I've talked before about themes popping up in my life. Last time, it was a verse in Isaiah: "For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are my ways your ways, declares the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts" Those words continuously popped up in my life in a time when I needed to "let go and let God" (more so than usual).
A few weeks ago, I had dinner with my friends Katie and Liz. We talked over sushi about what the Lord was doing in our lives and books that had started a revolution in our walks. Mine, of course, was a Beth Moore book called "Believing God." I talked to the girls about the points that Beth makes; the one that resonated most with me was this: He is who He says He is. In other words, God is not love because I say He's love, and He's not holy because I sing "Holy, Holy, Holy." He is those things, and more, because that's who He says He is. And frankly, my tiny brain can't even fathom half of what He says He is. I think we get caught up in defining God; I say, "God is Love," because God as a big teddy bear is the easiest way to avoid feeling convicted. I say, "God is a jealous God," but that's mainly when I'd like to make a point to someone else in the wrong, rarely in regard to myself and my sin. Beth says, "All human attempts to define God cannot help but minimize Him. We somehow want to neatly package God and make everything about him explainable... We want Him to calm down and not be so... God-ish."
Last night I started Francis Chan's "Crazy Love." Right away in the foreword, Chris Tomlin introduces the phrase "God really is who He says He is." In his introduction, Chan goes on to say that "We forget that God never had an identity crisis. He knows that He's great and deserves to be the center of our lives." I don't know why something so simple blessed me so much: God never had an identity crisis. He is the same now as He was before time began... before time even existed.
In Matthew 16, Jesus asks Peter, "But who do you say that I am?" What seems like an obvious questions is, in fact, fully loaded. Who do I say that He is? I could spout off a list of phrases and adjectives: Savior, Counselor, Son of God, Creator, Friend, Love, Lamb of God, Lion of Judah... Those are the answers, right? But do I live my life worshipping a God who is what He says He is, or do I shrink Him down into my tiny, human-sized God Box, worshipping a god that is who I say he is and what I want him to be?
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
birthday existentialism.
For some time now, birthdays have been bittersweet to me. Maybe that's just a sign of getting old.
On the one hand, I love a birthday party. This year, my friends gathered in The Basement for a day of football (major) and to celebrate my 23rd birthday (minor). I passed out orange and blue shakers-- only about half the crowd participated, the others mumbled something about crimson-- and we watched ESPN from the time Alabama kicked until the last second of the Auburn game. We ate... and ate... and ate some more: chocolate chip cake, chips, brownies, cheese sticks, potato skins... And, during a time out of course, I blew out my lone candle... twice. Because 23 candles would be a tight fit. At one point in the night, I was lifted up in my chair, like a scene out of a Jewish wedding.
On the other hand, I hate the finality of it. As a child, I can remember my dad saying things like, "Lindsey, you turn ten tomorrow. You'll never be nine again. Are you sure you're ready?" At the time, I was more than ready. Forget nine. Nine is for losers; it's all about the double digits! At 15, I thought the same thing. See ya later, Fifteen. Eat my Honda Accord dust. And the last day of my seventeenth year, I could've cared less. Adios, seventeen. You're totally high school to me now. The day I turned nineteen though... that was weird. Nothing good comes with 19, nothing but age. At twenty-one, birthday were alright again. That milestone age is quite glamorous in a college town.
So here I am, twenty-three. Never again will I be twenty-two. Seems obvious enough, but it's somehow still a bit biting.
Twenty-three years old. Closer to twenty-five than twenty, and yet so much further away from clarity than I was the year before. Last year on my birthday, I had it all planned out. Life was far from perfect, but it was stable. Consistently mediocre. My days were routine: internship, work out, dinner, sleep. In my relationship, I laughed more than I cried, and that seemed good enough. In my spiritual life, I attended church as regularly as most, said my prayers each night before bed, and even picked up a devotional book from time to time. Not perfect... but consistently mediocre.
The entirety of my twenty-second year was one of the roughest of my life. I left my home in Auburn. I started grad school on a campus I've never liked. My one-time best friend became my ex in what seemed like a matter of seconds. And my life-- my consistent, stable, mediocre, safe life-- changed for good.
Or at least I hope it's for good.
Weren't expecting that curveball, hm? See, while I'm glad to see 22 go (but not exactly happy to see 23 arrive), in a lot of way... in the most important ways... it was the best year that ever happened to me. Honestly, it's bizarre to even read that as I type it out. There were days in February when I didn't want to get out of bed, but here I am. There were days still in March when I didn't want to talk, I didn't want to eat. I'd love to say it ended there, but it didn't. For months, I was broken.
But when you're broken, every day you manage to navigate through becomes a success. Every day you force a smile and accidentally laugh becomes an exceptional day. And somehow, your once mediocre life becomes an exceptional life. Because when you're broken, you realize how fabulous your friends are, how outrageously supportive your family is, and how unfathomably big your God is.
Sure, there was heartache and betrayal. There were lonely days and a lot of tears. But more than that, there was love. Unconditional love and grace like I've never known. And it was worth the trade. I know more about love now than I did when I was drowning in it. My need for Christ is more like my need for oxygen than it is my need to check Sunday School off my to-do list. This year on my birthday, I didn't have a plan for myself like I did last year. This year, I had no expectations of the year ahead might hold. And maybe that's a good thing... after all, last year's expectations didn't turn out so hot.
So, yes. I'm glad to see 22 go. Twenty-two, it's been real and it's been fun... but it ain't been real fun. 23, I don't like the looks of you... being all buddy-buddy with 25 and all. But I'm willing to give it a shot.
**Last night in class, we talked about existentialism. It's bizarre how that panned out... on my 23rd birthday, we discussed Death and all his friends as a class, life being what you make of it, and so on. So these deep thoughts are brought to you by my impeccably timed adventures in grad school.
Happy birthday to me. :)
On the one hand, I love a birthday party. This year, my friends gathered in The Basement for a day of football (major) and to celebrate my 23rd birthday (minor). I passed out orange and blue shakers-- only about half the crowd participated, the others mumbled something about crimson-- and we watched ESPN from the time Alabama kicked until the last second of the Auburn game. We ate... and ate... and ate some more: chocolate chip cake, chips, brownies, cheese sticks, potato skins... And, during a time out of course, I blew out my lone candle... twice. Because 23 candles would be a tight fit. At one point in the night, I was lifted up in my chair, like a scene out of a Jewish wedding.
On the other hand, I hate the finality of it. As a child, I can remember my dad saying things like, "Lindsey, you turn ten tomorrow. You'll never be nine again. Are you sure you're ready?" At the time, I was more than ready. Forget nine. Nine is for losers; it's all about the double digits! At 15, I thought the same thing. See ya later, Fifteen. Eat my Honda Accord dust. And the last day of my seventeenth year, I could've cared less. Adios, seventeen. You're totally high school to me now. The day I turned nineteen though... that was weird. Nothing good comes with 19, nothing but age. At twenty-one, birthday were alright again. That milestone age is quite glamorous in a college town.
So here I am, twenty-three. Never again will I be twenty-two. Seems obvious enough, but it's somehow still a bit biting.
Twenty-three years old. Closer to twenty-five than twenty, and yet so much further away from clarity than I was the year before. Last year on my birthday, I had it all planned out. Life was far from perfect, but it was stable. Consistently mediocre. My days were routine: internship, work out, dinner, sleep. In my relationship, I laughed more than I cried, and that seemed good enough. In my spiritual life, I attended church as regularly as most, said my prayers each night before bed, and even picked up a devotional book from time to time. Not perfect... but consistently mediocre.
The entirety of my twenty-second year was one of the roughest of my life. I left my home in Auburn. I started grad school on a campus I've never liked. My one-time best friend became my ex in what seemed like a matter of seconds. And my life-- my consistent, stable, mediocre, safe life-- changed for good.
Or at least I hope it's for good.
Weren't expecting that curveball, hm? See, while I'm glad to see 22 go (but not exactly happy to see 23 arrive), in a lot of way... in the most important ways... it was the best year that ever happened to me. Honestly, it's bizarre to even read that as I type it out. There were days in February when I didn't want to get out of bed, but here I am. There were days still in March when I didn't want to talk, I didn't want to eat. I'd love to say it ended there, but it didn't. For months, I was broken.
But when you're broken, every day you manage to navigate through becomes a success. Every day you force a smile and accidentally laugh becomes an exceptional day. And somehow, your once mediocre life becomes an exceptional life. Because when you're broken, you realize how fabulous your friends are, how outrageously supportive your family is, and how unfathomably big your God is.
Sure, there was heartache and betrayal. There were lonely days and a lot of tears. But more than that, there was love. Unconditional love and grace like I've never known. And it was worth the trade. I know more about love now than I did when I was drowning in it. My need for Christ is more like my need for oxygen than it is my need to check Sunday School off my to-do list. This year on my birthday, I didn't have a plan for myself like I did last year. This year, I had no expectations of the year ahead might hold. And maybe that's a good thing... after all, last year's expectations didn't turn out so hot.
So, yes. I'm glad to see 22 go. Twenty-two, it's been real and it's been fun... but it ain't been real fun. 23, I don't like the looks of you... being all buddy-buddy with 25 and all. But I'm willing to give it a shot.
**Last night in class, we talked about existentialism. It's bizarre how that panned out... on my 23rd birthday, we discussed Death and all his friends as a class, life being what you make of it, and so on. So these deep thoughts are brought to you by my impeccably timed adventures in grad school.
Happy birthday to me. :)
Monday, September 27, 2010
If everyone else jumped off a bridge...
I wouldn't jump off with them. And, no, I wouldn't be at the bottom to catch them (get real, dreamers, you'd get smushed. Yes, smushed). No, I'd be screaming "You're going to kill yourself!" as each member of my little tribe jumped off. I would probably be crying too and might even call the police. I don't do heights, and I don't do things that could kill me. Call me a wimp, say I need adventure-- whatever, I've had a pretty slam awesome life, and I intend to keep having that life. (23 years of that life TOMORROW, bee tee dubya).
