Three Blind Mice

Eighth grade math classes are set up in blocks, so instead of leaving between 1st and 2nd periods, when that bell rings my students don't even hear it. This is the perfect set-up for end of the year movie days.

A few weeks ago, I subbed for a sixth grade class. 6 times I watched the first hour and 2 minutes of the 1 hour, 13 minute movie. And six times I nearly went nuts wondering what happens in the 11 minute climax and fall-of-action of The Incredibles. So I was kind of pumped when I learned that today I'd be able to finish The Blind Side with ease during the 8th grade block period.

First block was great. We laughed, we cried; we were all moved by Sandra's southern drawl and Tennessee hair. Second block, though... this time around, I know the jokes. I know the tear-jerkers. SJ's antics are less adorable, and the obnoxious child star qualities are more noticeable. I can't focus on Tim McGraw's surprising acting ability because now I've had time to wonder if it bothers Faith that he's making out with Sandy on-set. I hate to say it, but... it's even less exciting to see Tommy Tuberville walk onto the screen, in all his Dumbo-earred glory. God love that sweet man, he is adorable. But I digress.

Yes, there will be a third showing of the award-winning blockbuster. During third block, I probably won't even look up from perusing the various blogs I follow. I may even get crazy and do homework. It's better this way, really... It's hard to make eye contact with Sandy knowing that while she was filming the role her lifetime, her soul mate was hanging out and shacking up with a neo-Nazi. It's just too painful. Welcome to the Lonely Hearts Club, Sandy. We meet regularly in the tea room at the Heartbreak Hotel; you know the one. Leave Oscar at home, though.

Okay, let's be honest, I cannot possibly look away during the montage of SEC coaches. Sure, it's lost a little bit of it's luster, but in "our neck of the woods" these cameos are more exciting than any all-star cast. Valentine's Day, eat your heart out.

Hey is for Horses

Oh, hi. Were you talking to me? Sorry, amongst all the indiscriminate chatter in this classroom, I didn't distinguish your "Hey... hey... hey..." as aimed at me. You must've missed my note on the board... you know, where I wrote MISS HAYS in giant bubble letters. I understand that the blaring green and polka dots blend in to the plain white background. Honest mistake.

What's that? Another chorus of "hey's"? Sure, it sounds like my last name, but there's no Miss proceeding it.

Furthermore, "Teacher" will not suffice.

Let me lay it down for you a la Janet Jackson-- not that you'd get this cultural reference: My name's not Teacher, it's Lindsey; Miss Hays if you're a student.

Get it straight.

Non-Athlete

I have never pursued a career in teaching because, as much as I love English and History, I have never been sure that I could teach the same books every year for 25 years, over and over again. That's one of the things I love about subbing: I've been a librarian, a Math teacher, a band director, a social studies teacher... and today... today I was a PE coach for 3rd thru 5th graders.

Now, let me tell you this: I didn't like PE when I was IN elementary school, and my experience today confirmed that it is still not the place for me. I watched in horror as the 4th graders got into push-up position and told to stay there as long as they could. My mind reeled as I pictured myself in that same position so many years ago, terrified that I might go down sooner than the fat kid (yeah, that's right, I'm not feeling politically correct today). And when the awkward, early developing fifth grade girls came up to me and asked to go/escape to the bathroom, I looked knowingly into their eyes and fought the urge to tell them to stay as long as they pleased.

And it's absolutely true that childhood obesity is a problem. I observed today that there are more overweight children than "normal-sized," but even the urge to keep them healthy hardly combatted my need to shelter them from being the last person picked for kickball, the first person pegged in dodgeball. I watched one volleyball team, stacked with kids that have been playing club ball since they cut their teeth, dominate a team of what we'll call Lindseys. I wanted to say, "Hey girls, don't sweat it, there's a team out there with your name on it, and you get to wear a cute uniform with matching ribbon!"

That said, I would've fought you tooth and nail in high school that cheerleading is a sport. And I still stand firm that cheerleaders work hard, very hard. I lived and breathed for it. But we Wildcat Cheerios were hardly having a tough time deciding between cleats and pom-poms. And there's rarely a swing and miss when you're throwing your best friend up in a basket toss and catching her in a cradle.

