I remembered blogging about my birthday last year. I wondered if I had managed to do it every year since I began this beast...and the answer is yes. Wow.
Even stranger--my first birthday post was my 26th birthday. Geesh.
I'm 29 now. I've been writing this blog since 2007. Holy wa. I'm in my fourth year of blogging. Granted, sometimes I go weeks between posts, but...
Back up the truck. I'm 29. How did that happen? Objectively, I know how...but...dang. All of a sudden, that number seems a lot bigger than 28. I liked 28. It was divisible by 7. 29 is...not. Freakin' prime number.
Then again, what's wrong with being prime? I mean, think Optimus Prime. Yeah. Awesome.
I feel better now.
No, really. It's been a good year. I've owned my house for about 14 months (not that I'm counting) and I really enjoy it. I like having projects.
I've pushed a little harder at some of my weak places, like my social life, and I think I've been decently brave in getting out there and hanging out with new people. Go me.
And this past summer, I've had the best bruises from softball and frisbee. Ever. I have to say--and if you know me, then you know I always have bruises somewhere--that these were groundbreaking. I actually went to bed once with an ice pack strapped to my shin.
And I gloat about this? Well, yeah. Because it means that I'm not holding back or half-assing my way through. (Sure, "half-ass" can be a verb. I just did it. So there. It's set as a gerund, actually, for those who care.)
Sometimes it feels like the older I get, the more childish I am free to be. Ha.
Paradoxically, I think it's a sign of maturity. I'm no longer feeling so compelled to act like an adult--emphasis on act. I am an adult. Period. And a lady.
Remember that, ok, the next time you see me covered in grass stains.
And that's enough deep thought for today.
Showing posts with label myself and I. Show all posts
Showing posts with label myself and I. Show all posts
Friday, September 17, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
the same old fight
Is there any sort of life out there that doesn't make you deal with the same crap over and over again? Because that sounds mighty nice. I sit back, sip my herbal tea, wish I was drinking coffee, and dream of a world where things are dealt with, resolved, and (poof!) gone.
Then I realize where most of these repetitious issues come from: me. And you just can't live without yourself, I don't care what philosophers say. I keep repeating the same behaviors, hoping for different results. And that, as we've all heard, is the definition of crazy.
I keep waiting for someone to wave that magic wand and create positive change. I keep resting on my good intentions. I keep hiding behind excuses: "that's just my personality," "it's genetic," "I can't risk it," "most of the time it's fine," "I don't know how to begin,". . . and my all-time favorite, "things aren't really bad and you're being too dramatic."
I'm not much good at trying new things. Not sure why--I've never thought of myself as a scaredy-cat. And I never, ever want to feel that I'm afraid of hard work. But maybe I am both of those things. I don't know. Compared to. . . but wait--I can't measure myself on anyone else's yardstick, remember? It's just me and the truth. And the truth stings.
I think I need to pray a very dangerous prayer: I need the status quo to be unbearable, to feel I have no choice but change. God, help me change. Make me uncomfortable. Help me slough off this pervasive, subtle laziness. Without your help, in five years I'll still be sitting at this desk in pants that are just a tad too tight, wishing I was somewhat more awesome. Again.
Then I realize where most of these repetitious issues come from: me. And you just can't live without yourself, I don't care what philosophers say. I keep repeating the same behaviors, hoping for different results. And that, as we've all heard, is the definition of crazy.
I keep waiting for someone to wave that magic wand and create positive change. I keep resting on my good intentions. I keep hiding behind excuses: "that's just my personality," "it's genetic," "I can't risk it," "most of the time it's fine," "I don't know how to begin,". . . and my all-time favorite, "things aren't really bad and you're being too dramatic."
I'm not much good at trying new things. Not sure why--I've never thought of myself as a scaredy-cat. And I never, ever want to feel that I'm afraid of hard work. But maybe I am both of those things. I don't know. Compared to. . . but wait--I can't measure myself on anyone else's yardstick, remember? It's just me and the truth. And the truth stings.
