doppelganger?

Last week when I subbed at the high school, a student told me I looked "just like the girl from Big Fish." She couldn't remember her name, but she knew that she was "awesome and she's married to Tim Burton."

Oooooh....

So I'm not sure that it's super flattering... but at least she's skinny, right? And obviously, she has a really great thing going with cats. 

one of those days.

Sometimes, it's just one of those days. And those days usually start the moment you wake up and somehow manage to stay with you until the moment you drift off-- assuming, of course, that you're able to drift off. Sometimes after a day like today, sleep doesn't come easy.

I-- at a towering 5'3-- managed to pull the sheets off not one but two corners of my bed before I woke up this morning. Wrapped in a cocoon of warm sheets, I woke up 27 minutes after my alarm woke up to a February day right smack in the middle of September.

I managed to make it to work almost on time, though I was unfed and quite rained on. First thing, I dove straight into a character lesson with a group of 6th graders who just stared me like I was reading the proctoring instructions of an SAT test.

(I can say, at least, that the lessons got progressively better as the day went by... so there's that, I guess).

Aside from a 30-minute lesson each period, I started meeting individually with students at the end of each period. Now, for obvious reasons, I can't divulge any information that was given to me, but I can say at least that I have heard stories in just one day that will haunt me and puzzle me for a lifetime. Some doubtful, some exaggerated, and others just absolutely horrific... If anyone truly believes that man is born innocent and corrupted by the world, I'm here to tell you that it's not so. The depravity of humanity is so much more than I can take on a grey day like today, and I feel I must apologize as I think I must have projected my mood onto the sky.

After school, I headed to extended day where we began a new program under the direction of yours truly. Never-have-I-ever directed such a program, so it's safe to assume that it was mass chaos. 50-some-odd elementary school students flooded into my classroom at 3:00 and the shrill of their high-pitched little voices drowned me and my authority out completely. The moral of this story is that we'll be trying something different come Thursday... a little something called 'organization.'

At home, I had agreed to do some special music with my dad and a friend from church on Sunday, so we had scheduled a little practice session tonight. It's moments like this when my hopeless lack of talent is glaring, and the realization that I'm mediocre at best hits me straight in the face. Sure, I can carry a tune, and perhaps even a pleasant one at that. But when the music starts and I'm on my own, it's a whole 'nother world. My timing is off, or my pitch is flat... and I can't harmonize to save my life, which is quite crippling in the music world. It's like choreographing a dance around a kid in a wheelchair.

So there's that. It's been one of those days. I can't decide if I want to cry or run or sleep or steam in a bubble bath. It's looking like I might do all of the above, if I can crawl out of my little crab cave first.

Stop This Train.

This is one of my favorite John Mayer tunes-- and that's saying a lot, since pretty much every song he writes is perfection. The lyrics just get me every time; in so many ways, this is where I am in life: pushing forward then falling back, excited for the next adventure but terrified to round the corner. Here, I'll let John tell you...

So scared of getting older,

I'm only good at being young.

So I play the numbers game to find a way to say that life has just begun.

Had a talk with my old man, said, "Help me understand."

He said, "Turn 68, you'll renegotiate. 

Don't stop this train.

Don't for a minute change the place you're in."

So I like to think, "Okay, I'm 23-- 24 in less than a month-- and that's young. Like, really young. Closer to 20 than 30, and not even halfway to 50." I tell myself that I'm still a student, young and unmarried; my body is should be at the peak of existence, and I've never felt more comfortable with myself than at this very young age.

But then I work a day at the high school, and I think, "It's been a lifetime since I sat where you are." I wonder about the girls who went through rush this year and I realize this group of college freshmen were in middle school when I graduated high school. 

And I have conversations with my mom about 'that one time I worked at Storybook Farm' and then I realized that was my sophomore year of college... that was three boyfriends and about six hair colors ago. 

I think about what I was scared of and what I thought was cool, and I can honestly say that I wouldn't go back. I'll never be one of those people that refers to my time in high school as my golden years, and, while I loved Auburn more than any other time in my life, I wouldn't go back... because I might wake up at a different time one morning and change the entire story. Because the truth is, I'm right where I want to be.

And as beautiful and content as it is here, it's kind of terrifying to think about moving forward. Because forward isn't comfortable. Seeing clients in clinic because I'm officially at that level of grad school isn't comfortable; it's crazy. I'm only 23, for crying out loud. And taking comps and looking for jobs isn't comfortable; it's frightening. I'm too young to be an adult. But then again, my mother was married when she was my age... not living in her parents' basement.

So here I am: so close, yet so far away. An old fart one day, and a spring chicken the next. But most of those days, I just won't to stop the train. Just hit the pause button for a moment.

What a man.