This took an unexpected turn into my thoughts on cheering... but the moral of the story is: I don't care for sports where balls fly at my head (i.e. anything outside of cheering, golf, swimming...), and my heart goes out to all the little non-athletes out there. Press on, kiddos. You only have a few more years before you can opt out of those pesky phys ed classes.

Some Days You're a Scarlett

... and today's one of those days. Today, everything that has crossed my path has stressed me out, and I can't count how many times I've thought to myself, "I won't think about that today; I'll think about it tomorrow."

Melanie Hamilton Wilkes is an inspiration... because she's selfless and kind and genuine. But today, I was Katie Scarlett O'Hara. Today, my mind was wrapped around one thing and one thing only: me. And if I wasn't master of ceremonies, there was a problem. It was just one of those days where I felt out of control of everything, and, if you know me, that's a crisis.

Even at the gym I felt like Scarlett. She's so fiery and vengeful, and I felt like I was running as if someone was chasing me. I couldn't slow down, and I didn't even realize how hard I was running until I realized I had run a mile in under 10 minutes (now, I know, to some like my cousin Austin, that's sluggish... but I'm not the kind of girl that gets in a hurry). And while E and I did yoga with Rosemary and the Geriatric Gang, my body was practically vibrating with tension. Usually I love the cool down, where I almost always fall asleep, but today I could hardly sit still and Rosemary's "InHAY-ul" and "exHAY-ul" was especially irritating.

Maybe it's just finals. In one class-- Intro to Research, which if possible is even more painful than it sounds-- we've had ONE assignment the entire semester, worth a mere 5 points. This week, finals week, in that ONE class, I have had an 8-page research article analysis, a 2-page article critique essay, a 6-page final, and a research proposal that must encompass 4 article reviews and suggestions for methods and participants for further research. Did I lose you? Welcome to the club.

Last night I had my first grad school final ever, but only after taping my last counseling session THREE times. The first twenty minute session was great, but-- OOPS!-- the cameras malfunctioned. Take 2. Oops again. Take 3 finally took, but I got a phone call at 9:30 Monday night saying that they couldn't move the tape from the camera to the computer. Finally, at 9 last night, they got the tape fixed and onto a DVR for me... except the transcription of the tape was due yesterday at 5:45 pm. Luckily, my professor is giving me an extension since I couldn't control the circumstances... BUT, it's just one more thing to do this week.

And in my last class, I have a quiz, a final, and a final project (which I must enlist a high school student to help me with, as it calls for me to assess a student) due this week.

No big deal. [sarcasm]

Maybe one day I'll be Mellie Wilkes... but not today. And tomorrow's not looking good either. Besides, I need a Rhett in my life. Ashley looks good on paper, but as E and my mom have told me lately in regard to other men, I would walk all over Ashley Wilkes. So yes, Rhett Butler, come and get me. I will gladly accept your lavish gifts and ridiculous mansion; sure, we'll butt heads from time to time. You're a man's man, and I've got a little Irish in me. But we'll make it work because we're the same, you and I.

Can you tell we watched Gone with the Wind this weekend? Perhaps I should devote this nervous energy to school work... Quittin' time!

brewdogs and misconceptions.

I apologize for my frequent blogs when I'm working, but sometimes the behaviors of my students are such that they must be reported. Immediately.

For instance, today we watched an Earth Day video. Lots of fun facts were presented, like that the average American drinks 43,310 cans of soda in their lifetime (that's 3000 lbs of weight over your lifetime, by the way). Another fun fact: the average American drinks 13,ooo-something beers in their life [obviously the "average American" is a UA frat star]. One of my male freshman students immediately exclaims, "My new goal in life is to drink 13,000 beers!" Whoa, kid, dream big. Sadly, he was serious.

In response, one of my female students, weighing in at approximately 98 lbs, explains to the classroom that she can drink 30 beers in one sitting ("I have a really high tolerance," she informed us). Listen, kids, I know that your sweet little freshman minds love the idea of pounding brewdogs all night long, but 30 beers? My friends love beer. Love it. With the exception of Nan and Erica, most of my friends weigh in at about 250, 6'2+. These gentle giants couldn't drink 30 beers in one sitting if they wanted to, and they don't want to. And neither do you. Because you would DIE.

