called ‘Work Until You Pee Yourself’, since that seems to be a reoccurring phenomenon, evidenced by my little dribbles of wee smattering the local gym floor. Sorry, guys, but those side planks made my bladder hurt.

Since I have seemingly plateaued on my journey to looking stellar, I decided it was time for some drastic steps. Sayonara gluten and sugar. It’s been real. For two months, I shall go without you.

Now, I feel like a refugee struggling through a cookie-less desert: parched, famished and rather unpleasant.  Did I mention it’s only day three? Womp womp.

On my weekly mecca to the local HEB where all the hotties hang out, I took a quick spin down the diet aisle to grab some protein bars for my emergency travel stash. And by quick stroll, I mean I dawdled for twenty minutes trying to pronounce half the words so I could sound really trendy and fit….and so I could keep eyeing the CrossFit hottie that was sizing up the protein powder. Excuse me sir, but you look so familiar. Have we met before? You look exactly like my future husband. Weird.

That is when I saw it. The saving grace of every diet. Diet Ice Cream. Dairy free, gluten free, sugar free. I’m sorry are you made of magic? A frozen 150 measly calories per pint fairy dust? Did Gandalf himself conjure you up and set our paths on a collision course? Answer: Yes. You, my dear Diet Ice Cream, are made of chocolate and peanut butter, my two favorite things in the whole wide world, apart from cheese and my yoga pants….but I was wearing one and already had five varieties of the other, so you take the metaphorical cake today.

Rushing to get home and tear into this bad boy, I silently thanked the heavens for providing me with this treat that wouldn’t leave me standing in front of the mirror, regretting my decision as I prodded the various bulges marring my tummy.

Spoon in hand, me and the pint nestled into the couch for a quiet evening of the Travel Channel and some serious quality time with my sweet tooth, my excitement building as I took the first bite.

Wait. Something was terribly wrong. It was like the rancid lid of my garbage can opened up and crawled into my mouth, leaving a trail of disappointment and confusion. You aren’t from Gandalf, unless he pulled you from the fiery depths of Mordor and you are, in fact, made of Orc toots. I literally think I just put rotten protein shake in my mouth.

Maybe my body is just in shock from sugar deprivation. One more bite. Nope—it actually tastes worst. Even for 150 calories, I cannot force feed myself this travesty.

Was it naïve to think that ice cream, removed of everything that makes it ice cream, would be worth my time or consumption? Probably. Sans cream, it is simply sugary ice. Remove the sugar and apparently you get the farce sitting before me, useless, disappointing, not even a semblance of its former purpose maintained.

My dating life, like my culinary life is on a diet, simply removing the excess, paring off the ones that prove unnecessary for my emotional nutrition and growth. Not that they are inherently bad or unhealthy, but if missing the essential ingredients needed to make the partner I am looking for, am I doing us both a disservice for snacking on a treat that I know will not sustain my hunger?

Lady Dates

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Standing in my skinny jeans, staring at the mirror, wondering yet again if I should go with the red shirt or the orange. If I wear the red, I should wear my blue scarf, but with the orange I can wear my favorite necklace. Are scarves in? Do people still wear chunky necklaces? Do riding boots say, ‘I’m trying too hard’ or ‘I dabble in the equestrian arts’? I just want to get this right. You know what they say: first impressions are the hardest.

As I sat at my desk today, trying to focus on the task at hand, my mind continued to wander towards tonight, towards my moment to shine over a cup of pretentious free-trade coffee, each wayward thought sending me into squirms that made my coworkers ask if I had gas, or if that last sugary snack made my pants too tight. It is just that I have been anticipating this day for a week now, silently planning how it would go, hoping that this one will actually work out. Will continue. Will make it past one casual encounter. That this time, I won’t push too hard, or be too much or worse, not be enough.

Tonight, I have a date, but more importantly than any date with any man, tonight is girl night.

Girl dates are the ugly stepsister of traditional dates of the male variety. They are more intimidating, more difficult and more crucial to my current life. With dudes you make a wrong move like dribbling wine down your shirt and simply move on to the next, chalking this up to a comical loss, another story to pull out at a party. Mess up with girls? And you have just brought a pile of judgment down upon yourself, like a stack of books tipping in a library, the embarrassment growing with each tumbling tower. Mess up with girls, and you continue your path along the tundra, alone and without shelter from the difficulties singleness brings.