BUT when my two best friends post surveys on their blogs, I do have to follow suit. It takes me back to my days on MySpace, to my younger years... after all, I'm getting old... did I mention I'll be 23 tomorrow? One sweet friend reminded me recently that it's closer to 25 than 20, and 25 is oh-so-close to 30...
So here's a little survey. My mother will consider this a waste of a post, but I'm in Counseling, and we're all about a little self-exploration.
1. What color is your toothbrush?
I believe it is pink and silver... and in need of replacement.
2. Name one person who made you smile today:
My mother, who nearly had a heart attack driving on I-85 in Atlanta.
3. What were you doing at 8 am this morning?
Snoozin'
4. What were you doing 45 minutes ago?
Catching up on the ol' Tweeter.
5. What is your favorite candy bar?
Twix! Although, if you covered a brussell sprout in chocolate, I'd probably eat it.
6. Have you ever been to a strip club?
No sir.
7. What is the last thing you said aloud?
Oh, so the Internet's wireless? (we're in hotel room in Atlanta-- waiting for SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE!)
8. What is your favorite ice cream flavor?
Oh my gosh, I love ice cream like I love to breathe. Cake batter makes me want to puke after about 3 bites, but those first three bites are glorious... and I love, love, love mint chocolate chip.
Sorry, I won't be finishing this survey as I am now on a hunt for ice cream and a candy bar...
9. What was the last thing you had to drink?
Diet Coke. Not my favorite. Bleh.
10. Do you like your wallet?
Yes, I do actually. It's navy blue pleather, and we've had a good partnership for a while now.
11. What was the last thing you ate?
Spicy Chicken Sandwich from Wendy's.
12. Have you bought any new clothing items this week?
I haven't bought new clothes in weeks. Must be about that time then...
13. The last sporting event you watched?
Auburn vs. South Carolina
14. What is your favorite flavor of popcorn?
Kettle corn. No doubt.
15. Who is the last person you sent a text message to?
That would be my hetero-life partner, Erica, I do believe.
16. Ever go camping?
I love camping.
17. Do you take vitamins daily?
Nope. I do enjoy a delightful gummy vitamin from time to time, but it's really more to satisfy a sweet craving than anything...
Do I have a problem, maybe?
18. Do you go to church every Sunday?
Almost every Sunday.
19. Do you have a tan?
The kind that washes off a little more with every shower.
20. Do you prefer Chinese food over pizza?
Hi, my name is Lindsey, and I'm a junk food junky. I'll take both, please. With dessert.
21., Do you drink your soda with a straw?
If a straw is present, I'll use it. I don't go out of my way for it or anything.
22. What did your last text message say?
"I keep forgetting. HAVE FUN!"
23. What are you doing tomorrow?
Driving home from Atlanta, driving home from Guntersville, dinner with classmates, class, homework, ohyeahitsmybirthday, sleep.
24. What sounds are you listening to now?
My mom flipping through my Housewives book.
25. Look to your left, what do you see?
See #24
26. What color is your watch?
I'm not wearing one today.
27. What do you think of when you hear Australia?
Miley Cyrus was the first thing I thought of for some reason... weird, free association...
28. What is your birthstone?
Sapphire. ohyeahmybirthdayistomorrow.
29 Do you go in at a fast food place or just hit the drive thru?
Drive-thru, all the way. Don't waste my time.
30. What is your favorite number?
3 and 18.
31. Who's the last person you talked to on the phone?
Laura
32. Any plans today?
We just got to Atlanta, and my parents and I are about to go to dinner and then to the So You Think You Can Dance show! Other plans include meeting my favorite dancer, Kent, and struggling over whether or not he's too young for me to hit on.
33. How many states have you lived in?
Alabama, and a brief stint in Italia
34. Biggest annoyance right now?
Grad school.
35. Last song listened to?
I really have no idea... I've been out of the car for about an hour...
36. Can you say the alphabet backwards?
Not if my life depended on it.
37. Do you have a maid service clean your house?
My "house" includes three rooms inhabited by Macy and me. So, no. We're pretty low-maintenance.
38. Favorite pair of shoes you like to wear all the time?
I wear a pair of nude t-strap sandals I bought on clearance at GAP all the time. All the time.
39. Are you jealous of anyone?
Probably.
40. Is anyone jealous of you?
I bet someone I've passed today has been jealous of this fabulous hair day I'm having (ahem, Mom)... or maybe you're jealous that I'm going to see So You Think You Can Dance in an hour. You should be, anyway.
41. Do you love anyone?
Nah, not really.
Duh.
42. Do any of your friends have children?
Actually, no. None of my close friends do.
43. What do you usually do during the day?
Homework. All day, everyday.
44. Do you hate anyone that you know right now?
Honestly, no. And that's nice to say.
45. Do you use the word 'hello' daily?
Actually, I might not. I say "Hey" a lot.
46. What color is your car?
Blue.
47. Do you like cats?
If you had a Macy, you'd love cats too.
48. Are you thinking about someone right now?
Now that you ask, I'm thinking of several someones. Mainly Cat Deeley and Kent.
49. Have you ever been to Six Flags?
It's been a long, long time since I've been to Six Flags...
50. How did you get your worst scar?
Surgery.
Now, look at all that insight we've gained.
BUT when my two best friends post surveys on their blogs, I do have to follow suit. It takes me back to my days on MySpace, to my younger years... after all, I'm getting old... did I mention I'll be 23 tomorrow? One sweet friend reminded me recently that it's closer to 25 than 20, and 25 is oh-so-close to 30...
So here's a little survey. My mother will consider this a waste of a post, but I'm in Counseling, and we're all about a little self-exploration.
1. What color is your toothbrush?
I believe it is pink and silver... and in need of replacement.
2. Name one person who made you smile today:
My mother, who nearly had a heart attack driving on I-85 in Atlanta.
3. What were you doing at 8 am this morning?
Snoozin'
4. What were you doing 45 minutes ago?
Catching up on the ol' Tweeter.
5. What is your favorite candy bar?
Twix! Although, if you covered a brussell sprout in chocolate, I'd probably eat it.
6. Have you ever been to a strip club?
No sir.
7. What is the last thing you said aloud?
Oh, so the Internet's wireless? (we're in hotel room in Atlanta-- waiting for SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE!)
8. What is your favorite ice cream flavor?
Oh my gosh, I love ice cream like I love to breathe. Cake batter makes me want to puke after about 3 bites, but those first three bites are glorious... and I love, love, love mint chocolate chip.
Sorry, I won't be finishing this survey as I am now on a hunt for ice cream and a candy bar...
9. What was the last thing you had to drink?
Diet Coke. Not my favorite. Bleh.
10. Do you like your wallet?
Yes, I do actually. It's navy blue pleather, and we've had a good partnership for a while now.
11. What was the last thing you ate?
Spicy Chicken Sandwich from Wendy's.
12. Have you bought any new clothing items this week?
I haven't bought new clothes in weeks. Must be about that time then...
13. The last sporting event you watched?
Auburn vs. South Carolina
14. What is your favorite flavor of popcorn?
Kettle corn. No doubt.
15. Who is the last person you sent a text message to?
That would be my hetero-life partner, Erica, I do believe.
16. Ever go camping?
I love camping.
17. Do you take vitamins daily?
Nope. I do enjoy a delightful gummy vitamin from time to time, but it's really more to satisfy a sweet craving than anything...
Do I have a problem, maybe?
18. Do you go to church every Sunday?
Almost every Sunday.
19. Do you have a tan?
The kind that washes off a little more with every shower.
20. Do you prefer Chinese food over pizza?
Hi, my name is Lindsey, and I'm a junk food junky. I'll take both, please. With dessert.
21., Do you drink your soda with a straw?
If a straw is present, I'll use it. I don't go out of my way for it or anything.
22. What did your last text message say?
"I keep forgetting. HAVE FUN!"
23. What are you doing tomorrow?
Driving home from Atlanta, driving home from Guntersville, dinner with classmates, class, homework, ohyeahitsmybirthday, sleep.
24. What sounds are you listening to now?
My mom flipping through my Housewives book.
25. Look to your left, what do you see?
See #24
26. What color is your watch?
I'm not wearing one today.
27. What do you think of when you hear Australia?
Miley Cyrus was the first thing I thought of for some reason... weird, free association...
28. What is your birthstone?
Sapphire. ohyeahmybirthdayistomorrow.
29 Do you go in at a fast food place or just hit the drive thru?
Drive-thru, all the way. Don't waste my time.
30. What is your favorite number?
3 and 18.
31. Who's the last person you talked to on the phone?
Laura
32. Any plans today?
We just got to Atlanta, and my parents and I are about to go to dinner and then to the So You Think You Can Dance show! Other plans include meeting my favorite dancer, Kent, and struggling over whether or not he's too young for me to hit on.
33. How many states have you lived in?
Alabama, and a brief stint in Italia
34. Biggest annoyance right now?
Grad school.
35. Last song listened to?
I really have no idea... I've been out of the car for about an hour...
36. Can you say the alphabet backwards?
Not if my life depended on it.
37. Do you have a maid service clean your house?
My "house" includes three rooms inhabited by Macy and me. So, no. We're pretty low-maintenance.
38. Favorite pair of shoes you like to wear all the time?
I wear a pair of nude t-strap sandals I bought on clearance at GAP all the time. All the time.
39. Are you jealous of anyone?
Probably.
40. Is anyone jealous of you?
I bet someone I've passed today has been jealous of this fabulous hair day I'm having (ahem, Mom)... or maybe you're jealous that I'm going to see So You Think You Can Dance in an hour. You should be, anyway.
41. Do you love anyone?
Nah, not really.
Duh.