Later, another male student got to story telling: tall tales, specifically. This young man filled our time with stories of his A-Day adventures and all the college girls' numbers he got. Now, tell the truth. You didn't get a single number, did you? Go on, grin and change the subject.

In other news, a student was found in the bathroom, supposedly with locked jaw and darting eyes, after a student gave her a mystery pill. One of my students explained to me that she had had an allergic reaction because of the interaction between the mystery pill (identified as Tylenol), two Ibuprofen, and her birth control. An allergic reaction to Tylenol? Sounds intense for an OTC drug. It's because she takes birth control, I was informed. Oh yeah, I've heard how birth control and head ache relief can be a deadly combination. But, real talk, what did you take?

Today are cheerleading try outs. I'm going to go with E, and I've promised myself that I won't cry.

The Birth of the Bard

For as long as I can remember, I've had what you might call a "crush" on William Shakespeare. Really, it's England and that time period that does it for me. On a trip to Barnes & Noble, anything with Billy Shakespeare's face or Elizabeth I's likeness draws my attention, and Henry VII (although a generation prior) is my specialty. I was fortunate enough to visit Stratford-Upon-Avon, home of the Bard, one summer, and I walked around with my mouth hung open. The gardens, the artifacts, the funny anecdotes the tour guide told... it was almost too much.

Maybe it's the pirate beard and bald head that gets me...

Okay, Hollywood's version (in the form of Geoffrey Rush) is a teensy bit hotter.

I digress.

Today is the Bard's birthday; that is, what is commonly believed to be Bill's birthday. So, to commemorate this literary giant, I thought I'd give you all a healthy dose of Shakespeare quotes, some common phrase and others more obscure. And who doesn't love a good quote?

Absence from those we love is self from self - a deadly banishment.

Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.

Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.

Expectation is the root of all heartache.

False face must hide what the false heart doth know.

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.

Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.

A Cautionary Tale.

I labeled this blog as such because it is just that: what you're about to read may be just the thing to discourage you from ever reproducing should your offspring encounter or, God fordbid, become one of these creatures one day. These are just a few quotes from Wonderland (which is what I will now and forever refer to the public school system as).

On dating:
Student A: "Yeah, Tyler's sweet and all, but Anthony's..."
Student B: "Giving it to you?"
Student A just grins and rolls her eyes.
Ah, yes, young love blossoming before my eyes.

On body art:
"I'm definitely getting a tramp stamp."
Young lady, those of us who refer to as a 'tramp stamp' do so in disdain. If you are culturally aware enough to know that it is in fact called such, take note and DON'T DO IT. Think about it: Tramp. Stamp.

On extracurricular activity:
"Dude, he got caught selling weed at church. At church!"
Nope, you read that wrong, because for a second you thought this was said in disgust or disappointment. But no; it was in fact in awe.

On lifestyle preference:
"Do you prefer gay, queer, or bi? What if I called you a fag?"
When I was in 9th grade-- that's right, this is a 14 year old we speak of-- I did not know a single person of the "alternative lifestyle." Sure, there was speculation, but if anyone had hopped out of their closet, I was oblivious to it. Worry not, progress marches on at GHS.

On discipline:
"You was scared for a minute, weren't you? Thought I was gonna put these hands on you, didn't ya? They call me the body snatcher 'cause I'll snatch you up by the neck."
The eagerness to discipline each other oftentimes makes my job much easier. Reprimand my misbehaving class? Nah, why bother when their neighbor is about to snatch them up by the neck?

On race and ethnicity:
[upon discovering that a text book has been chewed on]
"Did you get hungry, Hope?"
"What? Is that because I'm black?"
Thank you for your racial commentary, ninth graders. I'm sure that's exactly what he was insinuating; you are extremely insightful.