Female community is an integral piece of our social world and yet the task of finding women who ‘get me’ is more challenging than anything I’ve ever faced. I would rather run the Boston marathon than make another blind attempt to fit into an already-tight posse of ladies.

In high school I had my sports teams. Girls who suited out with me in the wee hours of the morning, our camaraderie solidified as we ran suicides for another failed free throw attempt by the gangly freshmen. As our huffing lungs filled up on the scent of shellac and rubber, our bond grew stronger, unbreakable even. We could read each other’s passes without looking, the product of countless pick-up games at the catholic church, but even more so, they could read my thoughts, the product of countless conversations in hushed tones as we bumped down the country roads on our way home in the bus.

In college, I paid for my friends by joining a sorority, my monthly dues finding me more than just lame parties and enough t-shirts to outfit a small country. I found my soul mates. My sisters. My balance. The force that always brings me back to earth, grounding me in faith and accountability, enveloping me in brutal honest love. 

Basically, I’ve never had to work for my friends. They always existed as a by-product of my schedule. Now, when no pre-made network exists, I find myself embarking on a journey to piece-meal my circle back together. I find myself ‘dating’ around, the end goal not a husband, just some girls to do life with when ‘doing life’ looks nothing like what I imagined.

I never knew the importance of the women in my life until it no longer existed. The age old adage of 'you never know what you have.....until you graduate and they find husbands and move to Chicago and get a puppy' never sounded so true. So maybe I added some ish into that one, but the point remains; life is not as full without your friends. We were never intended to live without community.

This post-college world puts an interesting spin on my relationships, both current, past and future. I have been so blessed with female friends in the past, that the idea of trying to recreate the unbreakable bond I have with them seems like a waste of time. No one is that lucky. And yet-girl night party of 1 is the lamest Tuesday night known to mankind, so it's time to buckup and cross your fingers that there are some girls in this city that don't mind yoga pants and poops jokes because I have those in spades.

Venturing towards adult friendships may be the most unexpected challenge I have come across thus far. It never crossed my mind that friendships don't just fall out of the sky. I always knew that finding a man would be difficult because I am only looking for one in a sea of options. Little did I know, the search for my female posse would be just as elusive, and yet wildly more vital. 

Short VDay Solution

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Two things that are not synonymous: losing your puppy and being single on Valentine’s Day. Yet all of my coworkers tip-toed around me yesterday like I had just received the worst kind of news from the doctor.

“Hey sweetie, got you some chocolate to enjoy tonight.” Oh, you think 3500 cals worth of sugar is going to fix my so-called problem? I mean, I’d rather have liposuction….or a man who thinks squishy thighs are the cutest thing since the little Asian and his bulldog blew up Tumblr, but no biggie, feel free to put your sympathy treats next to the expense report. I don’t alienate any chocolate, or really anything edible and free. Standards are so passé.

I don’t have the plague, please don’t treat me like I’m one razor blade away from slicing myself just because it’s Valentine’s Day.

This morning when trying to force myself to get out of my bed bright and early (okay, like 8am….it’s Friday aka Stroll Into Work Late Day), I perused my Facebook feed only to be bombarded with angsty lyrics, Woe is Me statuses and a slough of pictures documenting everyone’s loneliness from yesterday.

Hey, Singles, you know what would be way more awesome than sitting at home wallowing in your sorrow and expecting me to care? Doing something fun. Or heck, even taking a shower and pretending like you have a life is a solid choice. Got a kitchen? Cook some dinner. Got a street? Get off your couch and go for a walk.

I’m pretty sure the sunshine and a decent meal with some vitamins and a little iron could do wonders for the pasty complexion brought on by hours of stalking your exes. The exercise certainly never hurt anyone. And—wait for it—you could actually meet someone if you went out in public once a month. Mind boggling, right? That’s why they pay me the big bucks.

After two single girl Valentine’s days, I think I have finally found the perfect equation for a perfect night.

Step 1: Decide what you want to do to celebrate your life.

Step 2: Do it.

Step 3: Invite everyone who could add to the merriment.

Step 4: Sing some Disney karaoke (Come on. Who doesn’t like belting out a duet to A Whole New World?)