42. Do any of your friends have children?
Actually, no. None of my close friends do.
43. What do you usually do during the day?
Homework. All day, everyday.
44. Do you hate anyone that you know right now?
Honestly, no. And that's nice to say.
45. Do you use the word 'hello' daily?
Actually, I might not. I say "Hey" a lot.
46. What color is your car?
Blue.
47. Do you like cats?
If you had a Macy, you'd love cats too.
48. Are you thinking about someone right now?
Now that you ask, I'm thinking of several someones. Mainly Cat Deeley and Kent.
49. Have you ever been to Six Flags?
It's been a long, long time since I've been to Six Flags...
50. How did you get your worst scar?
Surgery.
Now, look at all that insight we've gained.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Passion and lack-thereof.
Every Wednesday night I go to my class on Multicultural Diversity.
Every Wednesday night I sit in class from 6:00 til 9:00. Not 8:48 or even 8:59. Six o'clock until nine o'clock.
Oh, but wait, there's a nine minute break. So it's not THAT bad... No, it is that bad. The very amount of minutes makes it even worse. NINE minutes. Not ten. Ten would be too many minutes. No need for double digits when you're class is ONLY three hours long.
In three hours, I could watch Titanic, Gone with the Wind, Avatar, Star Wars, or The Godfather. I could watch six episodes of Community, Friends, The Office, or How I Met Your Mother. I could watch three episodes of Grey's Anatomy, Glee, or Survivor. In three hours, I could play a game of Monopoly or drive to Auburn. I could hit every store at the mall and even stop by the food court. I could have multiple phone dates or type out a month's worth of blogs (that is, after all, what we're all missing out on by my having to be in class).
If you look at it from a financial point of view, this is the class I'm getting my money's worth and more from. If you look at it from my usual seat in class, though, this is the class where my feet fall asleep after approximately 15 minutes and I run out of places to look in avoidance of professor eye contact. For three hours, my professor earns her pay check more than any other teacher I've ever had: she paces back and forth, up and down; she gestures emphatically with her hands and slips in and out of Spanish; she lectures with urgency about cultural diversity and unintentional biases and prejudices; she works herself up to a fever pitch and allows for a dramatic moment of silence to let her message seep into her student audience.
Passion. So. Much. Passion.
Do I want to be a school counselor? Absolutely. This week I've started my first of a series of guidance lessons in local schools, and I feel affirmed in my calling to be a school counselor (that calling has been a little shaky as of late). Yes, I'm excited about being a school counselor. In some classes (NEVER Multicultural Diversity; too dangerous), I daydream about being a school counselor: smiling at my students in the hallway, talking to parents in the car line, chaperoning prom, and- duh- being the cheerleading coach. Do I want to be a school counselor for the next 25 years? Meh.... maybe not. Probably not. Three semesters into my Master's degree, I already know that I want to pursue an English Education degree as soon as I graduate my current program. I'd love to teach English to high schoolers: novels, plays, poetry, oh my! Do I want to teach English for the rest of my life? Again, probably not.
I think-- I hope-- that most people go into education to change the world. We all want to have that miracle story that makes Oscar-worthy cinematic magic (Reese Witherspoon or Sarah Chalke, please, Mr. Spielberg... although, on second thought, Sandra Bullock was divine as a blonde...). I'm not certain, though, that I'll ever pace my classroom with urgency as I discuss Hedda Gabler or gesture emphatically about Hester Prynne's mark of shame.
Sometimes I scoff at mi profesora's passion. I roll my eyes at her "earth-shattering" lectures. But the truth is, I have participated in that class, in those three hours of my week, more than all my other classes in grad school and undergrad combined. I have thought critically, and I have been pushed well beyond my comfort zone.
So I'm at a crossroads. I hate that class. Loathe that class. And yet I am more engaged in those three hours than in my time in any other classroom. While I'm not leaving the class eager to do further research on multicultural diversity, my professor's energy pulls me in. Is passion contagious? Is it necessary for classroom success? Should I be concerned that I'm not passionate about, albeit happy with, school counseling or English education?
Every Wednesday night I sit in class from 6:00 til 9:00. Not 8:48 or even 8:59. Six o'clock until nine o'clock.
Oh, but wait, there's a nine minute break. So it's not THAT bad... No, it is that bad. The very amount of minutes makes it even worse. NINE minutes. Not ten. Ten would be too many minutes. No need for double digits when you're class is ONLY three hours long.
In three hours, I could watch Titanic, Gone with the Wind, Avatar, Star Wars, or The Godfather. I could watch six episodes of Community, Friends, The Office, or How I Met Your Mother. I could watch three episodes of Grey's Anatomy, Glee, or Survivor. In three hours, I could play a game of Monopoly or drive to Auburn. I could hit every store at the mall and even stop by the food court. I could have multiple phone dates or type out a month's worth of blogs (that is, after all, what we're all missing out on by my having to be in class).
If you look at it from a financial point of view, this is the class I'm getting my money's worth and more from. If you look at it from my usual seat in class, though, this is the class where my feet fall asleep after approximately 15 minutes and I run out of places to look in avoidance of professor eye contact. For three hours, my professor earns her pay check more than any other teacher I've ever had: she paces back and forth, up and down; she gestures emphatically with her hands and slips in and out of Spanish; she lectures with urgency about cultural diversity and unintentional biases and prejudices; she works herself up to a fever pitch and allows for a dramatic moment of silence to let her message seep into her student audience.
Passion. So. Much. Passion.
Do I want to be a school counselor? Absolutely. This week I've started my first of a series of guidance lessons in local schools, and I feel affirmed in my calling to be a school counselor (that calling has been a little shaky as of late). Yes, I'm excited about being a school counselor. In some classes (NEVER Multicultural Diversity; too dangerous), I daydream about being a school counselor: smiling at my students in the hallway, talking to parents in the car line, chaperoning prom, and- duh- being the cheerleading coach. Do I want to be a school counselor for the next 25 years? Meh.... maybe not. Probably not. Three semesters into my Master's degree, I already know that I want to pursue an English Education degree as soon as I graduate my current program. I'd love to teach English to high schoolers: novels, plays, poetry, oh my! Do I want to teach English for the rest of my life? Again, probably not.
I think-- I hope-- that most people go into education to change the world. We all want to have that miracle story that makes Oscar-worthy cinematic magic (Reese Witherspoon or Sarah Chalke, please, Mr. Spielberg... although, on second thought, Sandra Bullock was divine as a blonde...). I'm not certain, though, that I'll ever pace my classroom with urgency as I discuss Hedda Gabler or gesture emphatically about Hester Prynne's mark of shame.
Sometimes I scoff at mi profesora's passion. I roll my eyes at her "earth-shattering" lectures. But the truth is, I have participated in that class, in those three hours of my week, more than all my other classes in grad school and undergrad combined. I have thought critically, and I have been pushed well beyond my comfort zone.
So I'm at a crossroads. I hate that class. Loathe that class. And yet I am more engaged in those three hours than in my time in any other classroom. While I'm not leaving the class eager to do further research on multicultural diversity, my professor's energy pulls me in. Is passion contagious? Is it necessary for classroom success? Should I be concerned that I'm not passionate about, albeit happy with, school counseling or English education?
Monday, September 20, 2010
Sister, Sister
I've always been "that girl." You know the one, the one that says, "I just don't like girls." Girls are catty and competitive, and there is no real alternative to the male creed "bros before hoes," because a "ho" will drop her friends for her bf in a hot minute. Don't get me wrong, I'm no exception. But it is what it is: for years I've found myself happily in the company of many boys and few girls. The psychologist in me says that I have a drive to fill the brother void in my life; the realist in me says I like the little sister attention.
These days, I feel different. I guess it has a lot to do with growing up-- 4 out of 5 of my guy friends are in serious relationships, and there's a line. No matter who you are, how close you are, there is a girlfriend line. And most of "my" boys have flown our little singles' coop. Eventually they'll be someone's husbands, and--duh-- I can't be best friends with someone's husband.
So here I am, in transition. And, frankly, I love it. I have never been so thrilled to have girlfriends. Honestly, I've never had girlfriends.
I spent this weekend with my sorority sisters. Most of them were roommates in college, so I was a little anxious to jump into their established group. But... oh. my. gosh. We had the best time. I loved girl talk: loved it. Most of us are single, so it was refreshing to just BE; no one had to check in with their boyfriends at the end of the night, no one used the word 'we' in reference to their other half. We giggled, we flirted with strangers (don't freak, aunts and uncles, there's strength in numbers), and I've rarely-- or never-- been so happy to be a single twenty-something out on the town with my girlfriends.
Tonight I had dinner with another girl friend, who like me has always "hated girls." We talked about the struggles of being single girls in peer group of couples, we talked about prayer lives and plans for the future. And if we wanted to, we could've talked about PMS and our favorite lip gloss. We didn't, but it's just nice to be in this "girl world."
Last week, I went to see Cabaret with Alice. After dinner, we went to Waffle House and talked for hours. Sure, Waffle House isn't exactly chic, but I loved the feeling of holding a hot cup of coffee in both hands and just gushing over the table about love and love lost, being in each other's weddings some day, and girls' weekends that are bound to happen. For a season, I thought I'd lose my would-be sister-in-law, but that's just silly to think about. Alice has been one of my girlfriends since before I believed in girlfriends.
Outside of my number one gal pal (hi, Mom), I talk to Erica and Anna more than anyone else in this world. Honestly, I bet I haven't gone a day without either of them in almost a year. I always hear myself say things like, "One of my best friends, Erica..." because we're just a trio, that's all there is to it. It's one of the most complex, incredible friendships I've ever had. Our relationships with each other are totally different: Erica and I are sarcastic and cynical, Anna and I are planners and all about our feelings. I know they would do anything for me, mainly because they have. They have absolutely seen me at my worst, and they've struggled with me and cried with me. After my high school sisterhood with Lauren, I never thought I'd have another female best friend... and for years, I didn't... but now I have two, and it's insane. And perfect.
