Baby-Makin' Hips

In my head I am a pretty low-maintenance girl. I play sports, I’m more comfortable getting sweaty playing ball than I am in heels or on the sideline. But it is during the moments that I catch myself spending entirely too long in front of the mirror taking inventory of my least favorite things that I remember one small fact: I am crazy.

Despite my exorcising efforts, there is one bodily change that try as I might, I cannot slow or stop. It is like standing on my porch watching the flood waters creep inch by inch towards the threshold, threatening life as I know it. My hips will not stop growing.

I get it, body, you are trying to tell me something…I’m supposed to be procreating Well, I have news for you. That isn’t happening any time soon. So, it would  be great if you could stop preparing for it.

My baby-making hips are ruining my life right now. Every day their girth widens by about an inch. Seriously, are you preparing to birth some sort of freakishly large child? I get that I am a genetic goldmine and will probably only produce linebackers…..but they aren’t going to come out 6’4, so please stop growing to accommodate a child of that size. You have 10 years to get ready. Make it stop.

My timeline is a little bit different from what my nether regions have determined appropriate. I say we are taking it slow, just chilling until something awesome comes along; my hips say time’s a tickin’. We need to get on the same page because there are only so many times I can convince myself  that the mirror is actually just at a weird angle so they just look bigger than they really are.

As my body prepares for the future, so does my heart. It’s actually irrelevant that I am not prepared to be with child because my hips are headed that direction regardless of my protests. God does this to us a lot. He doesn’t always wait until it is time to start growing us. Sometimes, he prepares you long in advance of the purpose set before you.

During those times when you feel emotionally and spiritually stretched for no reason, He is simply preparing for the beginning that will soon come. When God called Abram to leave his father’s house and everything he knew, God didn’t tell him where he was going. God told Abram to go to the land He will show him. Future tense. Meaning one day. Yo, Abram, grab your stuff and head out. I’ll keep you posted.

My spiritual hips are widening by the minute for a period that I am still not privy to. I get so frustrated that the creator of the universe won’t let me in on His secret. That the I Am, who doesn’t even need a noun because He is so much bigger than my grammatical constraints, thinks He knows better than I. Just like the tantrum I throw in the mirror as I watch my hips grow, I cry out to God when He won’t tell me what He is doing up there. I know that the transformation I am currently experiencing will lead to me not stabbing my husband in the face as we bring our beautiful creation into the world. By the looks of it, babies are actually just going to slip right out. A little shimmy here or there and the next Brian Urlacher will make his debut into the world. That knowledge does little to satiate my vanity because I have no idea when this change will come to fruition. My pretentious human flaw is that I need a path.

It is no wonder I feel lost without a mapped course for my life. Daily I follow the little blue dot on my iPhone as it directs me from the red pin to the green pin, making my path simple and well laid out. There are no surprises. GPS allows me to be 10 steps in front of the game, never missing a turn and never needing to make any sort of decision. I just follow this device blindly relying on its unerring ability to get me to my destination.

I have more faith in my GPS than I do in my Savior.

So This One Time....

This is one of those stories that I should probably keep to myself, but if you have ever met me…or if you have read any of my previous posts, then you know I have no social filter. Onward we go then? Fantastic.

I never liked jogging. In fact, I thought it was a stupid concept. Run for no reason? Ummm is someone chasing me? No? Well then, a slow stroll should suffice. Now that I have quite a bit of time on my hands I decided to try my hand at jogging. I bought the necessary moisture-wicking tank top, arm band for my mp3 player of choice, some tennis shoes with a handy ventilation system to keep my feet from getting sweaty (ya good luck, shoes) and finally put to good use the 39 pairs of Nike shorts I have lounging about from my sorority days.

And for the past month, things have been just fine. I made friends with the bike cops that patrol the area (safety first, I always say). I even befriended the guy at the locks who has an air conditioned kiosk just in case I heat stroke one day and need a friend (probably going to happen…its Sahara hot outside). It took about a month before I could feel the solid change. Rather than pounding the pavement gasping for air, now I look much more like a graceful gazelle prancing past the tourists waiting on the river barge. Bar a small snake incident that made me look like a complete tool for squealing at a decibel only heard by dogs and kindergarten girls, my jogs have been peaceful and my evenings quiet.