Novel concept, this whole making your own happiness happen sort of ish. Here’s the deal: if your happiness is tangled somewhere in the mess of someone else’s actions, your night probably didn’t go as well.

So, fix it.

Cooking for Vikings

Cooking for guys is like building a castle, outfitting it with the finest textiles, then throwing some Vikings in to occupy its glamorous halls. They don’t use window coverings because it balances out the sectional and the large armoire you bought for far too much money from an antique store, they use them to keep out the sun in the summer and the draft in the winter. Practical and pragmatic. That is what my boys are. I, on the other hand, am anything but.

Cook us dinner, said them. No problem, said I. And yet, somehow, we were speaking completely different languages.

Scouring my most recent issue of Bon Appetit, I landed on a menu. Healthy, low in carbs, but still filling. The spicy stuffing in the poblanos offset by the sweet and creamy texture of the sweet potatoes, which would be perfectly complimented by my take on Corn in a Cup, a local favorite. Perfection in menu form.

Wine uncorked, airing on the counter, food prepped and awaiting their arrival home, the guys came strolling in from a business trip looking more like Erik the Red and Ivar, rather than the fine dining dinner mates I had envisioned.

“Oh hey! Smells good,” says Erik.

“Better than that fart you let out in the car,” quipped Ivar.

“Did you wear that to work today?” Erik’s disapproval apparent as he eyed my outfit.

“Yeah, nice cardigan, Mom,” continued Ivar.

Seriously-I just woke up one day and had adult-aged children thrust upon me.

Finally done with their loving greetings to me, (I just assume that ‘you look frumpy’ translates to ‘You look smashing today. Absolutely riveting.’ A necessary lie I tell myself to maintain sanity.) the guys decide that it is time for our jacked-up family to eat. I turn around, wine in hand, to grab a few plates and glasses for us to all enjoy a civilized meal together, and turn back to see them both man-handling my perfectly poached poblanos. No plate, no fork, no semblance of appreciation for the flavor profile I had so lovingly created. My fault, I should’ve never assumed a candle lit dinner at a table. They really are Vikings. Burly, hilarious and lovable Vikings.

The immediate reaction to my hurt pride was scolding, turning into the woman I never want to be, tutting and nagging because things didn’t go my way. When in reality, the only reason I cooked such an audacious meal was to bask in their verbal praise of my domestic ability. I was mad because I was vain.

In the end, I refilled my wine glass, grabbed some food in a napkin, took off my shoes and slid onto the counter and perched, knees at my chin, as they recounted their days, my giggles more important than table manners.

With these guys, there are no rules other than honesty. Always honesty. And in that honesty, they step on the toes of my ego frequently, sending me into defense mode, ruffling my feathers like I can prove my worth to them. I can’t. I don’t need to. For guys, my worth isn’t a derivative of my skills; they are indifferent. For them, they simply need to know that I care, that I respect them, and that when made fun of, my response is to fight back rather than cry. They hate crying. Gives them the heebie-jeebies.

Learning to drop my pretenses is the most valuable lesson my Vikings have taught me, a close second being my now in-depth knowledge of video games and the proper knife technique for gutting a deer. My edges are rough, not softly rounded like fine granite. Spending my time desperately trying to cover up those edges only snags the cloth as it catches on the imperfections. With them, I can let those imperfections fly high. With them, eating off of paper plates…or no plates at all…is perfectly fine because the meal isn’t about the menu, it’s about getting fed.

We feed each other through our differences, and through what each of us brings to the table (metaphorically, though they make some mean grilled chicken and pasta). Each meal a lesson in humility and grace. Each meal completely different than I planned. Each meal another lesson learned while cooking for guys.

Man Children and Me.

Apparently I woke up one day and was suddenly the mother of two abnormally large toddlers, and by toddlers, I mean two grown man-children who still think tooting on my thigh is just as funny the thirteenth time as it was the first incredibly awkward time it happened.

It’s either that, or reincarnation is a real thing and I was punished for my blatant sarcasm by being sent back to earth as a dude, which probably makes more sense than the mutant-children.

Regardless-in the past 48 hours I have been tooted on not once, not twice, but four times, and also shown three acceptable stances if one ever finds themself in need of dropping a deuce while standing up. Oddly enough, I don’t see that being a thing in my day-to-day life. ‘Excuse me, team. I am really interested in this budget meeting, but that coffee and the 40 grams of fiber brought to you by my morning Kashi are coming back with a vengeance. Please continue while I take a dump in the corner.’