So right now, I'm really into girls' nights, chick flicks, and weekend retreats. I'm sure eventually I'll be into double dates and vacationing with other married couples, but right now... I'm not. And I love it.
monday confession: i'm an addict.
...but luckily I'm not addicted to cocaine or cigarettes or booze. I have some less-than-healthy addictions (chocolate, desserts in general, TV), today's vice is perfectly acceptable, although a little costly: I'm addicted to books.
Notice I didn't say that I'm addicted to reading. I love, love, love to read, but I do quite a bit of reading for grad school, so I rarely get to read purely for pleasure... but that doesn't stop me from collecting a wealth of books that I plan to read eventually. I like to choose one day per weekend, if possible, to completely ignore academic reading and focus solely on "recreational" reading, and I carry more books than I could possibly finish around with me on school holidays and vacations.
I think one of the reasons I have trouble finishing a book is that I'm rarely reading just one at a time. I have this weird pattern that I try to stick to: "trendy" book (i.e. Sookie Stackhouse novels), autobiography, classic novel. Once I've acquired a book, it's hard for me not to start it, and oftentimes I get ADD with a book and just need to look at a page of a different size or font.
Currently reading:
I know some people roll their eyes at "diet" books, but this isn't about a diet. Real Housewives of New York's Bethenny makes things that should come naturally to you, but have been warped by America's food obsession, simple. I find myself nodding as I read her tips and advice, because it just makes so much sense.
I have been reading Gone with the Wind for around 6 months. Duration of the read, in this case, is not indicative of my lack of interest. I love this book: the romance of the pre-war South, the devastation of the War of Northern Aggression, the lost art of chivalry... BUT: this book is over 1000 pages long, and these aren't just any pages. The font on each page is approximately size 6, as compared to the more common size 12. So I get a little antsy when I've been reading for an hour and realize I've only covered 4 pages. But I will prevail!
This is one of those books that I just couldn't wait to start. Yesterday I got to do a little birthday swap with Anna, and she gave me this beautiful book, that fed one my other addictions: trashy reality TV. While I'm not proud of my guilty pleasure, I can't deny that I love it and I've only found one group of Housewives that doesn't thrill me (DC: yawwwwwwn). Thanks, Nan!
We all know I have a "slight" obsession with Beth Moore, but lately I've taken a detour from my Moore collection (although, it's not a true detour, as you'll soon see). I'm reading C.S. Lewis' classic 'Mere Christianity' and I can say with confidence that there's a reason this book is a classic: Lewis if fabulous. His philosophy is well thought out and practically flawless, and each chapter has undertones of humor. Love, love, love.
This is what I mean when I say my detour from Beth's book isn't total: I don't read Praying God's Word everyday, but I do work it in from time to time, especially when I need to just have some serious prayer time. This book totally immerses you in the Word, highlighting verses you may have overlooked before or just never appreciated. Beth uses Scripture from both the Old and New Testament, a beautiful revelation of the consistency of God's Word.
And I wonder why I can't finish a book... AND I have a running list of books to read and buy.
Books that are "on deck" (patting myself on the back for the sports reference):
Francis Chan's Crazy Love (SO many people have recommended this book to me; after I bought it, I made my mother keep it so I couldn't start it before I finish my other quiet time books!)
Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (this is actually one that I've started but it's been sadly knocked back)
A number of biographies, including Laurence Olivier and Bette Davis
Phillipa Gregory's The White Queen
Books that are on my "to buy" list (or to receive, *wink*):
Cast of Characters- Max Lucado
Alice I Have Been- Melanie Benjamin
The Other Queen- Phillipa Gregory
Mary Tudor- Anna Whitelock
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo- Stieg Larsson
Radical- David Platt
Love the One You're With- Emily Giffin
The Lady Elizabeth- Alison Weir
Cleopatra's Daughter- Michele Moran
Wouldn't it be less expensive if I just bought a pack of cigarettes every day?....
Notice I didn't say that I'm addicted to reading. I love, love, love to read, but I do quite a bit of reading for grad school, so I rarely get to read purely for pleasure... but that doesn't stop me from collecting a wealth of books that I plan to read eventually. I like to choose one day per weekend, if possible, to completely ignore academic reading and focus solely on "recreational" reading, and I carry more books than I could possibly finish around with me on school holidays and vacations.
I think one of the reasons I have trouble finishing a book is that I'm rarely reading just one at a time. I have this weird pattern that I try to stick to: "trendy" book (i.e. Sookie Stackhouse novels), autobiography, classic novel. Once I've acquired a book, it's hard for me not to start it, and oftentimes I get ADD with a book and just need to look at a page of a different size or font.
Currently reading:
I know some people roll their eyes at "diet" books, but this isn't about a diet. Real Housewives of New York's Bethenny makes things that should come naturally to you, but have been warped by America's food obsession, simple. I find myself nodding as I read her tips and advice, because it just makes so much sense.
I have been reading Gone with the Wind for around 6 months. Duration of the read, in this case, is not indicative of my lack of interest. I love this book: the romance of the pre-war South, the devastation of the War of Northern Aggression, the lost art of chivalry... BUT: this book is over 1000 pages long, and these aren't just any pages. The font on each page is approximately size 6, as compared to the more common size 12. So I get a little antsy when I've been reading for an hour and realize I've only covered 4 pages. But I will prevail!
This is one of those books that I just couldn't wait to start. Yesterday I got to do a little birthday swap with Anna, and she gave me this beautiful book, that fed one my other addictions: trashy reality TV. While I'm not proud of my guilty pleasure, I can't deny that I love it and I've only found one group of Housewives that doesn't thrill me (DC: yawwwwwwn). Thanks, Nan!
We all know I have a "slight" obsession with Beth Moore, but lately I've taken a detour from my Moore collection (although, it's not a true detour, as you'll soon see). I'm reading C.S. Lewis' classic 'Mere Christianity' and I can say with confidence that there's a reason this book is a classic: Lewis if fabulous. His philosophy is well thought out and practically flawless, and each chapter has undertones of humor. Love, love, love.
This is what I mean when I say my detour from Beth's book isn't total: I don't read Praying God's Word everyday, but I do work it in from time to time, especially when I need to just have some serious prayer time. This book totally immerses you in the Word, highlighting verses you may have overlooked before or just never appreciated. Beth uses Scripture from both the Old and New Testament, a beautiful revelation of the consistency of God's Word.And I wonder why I can't finish a book... AND I have a running list of books to read and buy.
Books that are "on deck" (patting myself on the back for the sports reference):
Francis Chan's Crazy Love (SO many people have recommended this book to me; after I bought it, I made my mother keep it so I couldn't start it before I finish my other quiet time books!)
Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (this is actually one that I've started but it's been sadly knocked back)
A number of biographies, including Laurence Olivier and Bette Davis
Phillipa Gregory's The White Queen
Books that are on my "to buy" list (or to receive, *wink*):
Cast of Characters- Max Lucado
Alice I Have Been- Melanie Benjamin
The Other Queen- Phillipa Gregory
Mary Tudor- Anna Whitelock
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo- Stieg Larsson
Radical- David Platt
Love the One You're With- Emily Giffin
The Lady Elizabeth- Alison Weir
Cleopatra's Daughter- Michele Moran
Wouldn't it be less expensive if I just bought a pack of cigarettes every day?....
Friday, September 17, 2010
Baby Geniuses
I've never been one of those people who would love to go back to high school. I hear people say this from time to time, and I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes (you win some, you lose some). Today, though, I experienced something even more bizarre: today, I wanted to go back to elementary school.
As part of a project for one of my classes, I have to shadow counselors in local elementary, middle, and high schools. My elementary and middle schools are part of the same magnet school system. My hometown has one school system, so the idea of a magnet school was new to me. For anyone who doesn't know, magnet schools are for academically gifted students. In a word, this school is MAGNIFICENT. As a child, I loved school. I was excited about going to school (other than my year as the "new kid" in second grade, much of which is blacked out in my memory) in the mornings, and I wanted to play school when I got home. My great-grandmother passed down lots of her teacher stuff to me, including a fabulous sticker collection, and I practiced my handwriting anywhere-- specifically on my mother's books and important documents and most notoriously (allegedly) on the leather couch.
I lived for learning (past tense on purpose), and these elementary magnet students are my scholastic soul mates. This school is "project-based;" that is, they don't use textbooks. Instead, the students do projects and teach themselves. Creativity is like plague here. Three days a week they go to an elective enrichment class: piano, violin, French, German, Drums of the World, guitar, drawing, and so on. And that's on top of their usual studies: creative writing, global studies, Spanish, math, etc.
Basically, these elementary school kids are smarter than me already.
We went around the room and introduced ourselves today, and we each said something we liked. I was expecting things like 'shopping,' 'sleeping,' 'football'... Nope:
"My name's Eliza, and I like to play the violin."
"My name's Lily, and I enjoy writing poetry."
"My name's Price, and I love to read books, especially series."
At which point I asked, "Oh yeah? What series are you reading now?"
-"I'm reading several series, actually."
Oh. While you're at it, could I throw some research articles at you?
So, yes, I want to be back in elementary school. I want to create and explore, to learn new languages and play instruments. And mostly I want to not wonder if I'll get an A, or if I'll pass at all... if I'll find a job one day or maybe even a husband... Life could be so easy if I could just revert back to baby genius.
As part of a project for one of my classes, I have to shadow counselors in local elementary, middle, and high schools. My elementary and middle schools are part of the same magnet school system. My hometown has one school system, so the idea of a magnet school was new to me. For anyone who doesn't know, magnet schools are for academically gifted students. In a word, this school is MAGNIFICENT. As a child, I loved school. I was excited about going to school (other than my year as the "new kid" in second grade, much of which is blacked out in my memory) in the mornings, and I wanted to play school when I got home. My great-grandmother passed down lots of her teacher stuff to me, including a fabulous sticker collection, and I practiced my handwriting anywhere-- specifically on my mother's books and important documents and most notoriously (allegedly) on the leather couch.