Enter the hobo.

My keen sense of observation is always on full alert during my jogs. There will be no surprise attacks here (sans the snake incident…which doesn’t count because he doesn’t have feet). About a week ago my warning system was on full blast. Sirens blaring, sweat pouring, I jumped when a man said “hey there” from behind a bush. Hey bro, you look creepy behind that bush. You also look creepy because…well...you’re creepy, but it’s broad daylight and I’m feeling optimistic so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. You, sir, are just a hobo.

I know plenty of hobos. There is Cigarette Lady, Dog Man, Maroon Shirt, Bike Guy Larry and now…Bush League (c’mon, those names are clever…and apropos). I live downtown and get my urban on every day. But people are people, even if they live in a box, or a bush as it were.

I thought little of my bush-dwelling friend, but decided to mention it to the officials just in case. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know what could come next, and I’m not having that. I believe in self-preservation. Despite the NRA bumper sticker my dad thought would be a hilarious joke that now elicits comments from co-workers on a daily basis, I am pretty old school on my defense tactics. Hand-to-hand combat, a solid scream….and knife throwing. Okay not really, but if you think about it knives would be the best weapon of choice in a scary movie. Why? The girl ALWAYS finds a knife, the gun ALWAYS breaks. Stabbing too close for comfort? Too bad I can throw this blade at you from a safe 10 feet distance. Oh, hey, good luck crazy killer walking all slow across the house….I just straight shanked you with my Renaissance-style skills.

Back to the bro in a bush.

The authorities were notified and I continued my evening jogs with little change until a few days ago. As I rounded the corner nearest his humble abode, I saw him standing there waving politely…..without any pants on.

Umm, excuse me, sir, I believe you forgot your pants...

Oh, you didn’t forget them? You’re just stark raving mad? My mistake. Carry on then.

Sadly, the evening ended with my friend being taken away in hand cuffs. And that, kids, is why we stay away from drugs.

Ladies and gents, though my hobos are friendly albeit unclothed characters, some are not. So get out there and get your cardio on, but don’t jam so hard to Nelly that you forget the world around you. So grab your Nalgene and your Ipod…and don’t forget your throwing knives, you never know when you might need them.

Cravings

Sometimes I think I’m pregnant.

….and then I realize that the only way that could happen was in Baby Jesus himself took up residence in my womb.

Here’s the thing. I eat like a pregnant woman. I have some serious cravings. Tonight for dinner I ate mac and cheese…and lemon gelato. The only common theme that links those two together is their color, which is a stretch seeing as how mac and cheese is really more of an orange, not yellow.

These phases last months. Rather than allow my taste buds to enjoy a wide range of tasty treats, I stick to one thing, managing to work it into every recipe. Most recently, it has been mushrooms. Other top runners that have made their way into the lineup of my cuisine are onions and spinach. Put those three together? It’s like striking gold…but in my mouth.

Now, when I’m ordering off a menu I look for a few key ingredients. I don’t care how they come: mixed, mashed, broiled, grilled, charred, chopped, flambéed….I don’t even care. Just bring it. Twenty-seven chunks of frozen cookie dough for dinner? You bet. Add in seven sweet potato fries and a piece of swiss and you have yourself a solid meal. It is no longer unusual for me to have three desserts in one day. Excessive? I jog…it’s fine. When I have to start wearing sweats to work because laying on my bed to button my pants no longer works, I’ll consider a change.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate a good meal. Since graduating my palate has changed drastically. Where Taco Cabana was once considered an acceptable meal, fois gras has now steamrolled ahead to sit atop the summit of my culinary endeavors.

Really it comes down to a lack of effort. I just don’t care. Somehow food, which used to be one of the deciding factors of my life has taken a back seat to deadlines, conference calls and quick trips downtown to the agency. In a matter of months, the simple pleasures of cooking a meal at home has been diluted by the wear and tear of a corporate life. Do I love my job? Absolutely.  Does it zap every ounce of energy I have because it’s tricky and thought-provoking? Most certainly.