I think I need to pray a very dangerous prayer: I need the status quo to be unbearable, to feel I have no choice but change. God, help me change. Make me uncomfortable. Help me slough off this pervasive, subtle laziness. Without your help, in five years I'll still be sitting at this desk in pants that are just a tad too tight, wishing I was somewhat more awesome. Again.
Friday, January 8, 2010
the yardstick
Ladies and gentlemen (and all you other people), I have a serious confession to make:
I scamper.
I do. I scamper. And on a fairly regular basis, too. I scampered to my car this morning, partially to keep the snow from overwhelming my shoes, but also just because I felt like it. I scamper a lot around the house. The hardwood floors make it easy. I jive, baby, sliding into rooms and around corners. I also tend to dance around when I'm in the kitchen, but that's another story. (I need to get curtains in my kitchen, too, but that's also a tangent.) Today, we focus on the scamper. It's not mature, stately, sedate, poised, or any of those important grown-up adjectives. And that got me thinking--what was wrong with me? I'm twenty-eight, for cripes' sake (which is quite different than for crepes' sake, which is much tastier and more French). Who was I to be acting so juvenile?
And then I realized I was falling into the same old trap again: measuring myself by someone else's yardstick.
Who I am is who I am, and the details of that are between me and God, not me and the world. God made me special. (And "special," too, depending on the day.) I've always done things at my own speed. That speed may be "slower" than some other people, but I'm the only one walking on my road. I've got my own speed limit, baby, and no one can tell me my road isn't as good as anyone else's. I'll scamper until I no longer feel like scampering, no matter how "old" and "mature" I get. Maybe I'll never stop.
I hope I don't stop. I hope I can keep remembering that the Bible never tells me to be suave or polished. I don't need to be sophisticated--which, to me, usually just feels worldly. Wait--I have read something in the Bible about being worldly...what was it again? Oh, yeah: DON'T.
Maybe I'm gauche and naive. Maybe I run around like I'm still in a ten-year-old's body. So what? I don't want to hide behind a facade. My mind and my heart are not childish. They still need work, no doubt, but we'll never stop growing. Isn't that awesome? We're all growing up, together. In our own way, in our own time.
And yes, I did just reference myself in the plural. Suck it up, cupcake.
I scamper.
I do. I scamper. And on a fairly regular basis, too. I scampered to my car this morning, partially to keep the snow from overwhelming my shoes, but also just because I felt like it. I scamper a lot around the house. The hardwood floors make it easy. I jive, baby, sliding into rooms and around corners. I also tend to dance around when I'm in the kitchen, but that's another story. (I need to get curtains in my kitchen, too, but that's also a tangent.) Today, we focus on the scamper. It's not mature, stately, sedate, poised, or any of those important grown-up adjectives. And that got me thinking--what was wrong with me? I'm twenty-eight, for cripes' sake (which is quite different than for crepes' sake, which is much tastier and more French). Who was I to be acting so juvenile?
And then I realized I was falling into the same old trap again: measuring myself by someone else's yardstick.
Who I am is who I am, and the details of that are between me and God, not me and the world. God made me special. (And "special," too, depending on the day.) I've always done things at my own speed. That speed may be "slower" than some other people, but I'm the only one walking on my road. I've got my own speed limit, baby, and no one can tell me my road isn't as good as anyone else's. I'll scamper until I no longer feel like scampering, no matter how "old" and "mature" I get. Maybe I'll never stop.
I hope I don't stop. I hope I can keep remembering that the Bible never tells me to be suave or polished. I don't need to be sophisticated--which, to me, usually just feels worldly. Wait--I have read something in the Bible about being worldly...what was it again? Oh, yeah: DON'T.
Maybe I'm gauche and naive. Maybe I run around like I'm still in a ten-year-old's body. So what? I don't want to hide behind a facade. My mind and my heart are not childish. They still need work, no doubt, but we'll never stop growing. Isn't that awesome? We're all growing up, together. In our own way, in our own time.
And yes, I did just reference myself in the plural. Suck it up, cupcake.
Monday, November 30, 2009
deep thots...and Charlie Brown
Ever wondered just who, exactly, is living in your skin? God knows I do.
