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.