Growing up is like taking a ride in Wonka’s glass elevator, red button engaged. As I propel forward toward the unknown I realize there are two options: get straight dominated by the impact, or continue onward and upward to greater things. My twenties are that terrifying moment of anti-gravity, when the upward movement defies gravity and you sit, suspended in equilibrium, scared of breaking the spell that has disembodied you from your youth.

There simply comes a time when your priorities must revolve around your necessities. Though I believe in indulging your youthful side and embarking on several adventures that will leave you falling asleep at your desk on Monday morning as you nurse a sunburn and some broken pride because you lost a bet on who could eat the most fresh Serrano peppers (not to mention some wicked heartburn…), I also believe that we must slowly disengage from the antics of our childhood that left no room for responsibilities and even less for consequences.

My naivety whispers lies as I start my nightly ritual at 10pm, saying a few more hours will not hurt. I swallow back tantrums that lurk beneath the surface when I find myself spending yet another day at the office well past 7pm because my heart longs to be communing with friends.

Life doesn’t take the same path for everyone. As I preheat my baby-sized oven to bake the 3 (okay maybe 7) cookies I have decided will make a great post-gelato dessert, I also prepare my coffee pot for the morning that will be all-to-soon knocking at my door, making my morning run seamlessly (alright, lets get real…if a tornado had a baby with a hurricane…it would resemble my morning).  Each life is like a little oven, taking its own sweet time to preheat, and requiring tweaks here and there in the temperature to get your desired squishy inside, crispy outside cookie consistency.

As more of my friends ruin my life by having adorable proposals and marrying the loves of their life (vomit), I find it easier and easier to sink into a pit of self-pity. Woe is me because I’m single…oh wait, that’s right. My single life is just as awesome as their non-single life. Why do we allow ourselves to compare our life course to those around us? There is no template for this journey. Some of us may make a straight shot for the end, and others may ramble about a bit, getting side tracked by laying in the grass for a nap. Whichever path you choose to take is up to you. For now, my cookie remains half-baked…

Jet Setter

I woke up at 4am to catch a flight to Vegas. Sounds like the stuff college stories are made of, right? The true grit that involves a few too many Landsharks (not of the SNL variety), a poolside stint and the inevitable jaunt of a bar or two. Those moments later spoken of in hushed tones (okay bawdy words and freakishly loud laughter) by the old and wise, while the young listen in hopes of gaining a nugget of wisdom. Too bad I was going for work….and going alone.

Strolling through the airport at 5am, my puffy eyes squinting in the harsh fluorescents, betraying my sleep-deprivation to the world, I began my first trek as a business woman. I was the epitome of security-friendly: my carry-on filled with rolled clothes and 3 oz bottles of hair care products, my shoes easy to remove, no jewelry, passport in hand, laptop bag opened and ready to launch. My pride swelled as I chunked the deuce at some weaksauce honeymooners on their way to gamble their wedding presents away. Yo, congrats on your holy wedded matrimony and all, but I’ve got some security to breeze through right now, so get out the way. Oh hey, family of four equipped with baby papoose. You look like a human kangaroo, mind if I scoot past you? I’ve got a conference to attend.

Though I put up a good front, the very idea of traveling alone to a place I’ve never been makes me wet my pants a little, much less going to Las Freaking Vegas. Leaving work, I was bombarded with last minute tips: Hit the strip, don’t work too hard, see a show, eat your body weight in food at a buffet….oh and if you don’t get leads you’re fired (said in jest…I hope). Twelve hours later, I found myself in a beautiful hotel room looking out on the gaudy, self-indulgent land that is Vegas trying to find enough confidence to walk out of my room and down to the pool. Bathing suit clad with my matching cover up, I stood in front of the mirror trying to convince myself no one would think I was pathetic as I sat by the pool reading a book, obviously not part of the social scene bustling around me. It was like my own version of Sarah’s Daily Affirmation.

There are several moments in life that you know will be a turning point. You stand at the edge of the next stage of your life, deciding whether or not the leap of faith will be worth it. After so many years of dreaming and hoping, when it is staring you in the face, do you have the courage to jump? Do you have the guts to take responsibility for your life and make it your own?

Slathered in sunscreen, I took the plunge. I dove headfirst into confident singlehood and headfirst into Vegas.