On scheduling:
"Is this our assignment? I don't have time for all that."
Oh, do you not? I'm sorry, did you have something else going on 7th period? Mani/pedi, perhaps? Please, by all means, don't let your assignments get in your way. I'm sure texting under your desk is taxing enough, so just take the afternoon off.

On ambition:
"I'm gonna be a PE teacher so I can play warball everyday."
Dream big! Shoot for the stars!

And to top off my adventure, I was only asked once why on Earth Evan and I weren't engaged yet. Isn't news supposed to travel fast in a small town?

Never a dull day. Never Never. Ooooh... Never Never Land or Wonderland?

white noise.

Later I'm going to write a blog of more consequence, as I've been storing up stories from Adventures in Subland, but for now I'll just blog out of boredom.

I've had a Twitter for months, mainly so I can follow my soon-to-be-husband, @johncmayer (that is, as soon as he realized that I exist), but I've decided to step it up a notch. Today, I went from following 70 people to more like 175... the likes of which are my classmates and former teachers. That's right: blog AND Twitter. I am fully multimedia these days. And, thanks to me, so is Erica.

The teachers have some sort of in-service today, so instead of being Coach Reese all day I have been going from classroom to classroom every two hours. Hour 2 of my 2nd block was Parsons' planning period; hour 1 of my 3rd block is Embry's planning period (hence here I am in Blogville). I have partaken in the Pizza Hut lunch buffet (note: never ever allow me near anything that is "All You Can Eat"), and now I would like to nap... and punish myself for the carb binge.

On top of my lunch splurge, I must try on my altered bridesmaid dress this afternoon. Ladies and gents, this will not be pretty. And, for the first time since the days of sorority formals, I will be pulling out the Spanx. And I'm not ashamed to say it. But between now and Hailey's nuptials, it's time to get it in gear... because Spanx can only do so much damage control. Not to mention June wedding + spandex undergarments: no thank you.

On the spiritual front, I'm trying something new. Mornings are hardest for me, especially when I don't have a sub gig. I lack any motivation, and I find myself watching TLC in my bed at 2 pm. Yes, it really is as depressing as it sounds. So I've been doing a little Bible search on mornings, and as it turns out, there's a lot to be said about the beginning of each day. So my challenge to myself is to start everyday with a quiet time. In truth, I try to have a quiet time every day, but lots of times I have a hard time squeezing it in between Gilmore Girls, House, and homework (you read that right). I'm going to start kick-starting my days with a few Psalms; you would not believe the kind of inspiration that's waiting for you in that popular book of the Bible.

His mercies are new each morning.

Lamentations 3:23

Let me hear in the morning of your steadfast love, for in you I trust. Make me know the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul.

Psalm 143:8

Motivation Needed

Something about my apartment makes me lazy, and I find myself in need of inspiration.

I thought, then, if I could get some of my thoughts from my mind to my fingertips to my computer screen, I might could clear out some mental clutter and get started on something productive, like homework or a trip to the gym.

I am very, very excited that this time next month I'll be in Sweden. So excited, in fact, that I'm kind of scared of coming back because then what will I look forward to? For the moment, I have lots of things to look forward to, and I'm thinking a good LIST is just the thing I need to get me on my way to productivity.

Things That Will Keep Me Busy Between Now and Sweden:

1. Wednesday and Friday: Substitute Extraordinaire out upon the hills of Marshall.

2. Friday night Gone with the Wind date with Erica

3. Saturday- Beth Moore simulcast (So Long, Insecurities!) AND Hailey's shower

4. Sunday- another shower for Hailey (which means Saturday night will end with a spend-the-night party).

5. Tuesday, 4/27, I have my first ever grad school final.

6. Thursday, 4/29, my dad's 60's show opens at the Whole Backstage.

7. Friday, 5/7, Lauren and Ivan are coming to town for the 60's show.

8. Saturday, 5/8, HAIR CUT. I look forward to few things in life the way I do a hair cut. Seriously.

9. Mother's Day!

10. Mallory Claire Morgan!

And then... at 2:00 pm, May 15, I will board a flight from Huntsville to Atlanta, where I will turn around board a flight from Atlanta to Brussels, and then board yet another flight from Brussels to Stockholm... At 7:45, Sunday, May 16, (Swedish time), Big Erica and I will arrive at the Bromma airport, and Sweden may never be the same afterward.