I’m not a heathen, nor a boy, so in my girl-mind, I can not fathom a time short of life and death situations that I would ever poop in the upright standing position.

Spending my days with a combined 350 pounds of solid man has taught me several key lessons that I wish I could remove from my memory. Alas, I cannot and so they sit, emblazed on my feminine psyche, wreaking havoc on my perception of reality.

With girls, your weak moments are met with encouragement and comfort; tears shed commiserating your misery, their heart breaking for your own. With these two, my insecurities are met with brutal honesty, forcing me to reconcile my weakness with a resolute strength that exists simply because it must. Here, there is no coddling, no pats on the back, only the silent expectation to take a minute, recover and move on….followed by a toot joke and a few rounds of FIFA.

Little did I know when I started this journey called being a big kid, that it would so intimately involve strolling around with two of the most ridiculously athletic guys in town trailing somewhere behind me telling me I am prancing rather than walking (it’s not prancing, its my swagger step….it just happens to be quite prancing-esque).  When the three of us roll into a Saturday night hangout, blonde hair glowing in the neon lights, me looking slightly frazzled from the incessant touching/poking/picking/hitting that took place as I tried to caravan us all safely across town, them looking like gleeful children, beckoning the glances of single ladies everywhere, it strikes me just how ridiculous our posse is, the unnaturalness evident to everyone but us, the members of our tightknit gang.

I have always prided myself on my ability to ‘hang with the boys’. From standing in the schoolyard, picking an All Star kickball team with no remorse for the awkward kid left out, to senior prom when I convinced myself that I was going with a friend simply because I intimidated boys, not because no one wanted to deal with me, I dove across the gender line head first, unaware that consequences lie ahead. Yet, as I look back in my mid-twenties at the line so long blurred, it is hard to decipher where laid back ends and the loss of my femininity begins.

At some point in my life, I chose the path of least risk, allowing my vulnerability to recede so far into the corners of my heart, that it now only chooses to surface when those closest to me dig in deep, or when I become the filling of a whitey-tighty sandwich and resort to squeals of resistance to the hordes of man thigh up in my business. It’s actually rather terrifying.

And yet here is where I hit the metaphorical fork in the road, that moment when biblical truth marries real-life problems and creates a really confusing baby.

Much like my body, which is on a brief hiatus from the world, awaiting the arrival of my husband, kept secure under cardigans and appropriately lengthed skirts, why am I required to produce my heart for the world, airing my emotional laundry like it is meant for public viewing? My purity doesn’t revolve around keeping it my pants, but expands and infiltrates my entire being, weaving its way around my heart as I fight to block and tackle the constant barrage of war being waged around us.

The problem is evident, though, as I find myself closer associated by my guy friends to the dudes they swap stories with in the locker room than the alluring women they beg me to help them snag during our nights out. It is clear: I have become one of the bros in a big sort of way.

In a society that is trying to break gender rules and forge new norms under the guise of equality, it strikes me how backwards it can so easily get. Teetering on the edge, the modernist in me screams to take control and swallow my emotions, need no man and no bra and probably no razor….because that sounds like something those no-good men would create to make out lives miserable, but the soft voice of Christ gently nudges me off the ledge and back into the constructs of our Creator.

I made you, sweet one, He whispers as He heals the cracked pieces. I made you to laugh too loudly at inopportune times, to fight for victory even when no one is keeping score, and to write like no one is reading. I made you. It is that simple. It is that neat. It is that right. 

I am created in His image. When I can remember nothing else, that is what I cling to. The other questions and doubts I allow to sneak past my defenses are obsolete because when it is all said and done and the curtains close, I look like God, my perfect and holy salvation.

Restraining Order for One

It’s no secret that girls are CreepCity, Population: 1.  To mitigate my creep potential, I have a fool-proof system built out to vet whether my actions will be seen as assertive and modern, or straight up stalker with a side of a restraining order. What is that lovely system you might ask? My friends. Only problem…they are just as weird as I am.