Seriously.
I ask him. A lot. The same question in a hundred different ways.
And he answers me. Not in one giant chunk of perfect self-awareness (which would undoubtedly be absolutely unbearable and would turn my brain to Spam), but with little flashes. And generally when I'm not all wrapped up in myself.
Funny how that works.
Sometimes, I am certain that God brings people into our lives to show us who we are--and just as often, who we're NOT.
Take yesterday, for example. Children's Sunday school. I serve as the coordinator for one of the services, meaning that I organize materials for teachers, collate offering and attendance records, and generally prowl the halls as an enforcer. (dun dun duh...) I also keep a finger on the opening-session worship band schedule and--my alltime favorite--arrange for subs when someone is out of town. (Ick.) It's pretty fun overall, until something gets discombobulated. I like the kids, and the teachers are great. I'm a good organizer, even if I don't get all uptight about exactly what the teachers are doing every minute of every class.
Breathe a sigh of relief.
But, due to the holiday, we were indubitably discombobulated this Sunday. I knew we would be, so I had plans....
Quake with fear, disorder, for I bringeth...Charlie Brown Christmas! Let's do the Snoopy dance!
Still have some extra time? No problem. I'll ad lib a ten minute talk about goats. Really. (It's a missionary project thing, I promise.) Then we can ship all the kids back to their rooms with their teachers for the last few minutes. They can talk about turkey, or Jesus...whatever. If I don't have enough teachers? No sweat. I have a Koosh ball in my purse. I can pinch hit as a sub.
So, I arrive a few minutes before the service starts, ready to get rolling.
And run smack into the director from the previous service. Who has a bit of a tendency to be a high-energy, high-stress micromanagement speciality item. I very nearly recoiled, but controlled myself before I could physically dive-roll and run for the door, and greeted her cheerfully.
"Are you doing a video? We did a video. Don't do the same one, some of the kids go to both services."
I nod, and smile. I knew that already.
"Here's the worship DVD since there's no band. There's no band!"
I knew there'd be no band.
She said a long stream of something else, but honestly, I tuned out. She had redirected her attention to one of the other teachers anyway, a sweet lady who often sings with the kids' worship band. Then I realized she was dumping the responsibility of worship time on my teacher. For my service.
Geez, lady! Hands off. I'm standing right here, perfectly capable of running my own service.
But I didn't say anything. And she soon left. And then I told my teacher she didn't have to sing. She could just relax, take a week off if she wanted.
And then I talked about goats.
The other director? A great person. Passionate, dedicated--loves Jesus, loves kids.
And so NOT like me. I get high energy. I get passionate. I like to serve. But, thank God, I'm generally organized and chill. Simultaneously. It was sweet of him to show me that.
Seriously.
I ask him. A lot. The same question in a hundred different ways.
And he answers me. Not in one giant chunk of perfect self-awareness (which would undoubtedly be absolutely unbearable and would turn my brain to Spam), but with little flashes. And generally when I'm not all wrapped up in myself.
Funny how that works.
Sometimes, I am certain that God brings people into our lives to show us who we are--and just as often, who we're NOT.
Take yesterday, for example. Children's Sunday school. I serve as the coordinator for one of the services, meaning that I organize materials for teachers, collate offering and attendance records, and generally prowl the halls as an enforcer. (dun dun duh...) I also keep a finger on the opening-session worship band schedule and--my alltime favorite--arrange for subs when someone is out of town. (Ick.) It's pretty fun overall, until something gets discombobulated. I like the kids, and the teachers are great. I'm a good organizer, even if I don't get all uptight about exactly what the teachers are doing every minute of every class.
Breathe a sigh of relief.
But, due to the holiday, we were indubitably discombobulated this Sunday. I knew we would be, so I had plans....
Quake with fear, disorder, for I bringeth...Charlie Brown Christmas! Let's do the Snoopy dance!
Still have some extra time? No problem. I'll ad lib a ten minute talk about goats. Really. (It's a missionary project thing, I promise.) Then we can ship all the kids back to their rooms with their teachers for the last few minutes. They can talk about turkey, or Jesus...whatever. If I don't have enough teachers? No sweat. I have a Koosh ball in my purse. I can pinch hit as a sub.