That is, if Iceland can gets it's act together between now and May 15. Fingers crossed.

Okay, now my heart's racing and I'm thinking it's time for a little forward movement.

Stuck in the Middle with You

The dreaded butt cut.

My natural part is straight down the middle, and believe me it is a disaster. At dinner with the girls the other night, I showed them... they didn't even laugh. Horrified, they just begged me to put it back before someone saw them with me.

Celebrities lately (or maybe always... maybe I've just never noticed as acutely as I do now) have been throwing this look around, and I must beg them:

stop. the. madness.

There is one person and one person only who can pull this 'do off, and that is the reigning queen of hair, America's Sweetheart, and my personal role model: Miss Jennifer Aniston.

Rock on, girlfriend.

Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics

The teachers I now sub for are the same teachers that taught me through middle school and high school. So when my former choir teachers screams that she "wants to see your eyeballs!" I spin on my heel and look at her in terror, always to the giggles of the students.

These teachers are the same teachers that gave me reading assignments and worksheets all through my scholastic career, and these same teachers now instruct me to pass out the same worksheets I did not so long ago just to, "ya know, eat up the time."

It's statements like these that make me wonder how often I was lied to as a youth. Under the impression that these worksheets and reading assignments were vital to my education and the success of my future, I worked diligently to complete them while my classmates through spit wads at each other.

I am reminded of the shock on my brother's face when, at 14, he learned that the "shark bites" he'd been eating at the each his entire life had, in fact, been fish sticks ordered by my dad with a wink to the waitress. The same shock flooded my brain when I realized that for years when Mom and I played games like "Count the Red Cars" on road trips, she just pulled a number out of the air although I had been vigorously counting every passing car on the Interstate. And I remember being told, too, that, "If you don't stop biting your nails, eventually they won't grow back."

I won't even get into the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny except to say that I decided to test the Tooth Fairy once by not telling anyone that there was a tooth under my pillow. Dismal failure, Tooth Fairy.

So, with all this knowledge of secrets and lies, you'd think that when a student asked me, "Is this really that important?" I'd tell them: no, not really; doing a crossword puzzle with vocabulary words related to the Cold War will not help you in any way advance your life. I'm now on "this side"-- having eaten the fruit from some metaphorical Tree of Knowledge-- and I could enlighten my students.

But I won't.

Because then they'd be maniacs. Because they already can't focus on their assignments even in the glaring threat that their very livelihood rests on the completion of these ten video facts (in FULL SENTENCES, please!).

Instead, I'll just carry on this tradition of adulthood, lying to those I need to control.

Decisions, Decisions.

A-Day is this weekend at the university I attend. This was news to me earlier this week, and I accredited my lack of knowledge to being a grad student... until the Republican pointed out that if I were at grad school at Auburn I would not only know about A-Day but would be making plans for it already.

I didn't put much more thought into it because I'm not a Bama fan, and--hello-- it's a Bama scrimmage game. But then my friend Katie asked me if I was going. And then my friend Tyler asked me if I was going.

Now, I'm not an obnoxious Auburn fan, and I don't hate Alabama. I just don't get excited about Alabama football. (I know, I know, my family reading this is thinking, "She was raised better.") So now I'm faced with this dilemma: I could go to Tuscaloosa Friday after work, fight the traffic and the crowds and the parking hassle to watch a team I don't love BUT get to socialize and spread my little Tuscaloosa wings... OR stay home and hang out with my usual clique, happily in my comfort zone.

My other decision is a little further down the road, in the form of music festival in the Tennessee countryside. Trey called yesterday and said simply, "Let's go to Bonnaroo." I hesitated at first, a million excuses flying through my head (money, classes, etc). But then I looked at the line up... Oh, the line up:

Dave Matthews

Kings of Leon

Conan O'Brien

Weezer

Jay-Z

Stevie Wonder

Tenacious D

The Flaming Lips

Norah Jones

Regina Spektor

Steve Martin (yep, THE Steve Martin)

And more...