The problem with being a seasoned marketing professional like myself is this: I’m scary good at stalking the interwebs. Add a dash of single to the mix and it’s like sticking a recovering alcoholic in the middle of Specs with one of those sweet XL pimp cups. I wish I could say that I am able to resist temptation, but it’s like that giant goblet is whispering to me saying ‘fill me and my bedazzled self up with that trash…you know you want it’. I do, Pimp Cup, I do want to give in and google every guy who could possibly be the future father of my overly-athletic children. With the help of my enterprise-grade social networking tools, that temptation is only a few clicks away. A hop, skip and a jump and I find myself fighting Kathy Bates for the starring role in Misery.

As a young professional in the dating world, I spend my evenings chatting it up with fine fellows about our respective careers. When your life revolves around spreadsheets and revenue model meetings, it’s easy to fall into comfortable conversations, relying on camaraderie built on the foundation of banality, rather than take that first step out onto the thin ice of truly getting to know someone. It’s basically either that or sports. Whichever comes first. Lord knows I’m not going to roll up into a bar discussing my incessant need to document every epic relationship failure by way of this blog. “Hey there. Don’t bother telling me your name, HottyToddy, because I’m just going to refer to you by aforementioned relatively applicable nickname in my wildly read (by 32 people) dating blog”. My night would be spent hacking up the dust left by his rapid exit.

Instead of doing what any normal human being would do, I engage in friendly conversation, ignore any hints of interest and freak out and bolt when he is about to ask for my number (because that’s the healthy option), leaving me to text my friends real-life questions like the following:

Me- “Yo, dude. One a scale of 1-Restraining Order, how creepy is it to LinkedIn a guy when you only knew his name and company to begin with?”

Her-“How many clicks did it take?”

Me-“2”

Her-“I mean it’s definitely not worse than that one time you jumped on a bike with someone in Ireland and that turned out fine…..so I’m all for it.”

Me-“I don’t know if that makes you the most awesome or most awful,friend I have.”

Her-“Awesome. Honesty is the best policy. You’ve got to go after what you want…and all that jazz.”

*Connect Button Clicked*

Her-“….but I’m typically creepy.”

Welp, what’s another restraining order, right? After about five I hear they lose count anyways…

We live in the mixed-up world where the rules our parents lived by are obsolete. A world where face-to-face conversations are no longer the primary way of obtaining information, whether it is related to a business or to your love life. Our world, and our dating, have gone online, but where is the line drawn?

The temptation to forego the tough conversations and conventional methods of asking, accepting and pursuing the opposite sex is a tantalizing enemy because one side is sticky and uncomfortable, while the other allows you the safety of your sweat pants and anonymity.

Where once we had to wait on the dreaded phone call, three days after a successful date, now ladies spend their time analyzing the number of exclamation marks and emoticons used in a string of text messages. What we thought was instant gratification has morphed into instant investigation, each female following the 48 hour rule. Don’t let the trail go stale, or you’ll find youself in 47 cat hell, wallowing in a housecoat, DVR set to a constant slough of Lifetime movies.

It’s exhausting.

This cat and mouse world is evidenced by the multimillion (maybe billion. Don’t fact check me, bro) dollar business of the RomCom. Each heroine following some zany advice of a delightfully off-kilter friend that leads to a love interest, heartache and misery, but always results in a reconciliation of epic proportions. Girls want to know what to do. They want to know that pursuit exists, that the rules they so strictly follow will result in the life Disney always promised them. They want the ends to justify the painfully repeated means.

But ya know what, ladies? They don’t. There is no prescription to this thing we call love. There are no rules to dating. Four days, three days, two hours. It is all a relative timeline in an unchartered world. We kill ourselves over the idea of fate and serendipity, but fail to realize the beauty in the unrepeatable, in the glitches and moments that skirt around the tracks.

We look so hard for the recipe of love, but fail to put the box aside and throw in a few secret ingredients, unafraid of the tasteless failure of a concoction it might produce. If everyday of your life is a beautiful unplanned mess, maybe we should also accept that our love lives may be found somewhere in the chaos.

My future is as bright as my sequin dress.

As the holiday season comes to a close, and couples everywhere go into hibernation to prepare for their pièce de résistance (known to the general public as Valentine’s Day), us poor single chumps are banding together for our one shot at remedying the past month of lonely strolls filled with Christmas lights and chilly mitten-clad hands, left unheld and neglected. Fear not, my single friends. New Year’s Eve is upon us. A night of mayhem, midnight kisses and magic.