I lived for learning (past tense on purpose), and these elementary magnet students are my scholastic soul mates. This school is "project-based;" that is, they don't use textbooks. Instead, the students do projects and teach themselves. Creativity is like plague here. Three days a week they go to an elective enrichment class: piano, violin, French, German, Drums of the World, guitar, drawing, and so on. And that's on top of their usual studies: creative writing, global studies, Spanish, math, etc.
Basically, these elementary school kids are smarter than me already.
We went around the room and introduced ourselves today, and we each said something we liked. I was expecting things like 'shopping,' 'sleeping,' 'football'... Nope:
"My name's Eliza, and I like to play the violin."
"My name's Lily, and I enjoy writing poetry."
"My name's Price, and I love to read books, especially series."
At which point I asked, "Oh yeah? What series are you reading now?"
-"I'm reading several series, actually."
Oh. While you're at it, could I throw some research articles at you?
So, yes, I want to be back in elementary school. I want to create and explore, to learn new languages and play instruments. And mostly I want to not wonder if I'll get an A, or if I'll pass at all... if I'll find a job one day or maybe even a husband... Life could be so easy if I could just revert back to baby genius.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Check, Check, Check
After 150 blog posts (tootin' my horn here, folks), it's hard to recall what subjects have graced this blogspot. Today, though, I've been perusing another of my favorite blogs (Shmitten Kitten, check it out), and I'm feeling inspired to write about men.
We all know that John Krasinski (may his bachelorhood rest in peace) is my ideal man, but let's break it down. Let me give you a run-through of the perfect man. Yes, THE perfect man.
[I know that I pledged to move on, so let me explain. I don't make it a practice to pine after taken men-- in fact, that's a triple no no in Lindsey's Book of Love-- but I've already moved on from one disaster this year, and this one is proving much harder, so I'm just going to indulge a little]
We'll start with John's most obvious trait: his height. Take any average guy, increase his height to above 6', and you have increased his attractiveness infinitely. This height fetish all started when I was a Junior in high school and my hipster boyfriend, Drew, was measuring in somewhere around 6'4. Nothing thrilled my heart more than being picked up into a hug by my very own Jolly Green Giant. Since Drew, no one's quite measured up... and I mean that literally; he gets the height trophy in my ex-boyfriend collection.
Next up: humor. This should really be first because it's possibly the MOST important thing on my checklist of romantic potential. And really, I have a checklist. And a guy could check every box on the page, but if the humor box is gaping open [ ]... sorry, sir. Thanks for playing. This category is tricky, though-- not just any humor will do. Take your bathroom humor elsewhere. I'm looking for puns and classic references... humor that is evidence of your wit and intelligence. One-liners should be like holidays: gloriously cheesy and only a few times a year. Otherwise, feel free to blow me away with your Jack Nicholson impression or your clever pun. John Krasinski is never lazy with his humor, and that's what we're shooting for.
Okay, gentlemen, here's where it gets tough. Our prototype, John, graduated with honors from Brown. So brush off your thinking caps, boys. The ideal man is smart, but not [never] a know-it-all. I don't have a perfect ACT score, and I wasn't Valedictorian, but I like to think I'm a smart gal. And it's tres important that you can match wits with me. Brownie points if you're smarter than me at things I don't want to know about: changing my tires, setting up my router, etc. Bottom line, I need your text messages to be grammatically correct-- because that's how, in my fantasy world, John texts-- everything else is a bonus.
I hate to be shallow, but this after all the IDEAL man, so I'll check my guilt here.
Please take note of John's hair. It is perfectly-coifed. Every time. Awards shows, premieres, out on the town... he probably wakes up with nary a hair out of place. And if he did, it would be perfectly tousled. John is not ashamed to throw in some product, but he does it with grace. No need to be a trigger-happy hair gel Guido. Keep it classy... because that's what John would do. In my ex- collection, I've got to give the hair trophy to Clay, who has a head full of fratastic hair. May it hold on tight, Clay.
And last (mainly because I'm about to leave), show me those pearly whites. My heart melts when John (or Jim, as it is on The Office) gives that sheepish grin to the camera. His eyes sparkle, his perfectly straight teeth gleam. It's like the sun shining through the clouds when his face cracks into a smile. So my last priority for the ideal male specimen: great teeth and a beautiful smile.
Voila. Now, is that so hard?...
And I didn't even get started on being a Christian, liking my friends, charming my parents, taking me on adventures... All things, I'm *sure* John Krasinski would ace... and if he wouldn't, I don't care to know.
We all know that John Krasinski (may his bachelorhood rest in peace) is my ideal man, but let's break it down. Let me give you a run-through of the perfect man. Yes, THE perfect man.
[I know that I pledged to move on, so let me explain. I don't make it a practice to pine after taken men-- in fact, that's a triple no no in Lindsey's Book of Love-- but I've already moved on from one disaster this year, and this one is proving much harder, so I'm just going to indulge a little]
We'll start with John's most obvious trait: his height. Take any average guy, increase his height to above 6', and you have increased his attractiveness infinitely. This height fetish all started when I was a Junior in high school and my hipster boyfriend, Drew, was measuring in somewhere around 6'4. Nothing thrilled my heart more than being picked up into a hug by my very own Jolly Green Giant. Since Drew, no one's quite measured up... and I mean that literally; he gets the height trophy in my ex-boyfriend collection.
Next up: humor. This should really be first because it's possibly the MOST important thing on my checklist of romantic potential. And really, I have a checklist. And a guy could check every box on the page, but if the humor box is gaping open [ ]... sorry, sir. Thanks for playing. This category is tricky, though-- not just any humor will do. Take your bathroom humor elsewhere. I'm looking for puns and classic references... humor that is evidence of your wit and intelligence. One-liners should be like holidays: gloriously cheesy and only a few times a year. Otherwise, feel free to blow me away with your Jack Nicholson impression or your clever pun. John Krasinski is never lazy with his humor, and that's what we're shooting for.
Okay, gentlemen, here's where it gets tough. Our prototype, John, graduated with honors from Brown. So brush off your thinking caps, boys. The ideal man is smart, but not [never] a know-it-all. I don't have a perfect ACT score, and I wasn't Valedictorian, but I like to think I'm a smart gal. And it's tres important that you can match wits with me. Brownie points if you're smarter than me at things I don't want to know about: changing my tires, setting up my router, etc. Bottom line, I need your text messages to be grammatically correct-- because that's how, in my fantasy world, John texts-- everything else is a bonus.
I hate to be shallow, but this after all the IDEAL man, so I'll check my guilt here.
Please take note of John's hair. It is perfectly-coifed. Every time. Awards shows, premieres, out on the town... he probably wakes up with nary a hair out of place. And if he did, it would be perfectly tousled. John is not ashamed to throw in some product, but he does it with grace. No need to be a trigger-happy hair gel Guido. Keep it classy... because that's what John would do. In my ex- collection, I've got to give the hair trophy to Clay, who has a head full of fratastic hair. May it hold on tight, Clay.
And last (mainly because I'm about to leave), show me those pearly whites. My heart melts when John (or Jim, as it is on The Office) gives that sheepish grin to the camera. His eyes sparkle, his perfectly straight teeth gleam. It's like the sun shining through the clouds when his face cracks into a smile. So my last priority for the ideal male specimen: great teeth and a beautiful smile.
Voila. Now, is that so hard?...
And I didn't even get started on being a Christian, liking my friends, charming my parents, taking me on adventures... All things, I'm *sure* John Krasinski would ace... and if he wouldn't, I don't care to know.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
This little blog of mine...
This is my 150th post. I hesitate to write it only because you'll soon see that this blog has no purpose. Some of my blogs are stories I find humorous and worthy of sharing, others are my thoughts on something inspiring I have encountered... This, though, this milestone blog, will be about nothing. It seems fitting, now that I think about it, as the name of my blog is "Much Ado About Nothing" (which, coincidentally, I have never read; I simply relate to the idea of big hype over very little).
So I'm just going to write... er, type... because that's why I started this little diary to begin with.
Last night I had a mind explosion that probably seems elementary to most. As a child, we learn about David and Goliath. We know all about his sling shot and his stones, Saul's armor that was too big, and so on. I can even recall being fascinated by David's friendship with Jonathan. Later in life, having matured some, we hear about King David... about his affair with Bathsheba, how he had her husband basically murdered. I find that I fixate on David's authorship of so many Psalms. To me, he is The Psalmist. Last night I realized that in my mind's eye, there is a great disconnect between David the Giant Killer and David the Philandering Psalmist. There was something very comforting to put two and two together last night... I guess the idea of a Nobody being made not into a Somebody, but a Really Really Big Deal Somebody was what got me. I have no illusions that I will be a celebrity one day, but it's some kind of awesome to worship a God that does that kind of thing.
I love subbing. Honestly, I adore it. I love seeing all my old teacher, and I love when the students like me enough to share with me. And that's what I'm getting at. Some part of me, some residual high school insecurity, is begging these kids to like me. My outfits are calculated, my announcements laced with sarcasm and humor and some hope that if I'm genuine and honest my students will cut me some slack. I was never the cool kid in high school, and neither were my friends. I think I had my shot at it once, but it seemed like a lot of effort to me. I'd like to say I didn't care, that I lived my life as who I was, immune to peer pressure. But I did care, a lot. And here I am nearly 5 years later... Twenty-two years old, one degree under my belt and pursuing another, and there's still something inside of me that wants to be the cool kid.