SO... 4 days of no bathing and sleeping on the ground in exchange for musical bliss and incredible memories with my best friends...? I'm thinking yes.

Becoming Lindsey.

**Disclaimer: in my mind, this was a narrative on the ridiculous trends I've gone through... but somewhere along the way it turned into an autobiography. Please forgive my self-indulgence.

All my life I've heard of people "finding themselves." The phrase has always made me roll my eyes because it didn't make a lot of sense to me. Find yourself? Look in the mirror; you are who you are. But recently I've been feeling kind of reflective, and as I look back at my last ten years I see a life defined by a search for myself.

When I moved to my current hometown, I was eleven years old. The painful awkwardness of being an "early bloomer"coupled with the loss of my fourteen-year-old made my transition to middle school almost unbearable. Desperate for the approval of my classmates, I mimicked the cool kids' styles... which inevitably meant stuffing myself into ill-fitting Limited Too outfits (not appropriate post-training-bra). Gradually, I relaxed and my classmates caught up with me. I sailed through the rest of middle school on the heels of every trend: butterfly clips, capri pants, and anything with a Hollister emblem embroidered on it.

Right when I felt like I was finally a "somebody" in the Class of 2006, we moved to high school. Clinging to my popularity, I pressed on. I lived for cheerleading and tirelessly worked to know the business of all. As a ninth grader, I was living large as Queen Bee. Or so I thought. My then-boyfriend, King Bee, and I broke up... and when you follow up a break-up with King Bee by talking to a guy from a rival high school, King Bee keeps the friends in the "divorce." So there I was: out of favor with the "in crowd." Soon I was dating a boy from the "in crowd" of the grade ahead of me. I'd had a crush on Clayton since 7th grade, so once again I found myself sitting pretty. Lauren had firmly secured her place as my best friend, and, together with Clay's best friend, we were good to go (still dressed in Gap and Hollister from head-to-toe, don't worry). It was around this time in my life when I realized what an effort life had become. I worked very hard to earn my seat at the lunch table with the "cool kids," but every lunch period was a chore. I never knew what to say, and my stories and jokes didn't seem to jive (I think I was a little more sarcastic/cynical than most 16-year-olds). So once again, I found myself in need of doing just that... finding myself, finding myself sans "image."

So I ditched the cool kids. I dropped my name-brand wardrobe in favor of hooded sweatshirts and t-shirts found at thrift stores, I didn't try out for cheerleading, and I took up with a crowd that played ultimate frisbee on the weekends instead of going to the high school football game. We wore lots of threaded bracelets and invested in Chacos. I started listening to jam bands and camping at Spence's farm. I wasn't voted class favorite that year, but for the moment I was happy and myself. My wanna-be-hippie friends appreciated my humor, and nothing they did had anything to do with being cool. But my friends those years were two years older than me, and so of course they graduated and moved on. So there I was... again.

My senior year was easily the most dramatic of my high school career: devastating break-up, full schedule of AP classes, majority of friends off at college, and my own college decision (go with Lauren, don't go with Lauren is basically what it boiled down to). I was in need of a serious reinvention of self. I dyed my hair more times than I count, and for a day or two I looked like a model for Hot Topic. When the goth hipster look didn't work out for me, I threw myself into planning my college career: an SEC college experience complete with sorority life.

My freshman year of college I flipped back and forth between hippie and sorority chic. When I first met Trey, my best friend in Auburn, I was wearing a t-shirt, flowy cotton skirt, and Chacos, and we talked about my senior trip to Bonnaroo. The next night I was in my Polo and pearls with my sweet sorority sisters, trying to line up a date to the football game Saturday with a Fiji or a Farmhouse. And that's how it went for a long time... who I was with defined who I was that day. People often labeled me 'eclectic,' but really I was just unsure.

Somewhere around the end of my sophomore year, I morphed into what I think of as bohemian chic. Really, the trends of flowing maternity-type shirts masked my freshman fifteen...er, thirty. But I happily embraced that style for a while, until I was a sorority recruitment counselor and many of my "campers" told me I wasn't the sorority "type." Maybe I just don't like being told what I am and am not, but that didn't sit well with me. So I went back to beach blonde highlights and tried the sorority style for another season.