So, I arrive a few minutes before the service starts, ready to get rolling.
And run smack into the director from the previous service. Who has a bit of a tendency to be a high-energy, high-stress micromanagement speciality item. I very nearly recoiled, but controlled myself before I could physically dive-roll and run for the door, and greeted her cheerfully.
"Are you doing a video? We did a video. Don't do the same one, some of the kids go to both services."
I nod, and smile. I knew that already.
"Here's the worship DVD since there's no band. There's no band!"
I knew there'd be no band.
She said a long stream of something else, but honestly, I tuned out. She had redirected her attention to one of the other teachers anyway, a sweet lady who often sings with the kids' worship band. Then I realized she was dumping the responsibility of worship time on my teacher. For my service.
Geez, lady! Hands off. I'm standing right here, perfectly capable of running my own service.
But I didn't say anything. And she soon left. And then I told my teacher she didn't have to sing. She could just relax, take a week off if she wanted.
And then I talked about goats.
The other director? A great person. Passionate, dedicated--loves Jesus, loves kids.
And so NOT like me. I get high energy. I get passionate. I like to serve. But, thank God, I'm generally organized and chill. Simultaneously. It was sweet of him to show me that.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
the day of birth...once again
Well, it's my birthday. That requires a post, right? I must say, I don't have anything super interesting to writeat the moment. But looking back, I noticed the massive "I'm getting older" post I did last year.
Well, I don't feel like doing that again. Partially because I haven't had any coffee yet today and I'm also fighting a cold, so I'm not very lively this morning.
But also because I just don't feel that way. At least not especially today. Some days I feel old and set in my ways and world-weary. Some days I feel ridiculously young and immature. Some days I feel like I could do anything. Some days seem an exercise in futility. Some days I'm traveling a million miles an hour, and some days I'm spinning my wheels.
In other words, it's just life. 27 or 28, doesn't matter. So, today I look forward to a little special treatment--some goodies, a song, perhaps a present or two. But I no longer expect birthdays to be days of magic--the way they used to seem when I was a kid. Like you'd wake up on your birthday and things would have changed. Somehow, someway, the page of the book would have turned--all because of the date on the calendar.
I kind of miss that feeling.
But this morning, as I was driving in to work, the sunrise was absolutely beautiful. Logically, I know it wasn't because it's the date of my birth. It was an awesome sunrise on Monday, too, I think. But the little whimsical part of my brain couldn't help but broadcast that God had just wished me a happy birthday, too. Like some kind of magic.
Well, I don't feel like doing that again. Partially because I haven't had any coffee yet today and I'm also fighting a cold, so I'm not very lively this morning.
But also because I just don't feel that way. At least not especially today. Some days I feel old and set in my ways and world-weary. Some days I feel ridiculously young and immature. Some days I feel like I could do anything. Some days seem an exercise in futility. Some days I'm traveling a million miles an hour, and some days I'm spinning my wheels.
In other words, it's just life. 27 or 28, doesn't matter. So, today I look forward to a little special treatment--some goodies, a song, perhaps a present or two. But I no longer expect birthdays to be days of magic--the way they used to seem when I was a kid. Like you'd wake up on your birthday and things would have changed. Somehow, someway, the page of the book would have turned--all because of the date on the calendar.
I kind of miss that feeling.
But this morning, as I was driving in to work, the sunrise was absolutely beautiful. Logically, I know it wasn't because it's the date of my birth. It was an awesome sunrise on Monday, too, I think. But the little whimsical part of my brain couldn't help but broadcast that God had just wished me a happy birthday, too. Like some kind of magic.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
finally
Well. I'm on Facebook.
And the peasants rejoice.
It's funny, because I resisted it for so long. At first I didn't join because it sounded silly. And then I didn't join because lots of people kept bugging me about it. I don't respond well to peer pressure. And then I didn't join because I knew it would be one more thing that would tempt me to waste time.