I came home last night so that I could sub today. My little companion, Macy, doesn't get to go on overnight trips with me because, frankly, she travels with as much luggage as I do. It's weird how attached I am to her. I have always loved our family pets, but, unlike my parents, I can't say that I've missed them or worried about them when I was away from them, at least not consciously. Maybe it's my sense of ownership that makes it different with Macy. She's mine, whereas the cats at home are Mom's and Maggie is Dad's. Or maybe it's the other way around, that I'm hers. It bothers me when she's hiding under my bed, like last night, when I leave because I don't get to tell her goodnight. Or when she thinks that I'm trying to play when I bend down to pat her goodbye and she swats away my affection. I'm sure she's fine when I'm gone-- I'm not certain how accurate her perception of time is, and she might actually enjoy a day or two of free reign (not that she lives under any sort of rule)-- but it bothers me nonetheless. [and anyone reading this that isn't an animal-lover can just check your judgement at the door]
There are precious few things I love more than sleep. My favorite place to nap is on my couch, and I prefer to fall asleep watching TV over closing my eyes and trying to nap. It's just more natural to let long blinks turn into mouth-gaping sleep to the tune of Mad Men in the background (how d'you like that visual?). When friends stay overnight with me or just sit on my bed for a chat or a movie, they often comment on how wonderful my bed is. That's what I call an "on purpose." Some people invest in hand bags, some video games... whatever your interest is, I suppose. My interest is the art of sleep, and I invest in it from my feather comforter to my impossibly high thread count sheets. Sleep is a cause I believe in, something I'm passionate about... something I excel at. When you play basketball, it's important to have those unattractive sneakers and those unnecessarily long jersey shorts, and it's essential to practice often. Likewise, I have the necessary equipment-- soft sheets, heavy comforter, therapeutic mattress-- and I work diligently to perfect my art with short naps (sprints, if you will) as well as long naps (marathon-style). When it comes to sleep, I'm a champion, a regular Olympian. Other things I'm good at: watching back-to-back episodes of TV on DVD, procrastinating important assignments to the point of panic attack, Facebook creeping, and managing a blog about nothing.
I have an incurable sweet tooth. Undoubtedly, I get it from my dad, who suffers from the same cocaine-like addiction. I have a relentless compulsion to eat sweets when they're in my vicinity (ever lit up a cigarette around a smoker?), and sometimes even when they're not. Like any addict, I often tell myself I can stop whenever I want, that I'm not REALLY addicted... and I can even believe it, until faced with tiramisu or a homemade chocolate chip cookie. Set those bad boys in front of me, and I turn into a crumbly-faced, chocolate-smudged slob in mere seconds. Add sugar inhalation to the things I'm good at, I guess.
I'm going to actually do work now, I think. I'm holding back some unimportant thoughts to write unimportant blogs about later: books I want to read, places I want to go (I may even include pictures! Blog treat!), and reasons why I love the fall.
So I'm just going to write... er, type... because that's why I started this little diary to begin with.
Last night I had a mind explosion that probably seems elementary to most. As a child, we learn about David and Goliath. We know all about his sling shot and his stones, Saul's armor that was too big, and so on. I can even recall being fascinated by David's friendship with Jonathan. Later in life, having matured some, we hear about King David... about his affair with Bathsheba, how he had her husband basically murdered. I find that I fixate on David's authorship of so many Psalms. To me, he is The Psalmist. Last night I realized that in my mind's eye, there is a great disconnect between David the Giant Killer and David the Philandering Psalmist. There was something very comforting to put two and two together last night... I guess the idea of a Nobody being made not into a Somebody, but a Really Really Big Deal Somebody was what got me. I have no illusions that I will be a celebrity one day, but it's some kind of awesome to worship a God that does that kind of thing.
I love subbing. Honestly, I adore it. I love seeing all my old teacher, and I love when the students like me enough to share with me. And that's what I'm getting at. Some part of me, some residual high school insecurity, is begging these kids to like me. My outfits are calculated, my announcements laced with sarcasm and humor and some hope that if I'm genuine and honest my students will cut me some slack. I was never the cool kid in high school, and neither were my friends. I think I had my shot at it once, but it seemed like a lot of effort to me. I'd like to say I didn't care, that I lived my life as who I was, immune to peer pressure. But I did care, a lot. And here I am nearly 5 years later... Twenty-two years old, one degree under my belt and pursuing another, and there's still something inside of me that wants to be the cool kid.
I came home last night so that I could sub today. My little companion, Macy, doesn't get to go on overnight trips with me because, frankly, she travels with as much luggage as I do. It's weird how attached I am to her. I have always loved our family pets, but, unlike my parents, I can't say that I've missed them or worried about them when I was away from them, at least not consciously. Maybe it's my sense of ownership that makes it different with Macy. She's mine, whereas the cats at home are Mom's and Maggie is Dad's. Or maybe it's the other way around, that I'm hers. It bothers me when she's hiding under my bed, like last night, when I leave because I don't get to tell her goodnight. Or when she thinks that I'm trying to play when I bend down to pat her goodbye and she swats away my affection. I'm sure she's fine when I'm gone-- I'm not certain how accurate her perception of time is, and she might actually enjoy a day or two of free reign (not that she lives under any sort of rule)-- but it bothers me nonetheless. [and anyone reading this that isn't an animal-lover can just check your judgement at the door]
There are precious few things I love more than sleep. My favorite place to nap is on my couch, and I prefer to fall asleep watching TV over closing my eyes and trying to nap. It's just more natural to let long blinks turn into mouth-gaping sleep to the tune of Mad Men in the background (how d'you like that visual?). When friends stay overnight with me or just sit on my bed for a chat or a movie, they often comment on how wonderful my bed is. That's what I call an "on purpose." Some people invest in hand bags, some video games... whatever your interest is, I suppose. My interest is the art of sleep, and I invest in it from my feather comforter to my impossibly high thread count sheets. Sleep is a cause I believe in, something I'm passionate about... something I excel at. When you play basketball, it's important to have those unattractive sneakers and those unnecessarily long jersey shorts, and it's essential to practice often. Likewise, I have the necessary equipment-- soft sheets, heavy comforter, therapeutic mattress-- and I work diligently to perfect my art with short naps (sprints, if you will) as well as long naps (marathon-style). When it comes to sleep, I'm a champion, a regular Olympian. Other things I'm good at: watching back-to-back episodes of TV on DVD, procrastinating important assignments to the point of panic attack, Facebook creeping, and managing a blog about nothing.
I have an incurable sweet tooth. Undoubtedly, I get it from my dad, who suffers from the same cocaine-like addiction. I have a relentless compulsion to eat sweets when they're in my vicinity (ever lit up a cigarette around a smoker?), and sometimes even when they're not. Like any addict, I often tell myself I can stop whenever I want, that I'm not REALLY addicted... and I can even believe it, until faced with tiramisu or a homemade chocolate chip cookie. Set those bad boys in front of me, and I turn into a crumbly-faced, chocolate-smudged slob in mere seconds. Add sugar inhalation to the things I'm good at, I guess.
I'm going to actually do work now, I think. I'm holding back some unimportant thoughts to write unimportant blogs about later: books I want to read, places I want to go (I may even include pictures! Blog treat!), and reasons why I love the fall.
This one's for the girls.
Today I'm back in the grind: substitute teacher extraordinaire. While my graduate assistant job is convenient-- half tuition and a stipend ain't half bad-- this is what I love. The interactions with students, the interactions between students (yes: the eaves-dropping).
Most days when I sub, I like to write a review of all the appalling things I've overheard. 13-year-olds getting drunk, juniors dying to get a self-proclaimed "tramp stamp," and so on. Today is not much different: I've already wrote my mom an e-mail about how ridiculous it is that these students will have work on their desk and just stare straight ahead. They're not even necessarily talking, just making an active choice to not do their work. They just don't care: not about their grades, not about referrals, not about lectures. One month into school, they're already over it.
But here's the difference. Here's the inspiring difference brought to me by just five girls in one class. These girls are sitting nearest to my desk, so they're easiest to observe, and they have no idea that they've blessed me. These girls are stand-outs. They're not bad-mouthing their classmates, they're not talking about boys or their weekend plans. They're talking about Full House reruns, mission trips to Mexico, and Wednesday night church. One is talking about her quiet time in Philippians, another has her Bible on her desk showing one of the others.
I'm a-likin' what I'm a-seein'. A+, ladies.
Most days when I sub, I like to write a review of all the appalling things I've overheard. 13-year-olds getting drunk, juniors dying to get a self-proclaimed "tramp stamp," and so on. Today is not much different: I've already wrote my mom an e-mail about how ridiculous it is that these students will have work on their desk and just stare straight ahead. They're not even necessarily talking, just making an active choice to not do their work. They just don't care: not about their grades, not about referrals, not about lectures. One month into school, they're already over it.
But here's the difference. Here's the inspiring difference brought to me by just five girls in one class. These girls are sitting nearest to my desk, so they're easiest to observe, and they have no idea that they've blessed me. These girls are stand-outs. They're not bad-mouthing their classmates, they're not talking about boys or their weekend plans. They're talking about Full House reruns, mission trips to Mexico, and Wednesday night church. One is talking about her quiet time in Philippians, another has her Bible on her desk showing one of the others.
I'm a-likin' what I'm a-seein'. A+, ladies.
Friday, September 10, 2010
to Steve Martin, with Love
Laughter is like a drug for me. I live for it; I thrive on it. There is no better place- regardless of setting, town, or country- than a room full of laughter. It's one of the many reasons I love my family: on my dad's side, my cousins and I share muttered jokes and suppressed giggles at every gathering; and on my mom's side, my mother and her siblings are the center of attention as they tell the same old stories followed by the same old uncontrollable laughter. It's one of the many reasons I love my friends: our inside jokes can leave me gasping for breath, and no one is safe from a friendly dig. I feel most successful in life when I can make the people around me laugh and most satisfied in life when I'm surrounded by those that make me laugh.