Fast forward to now, and I am just as inconsistent in my style as I ever have been. I recently got a "break-up haircut" so my usual blonde, shoulder-length hair is now a brunette bob that will inevitably end up blonde again for summer. Some days I feel like wearing a graphic tee, skinny jeans, and Chuck Taylors... other days call for Jackie O chic... and some days I find myself back in my favorite hooded sweatshirt from the ultimate frisbee era of high school. The difference is this: at twenty-two years old, I am no longer finding myself. For years, I was the victim of my own desire to be liked, to be "in." I was a different person from one day to the next depending on who I was with, not who I was.

At twenty-two years old, finally, I am safe and secure in just being Lindsey. I have incredible friends that I could gush about for days. I know that I want to be a school counselor, and I now have enough experience in the school system to know that it's a field I can be truly happy about... not just a back-up plan. My family fills my life with laughter everyday. My walk with God is growing and maturing before my eyes daily. And I'm kind of liking this whole single thing... kind of. :) My identity is not in who I am with; my identity is in Christ Jesus, and I'm pretty content with that.

God made Him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in Him we might become the righteousness of God. 2 Corinthians 5:21

So there. It's not about becoming Lindsey anymore. At long last, I am at a point in my life where I am fully ready and willing to focus on my purpose in life: becoming the righteousness of God through Christ.

Thursday Things

I've mentioned the game 'Things' a million times in my little posts. It's a really fun game, and I don't get to play it near enough these days. So I've decided to add a little za-za-zoo to the ol' blog and have a theme day: Thursday Things. And it's a good way to indulge my love of lists.

This week the Things topic is...

Things That Remind Me of High School

1. Dr. Pepper- for a season of my life, I drank a Dr. Pepper every morning on my way to school. I don't drink Dr. Pepper anymore, so when I popped one open for the first time in ages this week, I was immediately back in my silver Accord, speeding through town, desperately trying to make a 10-minute drive only take 6 minutes (it's possible that I had a punctuality problem my senior year).

2. John Mayer and Weezer- songs from John's album "Room for Squares" and Weezer's "Blue Album" bring back vivid memories of my first car, my high school crew grass boarding down Hole #2 at Gunter's Landing, and slumber parties at Kayla's house.

3. Ab Ripper X with E- as the two of us laid in my basement floor Wednesday afternoon, heaving and groaning over our ab video, I was happy and nostalgic thinking back on our days laying on mats at the top of the GHS gym, doing crunches and stretches in 7th period Cheerleading.

4. Listening to my students freak out over prom- wow. It's incredible to think about how that was my world. My UNIVERSE. High schoolers are blissfully, and fretfully, oblivious of the great big world beyond those cinder block walls.

5. Lunch money... or lack thereof- I was very fortunate (in some circumstances) that my dad worked in my school system. I'm not known for being responsible, and I wasn't even in the running for Most Dependable in my school's Who's Who. So it was no surprise when, once a week, I had to ask Doc to let me go get lunch money from my dad. I've been proud of myself in my subbing adventures that, so far, I have remembered to bring my $2 for lunch each day (although the lunchroom lady always barks at me that my "number didn't go in," and I gently remind her that I am a teacher, not a student). Well, Monday, as 4th period rolled around, it hit me: no lunch money. Most mornings before I head to work, I ferret through Mom's wallet for cash, but not this week. And guess what: no dad at work either. Blasted retirement.

6. Watching Survivor- I haven't watched this show since I was in 9th or 10th grade, probably. But when this season premiered-- a reunion of the series' "Heroes" and "Villains"-- I happened to be sitting on the couch with Mom. And I'm hooked. It has become our weekly "thing" to sit on the couch and cheer on Colby and JT and boo and hiss at Russell and Parvati.

All the while I've been writing this, I've been in class... which is kind of reminiscent of my note-writing habit in high school, anyway... so I guess I'll get back to that.

Everyday Easter.