Always the best night of the year, filled with epic stories and beautiful people. The perfect capstone to rest the hope and dreams of another year…

….oh wait. It’s New Years Eve. None of that happens. You only wish it did.

I sat at work in anticipation, thinking about how my night would go. Clearly, I would have the perfect hair day, despite the rain and the 7am shower that would have to last through the night, my makeup would be radiant, and my outfit the perfect compliment to the witty banter I would surely be spitting. If I could just get this right, start my 2013 off with a bang, then I’d hit the motherload. The pinnacle of what my awesome single twenties are supposed to look like. They do it in the movies, dude. I can pull it off.

This was my year. After ringing in the last 5 years by shooting stuff in the country, I thought I would dawn my sequined attire and see what midnight looks like when accompanied by champagne, some super sweet hats and an outfit that can be seen from space. Oh I’m sorry….is my dress blinding you? No, that isn’t the sun. It is the soft glow of 10000 sequins shimmering with anticipation at how many compliments I will get because I look so fly. Easy, my sparkly friends, your time will come. At midnight. When that poor unsuspecting bloke gets lured into my clutches (errrr embrace) because his retinas are momentarily rendered useless. We would enter into a coy chat peppered with obscure pop culture references and clever metaphors, he impressed with my breadth of knowledge and wicked cool shoes, I, with his poise and ability to do the Dougie, while still looking like a Kennedy. It would be perfect. Obviously…it’s NYE.

Though imagination has its place, mine seems to kick into overdrive, setting absurd expectations to moments that have not yet come and will more than likely never come to be. Planning conversations, dates, outfits, meals, and interactions, quite possibly months before they are set to take place, I become a controlling crazy person, trying to stack the odds in my favor. My unwarranted expectations are the cause of majority of the tear-filled nights that dot my past. And no night holds more excited expectation than New Year’s Eve. You don’t just dawn sequins for nothing. They are fancy pants….literally.

Since single women tend to be on the eternal relationship advice panel with their not-so-single friends, I hear the stories of repeated disappointment in Girl World. ‘He didn’t tell me I looked pretty when I got dressed up.’ ‘He didn’t propose when I thought he would.’ ‘It’s our anniversary and all I got was dinner at the burger place instead of at the new bistro I’ve been hinting at for months.’ ‘When he commented on my new haircut he said it looks good….not great. I wanted him to say great. He knows that. He hates it. And me.’

So many unfulfilled expectations. Set by us. Covering our hurt hearts with a cloud of repellant that leaves us broken and incapable of the unanticipated adventure that could be lingering just out of our reach. We create our own prisons on a daily basis, walled in by a false reality that does no one any good.

I really hope guys don’t do this….because some day, one of us is going to have to be sane…and we all know it’s not going to be this girl.

As I drove to Austin, stressing about the 43 minute delay when the only place I had to be was the hotel, I realized that my expectations will be the undoing of my yet-to-start perfect NYE. Instead of doing something with the outcome at the forefront of my mind, I vowed to fly by the seat of my pants, going wherever the night took me, my only goal, enjoying my evening. And guess what? It worked.

Facebook is littered with resolutions, each haunted by the ghost of an unmet expectation. Rather than resolve what TO DO this year, I am giving up my own expectations. Giving up my plans for the future, in order to truly experience my now, my current, my life. Losing the weight of a constant need for control and gaining the unexpected surprises that God wants to bless us all with.

“My soul, wait thou only upon God; for my expectation is from him.” Psalm 62:5

In the end, my expecation-less escapade turned out just fine. Best night of my life? Probably not. One for the books? Sure. I was merely one in a sea of sequins, a Richard Simmons-worthy gang, carefully scampering down the streets in shoes as equally awesome as mine. I met some people. Hugged some necks. Laughed a lot. Danced a jig or two. And gained some memories I can be proud of.

When I drop the baggage of trying to create the perfect moment and give up the reins for once in my life, its incredible where you can end up. In a bar with old friends, the American Legion with new friends, or sitting in the back of a cab being a friend to a driver who’s having a less than perfect evening. Our own creations are so small compared to the path God has laid out for us. My resolution is to get out of His way.