My love affair with laughter has instilled in me a need to seek out laughter. A drive to the beach is the perfect opportunity to listen to a Bill Cosby CD. I will never, ever go see a horror move, not because I'm a ninny but because I don't want to spend money on something that doesn't make me happy (also, because I'm a ninny). When SNL is good (and let's all agree that these days it's hit or miss), there's practically nothing I'd rather watch. Every night before I go to bed I watch Whose Line Is It Anyway?, and I laugh out loud (LOL) every time.
Somewhere along the way, I was introduced to Steve Martin. For years, he was merely the funny, lovable dad on one of my all-time favorite movies, Father of the Bride (Parts I and II). Since then, I've been a fan but only as a young adult did I start getting into "classic" Steve Martin. My dad forced "The Man with Two Brains on Me" not too long ago, and I've recently been reading the comedian's autobiography--which I highly recommend. And I won't even get started on "The Jerk."
There's something perfect about Steve Martin. He's charming and easy on the eyes; he's self-deprecating and incredibly intelligent; he's physical but his punch lines are subtle. It's possible that some of my love for Steve Martin stems out of how I identify him with my own funny man, my dad (Steve doesn't know that Tim's his banjo soulmate).
His book is a really great read. It's light and witty, more like a conversation with him about his struggle and ascent to fame (if you didn't know, he wasn't exactly an overnight success). And his stories about the turbulent change in decades (the drug culture of the 60s to the post-Vietnam atmosphere of the 70s and so on) provide a really entertaining commentary on the changes in our nation. I love how he drops names from time to time-- Sonny and Cher, Ann-Margaret, the Allman Brothers Band-- to emphasize his "nobody" status among the celebrities of the era. His stories are shockingly honest, often delving into his experiments with drugs and his one-night stands on the road, but even at his lowest points, those when all I could think was, "Not you too, Steve..." he is every bit as lovable and magnetic. Oh, and there are pictures!
So this is my tribute to Steve Martin, inspired by my time reading "Born Standing Up" in the lobby of the tanning salon. I'm going to say, off the top of my head, that he's my favorite stand-up comedian and his George Banks is definitely my favorite on-screen dad. And I'll leave you with a little Steve Martin wisdom:
"Were they beautiful? We were all beautiful. We were in our twenties."
My love affair with laughter has instilled in me a need to seek out laughter. A drive to the beach is the perfect opportunity to listen to a Bill Cosby CD. I will never, ever go see a horror move, not because I'm a ninny but because I don't want to spend money on something that doesn't make me happy (also, because I'm a ninny). When SNL is good (and let's all agree that these days it's hit or miss), there's practically nothing I'd rather watch. Every night before I go to bed I watch Whose Line Is It Anyway?, and I laugh out loud (LOL) every time.
Somewhere along the way, I was introduced to Steve Martin. For years, he was merely the funny, lovable dad on one of my all-time favorite movies, Father of the Bride (Parts I and II). Since then, I've been a fan but only as a young adult did I start getting into "classic" Steve Martin. My dad forced "The Man with Two Brains on Me" not too long ago, and I've recently been reading the comedian's autobiography--which I highly recommend. And I won't even get started on "The Jerk."
There's something perfect about Steve Martin. He's charming and easy on the eyes; he's self-deprecating and incredibly intelligent; he's physical but his punch lines are subtle. It's possible that some of my love for Steve Martin stems out of how I identify him with my own funny man, my dad (Steve doesn't know that Tim's his banjo soulmate).
His book is a really great read. It's light and witty, more like a conversation with him about his struggle and ascent to fame (if you didn't know, he wasn't exactly an overnight success). And his stories about the turbulent change in decades (the drug culture of the 60s to the post-Vietnam atmosphere of the 70s and so on) provide a really entertaining commentary on the changes in our nation. I love how he drops names from time to time-- Sonny and Cher, Ann-Margaret, the Allman Brothers Band-- to emphasize his "nobody" status among the celebrities of the era. His stories are shockingly honest, often delving into his experiments with drugs and his one-night stands on the road, but even at his lowest points, those when all I could think was, "Not you too, Steve..." he is every bit as lovable and magnetic. Oh, and there are pictures!
So this is my tribute to Steve Martin, inspired by my time reading "Born Standing Up" in the lobby of the tanning salon. I'm going to say, off the top of my head, that he's my favorite stand-up comedian and his George Banks is definitely my favorite on-screen dad. And I'll leave you with a little Steve Martin wisdom:
"Were they beautiful? We were all beautiful. We were in our twenties."
Monday, September 6, 2010
Today at the beach...
I did homework.
It's not ideal, but I suppose I'd rather bury my head in a textbook with my toes dug into the sand instead of knees crammed under a desk.
So after a day of school-free bliss, I put my game face on and loaded up (read: weighed down) my beach bag with my Theories textbook and my massive three-ring binder and headed down to the beach. Hopefully my pale skin soaked up some sun while my brain tried desperately to soak up some psychoanalytic theory. Don't get me wrong, Freud is pretty interesting... but I still haven't finished Gone with the Wind and my Steve Martin autobiography is so light and fun. And you know I've always got a Beth Moore book in my bag.
Speaking of Beth-- yes, if she should ever stumble onto this blog, she might be alarmed by my slight obsession-- I had a really exciting thought today. In December, I am potentially going to visit a friend in Dallas (because you gotta take advantage of friends in big, exciting cities). Today as I rambled on to my mother about how my dream job is to be Beth's assistant (yeah, yeah, save your judgement for someone else), a lightbulb suddenly flipped on in my head: Beth Moore. Texas. Beth lives in Texas. I'd need to live in Texas to be Beth's assistant. Oh my gosh, I'll be in Texas in December. What part of Texas is Beth in? I need to put Clay on a mission to find Beth's church immediately. I could meet Beth Moore. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.
So I did a little research. Beth's church is in Houston, not Dallas. Now, if this was a matter of Birmingham to Huntsville, sure. But my understanding of Texas is that it's big (admittedly, I've never been to Texas... I've driven through it once on a mission trip to Mexico, but I slept my way through most of it... my ability to sleep anywhere I choose is remarkable...). So my Beth Moore hopes and dreams have been crushed for the time being.
It's slightly disappointing that my beach day was spent with my nose in a textbook and then on an emotional roller coaster from Dallas to Houston, but I DID get a four-page paper banged out... so I can at least go to bed with a sense of accomplishment.
PS- if you're concerned about my Beth Moore fixation, just know that I'm currently on a detour into the mind of C.S. Lewis via his Mere Christianity. Once you get your mental voice into the flow of a British accent and lingo, this man's stuff is something close to brilliant... and really quite witty (my mental voice said that in a British accent because now that it's there it seems to be stuck).
It's not ideal, but I suppose I'd rather bury my head in a textbook with my toes dug into the sand instead of knees crammed under a desk.
So after a day of school-free bliss, I put my game face on and loaded up (read: weighed down) my beach bag with my Theories textbook and my massive three-ring binder and headed down to the beach. Hopefully my pale skin soaked up some sun while my brain tried desperately to soak up some psychoanalytic theory. Don't get me wrong, Freud is pretty interesting... but I still haven't finished Gone with the Wind and my Steve Martin autobiography is so light and fun. And you know I've always got a Beth Moore book in my bag.
Speaking of Beth-- yes, if she should ever stumble onto this blog, she might be alarmed by my slight obsession-- I had a really exciting thought today. In December, I am potentially going to visit a friend in Dallas (because you gotta take advantage of friends in big, exciting cities). Today as I rambled on to my mother about how my dream job is to be Beth's assistant (yeah, yeah, save your judgement for someone else), a lightbulb suddenly flipped on in my head: Beth Moore. Texas. Beth lives in Texas. I'd need to live in Texas to be Beth's assistant. Oh my gosh, I'll be in Texas in December. What part of Texas is Beth in? I need to put Clay on a mission to find Beth's church immediately. I could meet Beth Moore. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.
So I did a little research. Beth's church is in Houston, not Dallas. Now, if this was a matter of Birmingham to Huntsville, sure. But my understanding of Texas is that it's big (admittedly, I've never been to Texas... I've driven through it once on a mission trip to Mexico, but I slept my way through most of it... my ability to sleep anywhere I choose is remarkable...). So my Beth Moore hopes and dreams have been crushed for the time being.
It's slightly disappointing that my beach day was spent with my nose in a textbook and then on an emotional roller coaster from Dallas to Houston, but I DID get a four-page paper banged out... so I can at least go to bed with a sense of accomplishment.
PS- if you're concerned about my Beth Moore fixation, just know that I'm currently on a detour into the mind of C.S. Lewis via his Mere Christianity. Once you get your mental voice into the flow of a British accent and lingo, this man's stuff is something close to brilliant... and really quite witty (my mental voice said that in a British accent because now that it's there it seems to be stuck).
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Beach Bums and Football Fanatics
For days, weeks even, people have been counting down to this day: Game Day. As I drove through campus this week, the air was abuzz with pre-game festivities. I have to give credit where credit's due: there was electricity in the air even at my new university here on the other side of the state. I didn't get the same chill bumps as I do when I see those RVs drive up Donahue with Auburn flags a-wavin', but it at least got me in an SEC state-of-mind. The sun shone a bit brighter, and the air smelled a little cleaner (yes, even on my side of the state...).
Since my first student ticket got me into a game against County High School... er, San Jose St., I gladly skipped town to meet my parents at the beach. With the immense stress I've been under, this little weekend trip to the Coast has been the light at the end of my tunnel for weeks now. Thursday night after class I got all my ducks in a row and baked a few [dozen] cookies for Dad and I to snack on at the beach, and then I barely slept in anticipation for my Friday morning departure. I jumped out of bed Friday morning, made sure Macy was taken care of, and headed south. I met up with the parentals, feasted on Jim-N-Nick's, and then proceeded to our little beach getaway. After a brief stop at the outlets, we finally arrived at 8:30 Friday night.