I love Easter. I always have. I have pictures of me on Easter for almost every year of my life, most of my brother and me holding hands in the backyard, he in horrible pastels and me in an Easter dress made by grandmother's loving hands.

This morning I woke up early, like a child on Christmas, and looked out my window at a glassy lake and clear blue sky. Call my corny, but I couldn't help but smile. I didn't buy an Easter dress this year-- or any year since I was 10, really-- but I pulled out a spring-y linen dress and headed to church.

As I sped down "Church Avenue," (in typical Lindsey fashion, I may or may not have been running a few minutes behind), I was really taken aback by the beauty of this town I live in. On my commute, I pass over the lake and into a small town that I love dearly, past churches teeming with families, and yards spotted with blooms. It really is beautiful, and I felt oddly energized and abuzz with all the new life spring brings. When I arrived, a huge chunk of my church family was gathered outside taking family pictures in front of the flower-laden cross that is an Easter tradition at FBC. Honestly, my heart raced a bit as I took it all in: the beautiful, warm day; the friendly, familiar faces; the reason for the season.

It was there this morning, in front of a cross bursting with life, that Easter really hit me. What we are celebrating today is just that: life. Easter is a holiday that, as a Southern Baptist, I've grown accustomed to. Jesus died on a cross, and on the third day He rose, and now I hide Easter eggs for my little cousins one day out of the year. Sadly, sometimes it's as simple as that. But today I was humbled and reminded of the power of that message. He died, and on the third day he rose. He rose from the dead. He defeated death so that we might live.

So as I sat in the pew this morning, I swelled with what I suppose was pride. I guess I was proud of a God who is mighty to save, proud of a promise that this is not my home, and proud of a relationship with a Savior who created Life and defeated Death. So my next realization was this: why does it take Easter and sunshine and warm breezes to make me feel so victorious? why don't I live everyday with the energy and excitement that I found myself with today? how do I look out the window at a sun that has indeed risen every morning and not shout for joy at a Son that is risen indeed?

People say that the seasons affect your mood; I think I subscribe to this theory. In the winter, the slate grey skies and sharp winds chill me to the bone, and it is truly a challenge for me to find the joy in life under those conditions. But come spring, I am easily exciteable as I watch the sun rise into a cloudless sky and the trees and bushes burst into bloom. I think that's why I've always loved Easter... because it's that yearly turning point from gloom to bloom. My hope this Easter, though, is that next year on this day I won't be surprised by my excitement; my hope is that this time next year I will have lived the past 365 days in an Easter mindset, and I will be just as excited on Easter Sunday as I was on the day before...

He lives! He lives! Christ Jesus lives today! He walks with me and talks with me along life's narrow way!

And that is something to get excited about and stay excited about.

8th Grade Heroes

I wanted to blog out a few notes from the first half of my day, as my sanity may or may not be with me when that 2:30 bell rings.

I have listened 8th graders discuss their drinking habits... at length. Natty isn't the beverage of choice in 8th grade, unlike with we classless college students. Oh no, my 8th graders prefer the finery of smooth shots of Jack Daniels. But they don't turn their nose up at the occasional sip of moon shine, don't worry. And attending the 8th grade dance? No way! They'll be throwing down at the local bar instead (one of the students knows the bouncer, wouldn't you know).

Instead of watching a video (yes, a video... a VHS, circe 1998, titled The World of Geometry), the 8th graders have clustered their desks in a corner and whipped out multiple decks of cards. I'm not 100% sure what game they're playing (as long as it's not strip poker, I'm turning a blind eye here), but I do know they're gambling. With crayons. I was proud to see a girl clean out the Crayola pile; right on! Girl power!

I can literally yell across this classroom and they won't hear me. Sometimes I yell nonsense just to test out this theory ("Don't ever leave! Stay here as long as you can!"). They don't even blink an eye.

As I type this, I have heard one of my male students say, "They're all virgins anyway." Gross. Virgins. (sarcasm) Since when are 8th graders drinking and having sex?! I definitely didn't know what a bomb was, and there were easily more virgins than not.

Some things never change, though. Eight years after my own 8th grade experience, the class clown is still being told that he could be valedictorian at DAR, the rival school up the road.