The jitters melted away in the hot sun and I had one of the most profound epiphanies of my young life…I’m incredibly fun to hang out with.

Traveling alone is like eating alone...on crack. It is exhilarating and stress-free. Granted there are a few downfalls to running a mock as a young blonde, and most come in the form of unwanted advances of the older variety. Six months ago the idea of chatting it up with a thirty-five plus year old would have sounded absurd...what could we possibly have in common? Turns out, quite a bit.

There is something to be said about having an experience that is all your own. Gazing out on the families and couples enjoying the summer sun, watching them splash about enjoying the company of those they love gives me a tinge of jealousy knowing that no one else is here to share this moment. But this moment is mine. I can lock away this memory, selfishly allowing it to linger in the recesses of my mind when I am back in my cubicle. There is no one to converse with, no one needing my attention, no one to work out a compromise with when deciding what is for dinner; it is only me. I can commune internally with the Spirit without interruption; dwell in His presence without reservation. And to think I almost lost this moment to my own timidity.

We are surrounded by so many moments of beauty, beautiful through innocence, joy, intrigue or simply the newness of an instant that a moment ago was mundane. How many gifts of beauty do I miss because I have my eyes on the ground, lost in my own world? How many moments meant to fill my soul have I lost because I was too timid to walk outside in a strange city?  

I took the plunge and I hope that I can continue to walk in the courage of the Creator, never shying away from the glory that he has intended for my life.

Dating Résumé

I think dating may be the worst idea ever. I am one of the most blunt females to ever exist, and yet even I put on a mask of lies before a dinner that will inevitably leave me hungry due to taking dainty bites in hopes of not getting dump in my teeth and will lead me no closer to understanding the person sitting across from me than if we just sat in a movie theater silent as the grave.

On dates, I talk in a voice that sounds like some pre-pubescent choir prodigy, much different than the sweet low hum that usually accompanies my cynical tirades. I refrain from saying all the really inappropriate things that first come to mind. I even do the super cute laugh arm grab thing….which is so unlike me I can’t even stomach it.

I hate first date me. She is the worst.

I’m over being a fraud. I am a hot mess and I embrace that. To find where I am going, I am going to start by figuring out where I am. If you are ready to find your kind of crazy, grab some pens and paper. Think about all the crazy quirks that make you, you, the intricacies that weave the fiber of your soul together. Write that trash down.

 Let’s do this thing.

This Is Me

I am honest to a fault and sarcastic even when compassion is most important. I am a poor loser, yet think turning everything into a competition is a good idea. I love fiercely, cry in earnest, believe until it hurts, remain steadfast when the walls are falling down, and will go down in flames even when the warning signs were apparent. I am the beloved of the King that gave me a grace I could never earn, and the child of a Father that that knows the depths of my heart, yet loves me in spite of that knowledge.

1.       I hate showers. I think they are the worst thing ever and only take them like three times a week. One time, someone had to ask me to shower because I smelled. I decide it’s time to shower when my hair turns brown.

2.       My favorite food is anything that goes between two pieces of bread. I could eat a burger or a sandwich for every meal….veggies? No thanks. I’ll take a heart attack, please.

3.       I talk too much and commandeer every conversation I’m involved in. I’m probably the worst listener ever because I have so many stories to tell, luckily they are hilarious so really it’s just a blessing to the world. This talking bubbles over into the texting realm. I think it is necessary to text someone every single time something funny and/or worth judging happens. Which is a lot. Because…

4.       I am judgmental. It may look like I’m just people watching, but I’m actually people judging. Outfits, body types, stuff in their teeth, how terrible their hair looks, whether they are cute enough to be with the other person at the table, you name it, I’ve judged it.

5.       I am a terrible person.

6.       I think poop is a completely dinner appropriate conversation.

7.       I like hypotheticals more than factual conversation. The following question is the key to life as I know it: “Would you rather eat a poop sicle every day for the rest of your life, or have your only working butthole on your forehead”. I pondered this very question for at least 2 hours of my life…which is a large amount of time for one train of thought  seeing as how I have the attention span of an ADHD 2 year old on its 2^nd day without Ritalin.