I noticed as I approached our condo door that it seemed to be ajar. This was cause for some concern, but I could've never guessed what waited for me behind the door. Immediately as I shoved the door open I saw my twin bed head boards against the hall closet doorway, and as my eyes shifted around the room and adjusted to the dark I saw two twin mattresses in the kitchen along with my dresser and chair, my bathroom sink in the kitchen hallway, my parents' king-size bed atop the dining room table, and their dressers and other furniture in the living room. Along all the walls lay baseboards, nail side up. The most upsetting part was that the water had been turned off, and if I'm within 1-hour of my destination I happen to refuse to use public restrooms. So there I was, in a condo turned upside down, somewhere between peeing in my pants and crying.
As it turns out, the renovations in our time-share condo were supposed to completed a couple of weeks ago but there had been some kind of delay... and, oops, they failed to notify us. Dad went down to do a little man-to-man negotiating with the people at the office while Mom and I sulked and sat atop the luggage carts. We managed to get a condo out of Dad's wheeling and dealing, so after an hour of squatting in the hallway we rolled into our new home (and more importantly, working bathroom) two floors down.
Today all that trauma is just a dim memory. After a morning run with Dad-- hello, I'm training for a 5k now-- I showered and pulled on my favorite Auburn t-shirt. I bought this shirt at my first Auburn game in tenth grade. It's classic navy and softened with age, and the screen-printed orange letters are slightly cracked. I was pleased to find my mom in navy and white as well, and she even accessorized with an orange purse. Dad-- in mourning the loss of his family to Auburn, I suppose-- wore all black. We lunched at LuLu's and headed back to the outlet, all along the way being greeted by members of the Auburn Family with friendly War Eagle's-- there's really no way to describe the instant kindred feeling you get when you have a War Eagle moment. I even bonded with some LSU fans over our Tigers (we're a Tiger family, maybe?) and a few Florida fans because we were all wearing the right colors.
You know, it wasn't the same as being on the Plains for game day... seeing tents set up with the finest tailgating fare up and down College Street, the flood of orange and blue throughout campus, a shaker in every hand you pass... nothing can compare, truly. BUT... seeing all the colors of the SEC out loud and proud here at the coast isn't the worst way to kick off the college football season.
As I write this, the LSU-UNC game is playing on the TV in front of me. Just moments ago Kirk Herbstreit started giving his rundown of the SEC, and I got to hear him say once again that Auburn might just take the West this year. Here's hoping, Kirk, and War Eagle to you too.
Since my first student ticket got me into a game against County High School... er, San Jose St., I gladly skipped town to meet my parents at the beach. With the immense stress I've been under, this little weekend trip to the Coast has been the light at the end of my tunnel for weeks now. Thursday night after class I got all my ducks in a row and baked a few [dozen] cookies for Dad and I to snack on at the beach, and then I barely slept in anticipation for my Friday morning departure. I jumped out of bed Friday morning, made sure Macy was taken care of, and headed south. I met up with the parentals, feasted on Jim-N-Nick's, and then proceeded to our little beach getaway. After a brief stop at the outlets, we finally arrived at 8:30 Friday night.
I noticed as I approached our condo door that it seemed to be ajar. This was cause for some concern, but I could've never guessed what waited for me behind the door. Immediately as I shoved the door open I saw my twin bed head boards against the hall closet doorway, and as my eyes shifted around the room and adjusted to the dark I saw two twin mattresses in the kitchen along with my dresser and chair, my bathroom sink in the kitchen hallway, my parents' king-size bed atop the dining room table, and their dressers and other furniture in the living room. Along all the walls lay baseboards, nail side up. The most upsetting part was that the water had been turned off, and if I'm within 1-hour of my destination I happen to refuse to use public restrooms. So there I was, in a condo turned upside down, somewhere between peeing in my pants and crying.
As it turns out, the renovations in our time-share condo were supposed to completed a couple of weeks ago but there had been some kind of delay... and, oops, they failed to notify us. Dad went down to do a little man-to-man negotiating with the people at the office while Mom and I sulked and sat atop the luggage carts. We managed to get a condo out of Dad's wheeling and dealing, so after an hour of squatting in the hallway we rolled into our new home (and more importantly, working bathroom) two floors down.
Today all that trauma is just a dim memory. After a morning run with Dad-- hello, I'm training for a 5k now-- I showered and pulled on my favorite Auburn t-shirt. I bought this shirt at my first Auburn game in tenth grade. It's classic navy and softened with age, and the screen-printed orange letters are slightly cracked. I was pleased to find my mom in navy and white as well, and she even accessorized with an orange purse. Dad-- in mourning the loss of his family to Auburn, I suppose-- wore all black. We lunched at LuLu's and headed back to the outlet, all along the way being greeted by members of the Auburn Family with friendly War Eagle's-- there's really no way to describe the instant kindred feeling you get when you have a War Eagle moment. I even bonded with some LSU fans over our Tigers (we're a Tiger family, maybe?) and a few Florida fans because we were all wearing the right colors.
You know, it wasn't the same as being on the Plains for game day... seeing tents set up with the finest tailgating fare up and down College Street, the flood of orange and blue throughout campus, a shaker in every hand you pass... nothing can compare, truly. BUT... seeing all the colors of the SEC out loud and proud here at the coast isn't the worst way to kick off the college football season.
As I write this, the LSU-UNC game is playing on the TV in front of me. Just moments ago Kirk Herbstreit started giving his rundown of the SEC, and I got to hear him say once again that Auburn might just take the West this year. Here's hoping, Kirk, and War Eagle to you too.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The lows are complemented by highs.
Alright, party people, somebody out there has been praying for me, and I demand that you reveal yourself. Who here has an in with the Big Guy?
But for reals, I am on a high right now. This is the part of the sitcom where you'd hear one of the main character's voiceover "Previously on Dawson's Creek..." or "Previously on Gilmore Girls..." (those are the two that come to my mind, obviously). So, previously in Wonderland-- yes, it's really what I call my little universe, it wasn't a blog joke so many moons ago-- I was questioning my career path, holding back tears, and frustrated beyond words-- and I am RARELY without words. My multicultural class had pushed my to the end of my rope, or rather the professor had by intentionally embarrassing me in front of my peers. I left with, and blogged about, tremendous feelings of discouragement. A little Mom love and some wise counsel from a dear friend lifted my spirits slightly, not to mention a much-needed bubble bath, but I have lived the last week in dread of returning to the class.
I mean, really, DREAD is an understatement. As I am an incurable perfectionist, I am not a quitter. I would've finished this program, like it or not, simply to prove that I could... but last week I didn't want to. Last week the light wasn't at the end of the tunnel. Last week the light was elusive, out to lunch or off for the day. I didn't want to finish the program, I didn't want to be a school counselor, I didn't want to even go to class the next day.
I can't say that I'm completely cured. I still question things... Do I want to be a school counselor? Absolutely. For the rest of my life? Eh, probably not. Will I ever stop changing my mind about what I want to be when I grow up? Back off, buddy, there's no talk of growing up around here.
Tonight my professor called me her Gold Star Student. I know it may seem elementary to some, but you have to experience this professor to know what high praise that is. You have to know that I shook a little bit as I walked into the classroom tonight, that I literally made myself sick thinking about it all day. With this behind me, the rest of my week-- even the 8 articles and a few chapters I have to read for tomorrow's class-- seem like child's play.
And you know, I may leave class next week in tears. I may come home and beg my mom not to make me go back like I did when I was the new kid in second grade (oh, that makes you feel bad for me, does it? Second grade's no joke). But, thankfully, most of my lows are complemented by highs... which interestingly enough was a lyric to a song on a CD Trey burnt me this summer... and I'd never listened to it until tonight on my way home from class. Weird, huh?
Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go bask in the glow of my Gold Star.
But for reals, I am on a high right now. This is the part of the sitcom where you'd hear one of the main character's voiceover "Previously on Dawson's Creek..." or "Previously on Gilmore Girls..." (those are the two that come to my mind, obviously). So, previously in Wonderland-- yes, it's really what I call my little universe, it wasn't a blog joke so many moons ago-- I was questioning my career path, holding back tears, and frustrated beyond words-- and I am RARELY without words. My multicultural class had pushed my to the end of my rope, or rather the professor had by intentionally embarrassing me in front of my peers. I left with, and blogged about, tremendous feelings of discouragement. A little Mom love and some wise counsel from a dear friend lifted my spirits slightly, not to mention a much-needed bubble bath, but I have lived the last week in dread of returning to the class.
I mean, really, DREAD is an understatement. As I am an incurable perfectionist, I am not a quitter. I would've finished this program, like it or not, simply to prove that I could... but last week I didn't want to. Last week the light wasn't at the end of the tunnel. Last week the light was elusive, out to lunch or off for the day. I didn't want to finish the program, I didn't want to be a school counselor, I didn't want to even go to class the next day.
I can't say that I'm completely cured. I still question things... Do I want to be a school counselor? Absolutely. For the rest of my life? Eh, probably not. Will I ever stop changing my mind about what I want to be when I grow up? Back off, buddy, there's no talk of growing up around here.
Tonight my professor called me her Gold Star Student. I know it may seem elementary to some, but you have to experience this professor to know what high praise that is. You have to know that I shook a little bit as I walked into the classroom tonight, that I literally made myself sick thinking about it all day. With this behind me, the rest of my week-- even the 8 articles and a few chapters I have to read for tomorrow's class-- seem like child's play.
And you know, I may leave class next week in tears. I may come home and beg my mom not to make me go back like I did when I was the new kid in second grade (oh, that makes you feel bad for me, does it? Second grade's no joke). But, thankfully, most of my lows are complemented by highs... which interestingly enough was a lyric to a song on a CD Trey burnt me this summer... and I'd never listened to it until tonight on my way home from class. Weird, huh?
Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go bask in the glow of my Gold Star.
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