And then today, for some reason, I popped online and joined. Bing. No big deal, no internal argument. I just said "Hey, facebook! Sure, why not?" And the deed was, as they say, done.
So come, and be friends with me. But not real friends. Just facebook friends.
I think I might be a crappy facebook friend. Just to warn you. You're still much better off actually calling, emailing, or--gasp!--actually seeing me. If your digitally social self can handle it. If not...well, you can wait hopefully for me to write on your wall. Who knows? It could happen.
And the peasants rejoice.
It's funny, because I resisted it for so long. At first I didn't join because it sounded silly. And then I didn't join because lots of people kept bugging me about it. I don't respond well to peer pressure. And then I didn't join because I knew it would be one more thing that would tempt me to waste time.
And then today, for some reason, I popped online and joined. Bing. No big deal, no internal argument. I just said "Hey, facebook! Sure, why not?" And the deed was, as they say, done.
So come, and be friends with me. But not real friends. Just facebook friends.
I think I might be a crappy facebook friend. Just to warn you. You're still much better off actually calling, emailing, or--gasp!--actually seeing me. If your digitally social self can handle it. If not...well, you can wait hopefully for me to write on your wall. Who knows? It could happen.
Monday, April 6, 2009
breaking news
No grad school for me next year. Thanks, everyone, for your prayers and words of encouragement.
Guess I'm going to have to find something else that's a bit challenging and scary to fill the void.
Perhaps base jumping? Either that or I'm going to chuck it all and take off on a 'round-the-world adventure with nothing but a baseball cap, a pocket knife, and a pack of chewing gum.
Guess I'm going to have to find something else that's a bit challenging and scary to fill the void.
Perhaps base jumping? Either that or I'm going to chuck it all and take off on a 'round-the-world adventure with nothing but a baseball cap, a pocket knife, and a pack of chewing gum.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
the day of birth
Twenty-seven. Geesh.
I'm starting to bank into that second corner already. Not that it really matters. I don't particularly feel too old to do what I want in this life. I don't feel like "it's all slipping away" and I'd better hurry up and get depressed because clearly my chances have passed me by. Pah. (Noise of dismissive disgust, if you're wondering.)
What I do feel, however, is a twinge of regret that I have gotten this far without doing anything particularly awesome. I've got that whole independent stability thing down. I'm self-sufficient and debt free and responsible and living at a comfortable standard.
But I positively stink at risks. Well, I might be good at them. I don't know. I don't generally take them, at leat not the big hairy ones. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I don't know that either. There are definite plusses to my current life. I'm secure. I'm stable. I get to do what I want most of the time.
And yet...the sense that something's missing remains. Haunting me just about every day--not simply on my birthday. A tickle in the back of my brain. And itchy sort of "what if" that sneaks up on me in the middle of my morning coffee.
Well, bring it on, life! I may not be a great risk-taker, but nor am I one to back down and give up. Let's see what this year has in store--and if I do go down, let it be in the midst of a grand adventure, both guns blazing.
I'm starting to bank into that second corner already. Not that it really matters. I don't particularly feel too old to do what I want in this life. I don't feel like "it's all slipping away" and I'd better hurry up and get depressed because clearly my chances have passed me by. Pah. (Noise of dismissive disgust, if you're wondering.)
What I do feel, however, is a twinge of regret that I have gotten this far without doing anything particularly awesome. I've got that whole independent stability thing down. I'm self-sufficient and debt free and responsible and living at a comfortable standard.
But I positively stink at risks. Well, I might be good at them. I don't know. I don't generally take them, at leat not the big hairy ones. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I don't know that either. There are definite plusses to my current life. I'm secure. I'm stable. I get to do what I want most of the time.
And yet...the sense that something's missing remains. Haunting me just about every day--not simply on my birthday. A tickle in the back of my brain. And itchy sort of "what if" that sneaks up on me in the middle of my morning coffee.
Well, bring it on, life! I may not be a great risk-taker, but nor am I one to back down and give up. Let's see what this year has in store--and if I do go down, let it be in the midst of a grand adventure, both guns blazing.
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