8.       When I’m nervous, my palms sweat.

9.       When I’m sleepy, I throw up.

10.   When I’m hungry, I’m short-tempered.

11.   I’m a complete control freak about anything with an RSVP list 3+. I require an itinerary and sticking to a strict schedule…being late will result in a catty flustered mess.  In a party of two, however, playing it by ear is the only way to go.

12.   I talk fat game about being adventurous but when the rubber meets the road, I need someone to go first

13.   If I get lost, I will inevitably start cussing.

14.   I get incredibly emotionally attached to books. So much so that my mood is altered by the happenings of the characters. If I stop on a sad part, I will be sad. If the character is angry….I’m going to be in a terrible mood. So, I only stop when it’s a happy chapter.

15.   There is only one volume. Loud.

16.   My laugh is hearty. Some even say it comes from the loins. I can’t help it. I just let it happen. People stare every time.

17.   My priorities are simple: God, family, friends, career. Fun isn’t a priority because it is an integral part of every moment.

Yeah, seventeen is a weird place to stop…I’m okay with it. This résumé is organic and ever-evolving, like me. But for now…this is where I’m at.  

Rule #27

Dating Lesson #27: For every good date, there are 13 equal and opposite awful dates.

Maybe life is different for those who are okay with following certain social codes like the whole three date rule. Date one: Kiss. Date Two: Make Out. Date Three: Get your freak on. Inevitably this code means you are meeting someone’s unmentionables long before their parents…or even before you know what their favorite color is.

Obviously, my beliefs and my irrational fear of physical touch make this code my worst nightmare. But just because I am swimming against the dating current, doesn’t mean that everyone else is, and it certainly doesn’t mean the guys I find myself sitting across from enjoying a meal on a first date, agree (or in some cases have even heard) with the idea of ‘waiting’.

My friends and I have created a system that would make Dewey question his decimals in order to keep all of the guys straight. I get it…it sounds like I date a lot, which is untrue. There are simply a lot of small lessons learned, many before a date even actually takes place. Our naming system is pretty detailed. We name them arbitrarily based on what we remember most. This scientific method has produced the following characters: creepy, pickles, tiny, Socrates, thuglife and “I’m going to punch that guy in the face” (he had a name once…it was stripped from him due to some emotional complications he created).

In college, it was rare to date someone you knew nothing about. Typically, you had mutual friends and even knew the guy well before your first one-on-one happened. Nowadays, it’s like flying blind into a sexual battlefield. Enter: Creepy.

Creepy is a classic example of giving people a chance. My idea of a first date is dinner and a delightful conversation filled with witty banter from about 5 feet away. You can’t be too careful. Modern day birth control is sketchy at best; abstinence and a healthy respect of personal bubbles are my cup of tea (ignore the fact that a male within 2 feet of my person makes my entire body break into a sweat that looks like I just ran a marathon…in the rainforest). Creepy’s first date idea is a cordial how-do-you-do followed by a handshake and then a romp in the sack (followed by post hanky-panky drinks and a light discussion of your childhood, of course…he isn’t a caveman).

Clearly, Creepy and I weren’t on the same page, which was evident by the pool of sweat I was sitting in by the end of the night as I watched my personal bubble slowly dwindle into nothing.  Besides the guy I fell into when I tripped the other day, I haven’t touched a guy in like seven months , and this guy certainly wasn’t going to be cause me to break my hiatus. I believe the Heisman I was forced to give him towards the end of our delightful evening may have given him the hint…that and the 30 minute explanation I had to provide as to why my pants were still firmly in place.

We were called to be in the world, but not of it. We measure so many things on a different scale than those around us, our sexual lives are no different. When most people are hitting home runs within the first month, it is bound to draw some attention when your idea of a home run is a forehead kiss and snuggling on the couch while watching a good action flick, and if you are feeling a bit risky, turning the lights off (scandalous, right?!).

So get your G-rated Christian snuggle on. You know the one I’m talking about, curl up with a wholesome individual, keep some room for Jesus in there, enjoy a great conversation about whether Chris Tomlin or Jeremy Camp make better summer camp worship leaders, decide what kind of pie you are going to bake together on your 3^rd date, giggle profusely if you get a forehead kiss and then call your friends to discuss the waffle vs pancake handholding that went on.