I'm glad that Alex lives with three guys. Now, most girlfriends might be a little grossed out by the frat house atmosphere and lack of home decor. Not me: I rejoice in it. But for good reason.

On weekends when Alex visits me at my parents' house, he is subjected to a flood of estrogen-fueled activity. There are marathon Say Yes to the Dress and What Not to Wear viewings-- so far, I have spared him from the Real Housewives, but I may or may not have forced the finale episode of The Bachelorette. There are kitchen table talks with my mom about weight loss tactics and bad haircuts. There are shopping adventures and lots of self-taken photo sessions. There are chocolate binges followed by hours of lamenting and complaining about the snugness of my jeans. Instead of picking me up for a date, there's quite a bit of channel surfing while I scream from my closet that I have nothing to wear.

You can see why my dad escapes into projects in his workshop and endless rounds of golf. But Alex doesn't have that luxury, I'm afraid.

I have come to this conclusion based on two comments made this weekend:

While watching Say Yes to the Dress: Atlanta, Alex commented on Monty, the resident Gay Man in the salon, saying, "What's happening with Monty's hair? Tim Gunn would not stand for this." Tim Gunn is, of course, the resident Gay Man on Project Runway.

After using my bathroom to shower, 'I feel different after I use your shower. My roots are "awakened." My skin is "exfoliated" and "invigorated." My shower stuff just says "shampoo" and "body wash."'

I might would worry that I'm creating my very own Tim Gunn-- not that I would mind a resident Gay Man hanging around to pick out my clothes and style me perfectly-- except that I know my man to exist almost solely on red meat and live almost solely for the Crimson Tide. I also know that he plays a different sport every night and celebrates life's various events with a good cigar and a cold beer. I know too that I'll get what's coming to me once Sports Center starts its endless coverage of college football; then I won't be able to casually flip the television to my beloved TLC.

Meanwhile, I'm glad that Alex gets to return home to a house saturated with testosterone, where he can quickly regenerate any masculinity he may have sacrificed over the weekend. When you put four men in a house, you can smell the musk of manliness as you walk through the front door. At least... that's what I'm going to assume that smell is.

Weekend Update.

- Friday: Cooked a pretty rockin' dinner for our men with Erica and Anna. A few rounds of Pass the Pig and Phase 10 and more than a few laughs. Yeah, we're a pretty crazy bunch.

- Saturday: Back roads from Guntersville to Atlanta courtesy of the GPS equals a historic tour of Alabama; there were multiple museums along the way, but sadly, no time to stop. Braves vs. Diamondbacks with Mom and Boyfriend: club seats, Mom's first game, three home runs, and a crazy fan attempting to run across the field and being taken down forcefully by security. Oh, and of course stadium dogs and nachos. And then there was another GPS adventure home.

- Sunday: church through the bleary eyes of one who has driven home from Atlanta at midnight, a most excellent Sunday afternoon nap, brownies, and a solid workout with the b/f. Couples that sweat together, stay together. And to further a tradition we've kind of developed, an Uno marathon into the wee hours of the night.

Today, back to the grind. I colored and baked cookies with the students at extended day-- it's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it. Then it was off to the gym to work off said cookies. Lele and I tried out the Backs, Butts, and Guts class; we were the youngest by three decades and probably the slimmest by 30 pounds, but somehow our classmates laughed and cut up through the entire class while Lele and I blew sweat off the tips of our noses and reminded ourselves to breathe. So, as appearances can be deceiving, it seems that we have some catching up to do. But right now, I'm just going to lay here until my legs stop trembling.

Rebel without a clue.

'We spurn our Creator's authority over us. God beckons storm clouds, and they come. He tells the wind to blow and the rain to fall, and they obey immediately. He speaks to the mountains, "You go there," and he says to the seas, "You stop here," and they do it. Everything in all creation responds in obedience to the Creator... until we get to you and me. We have the audacity to look God in the face and say, "No."'

-- Radical, David Platt

Class is in session.

Monday morning, children all over this lake city started back to school. Some-- the Lindsey's of the world-- had been anxiously looking forward to this day for weeks, pondering over the most perfect First Day outfits and double checking the school supplies list, while others viewed the big day with a little less excitement... Weirdos.

Little did the third, fourth, and fifth grade afterschool program participants know, Monday was also their first day with Yours Truly. There I sat at the faculty table as my tired little friends dragged into the lunchroom after their respective bells rang. This age group hasn't quite mastered the art of subtlety, so I was greeted with many an openly curious stare and not just a few, "Who are you's?" Along with a few more pointed questions like, "You're not a real teacher, are you?"

To answer your question, let's think of me as your afterschool fairy godmother. I will be here each day to greet your smiling faces, distribute your daily snack pack, and usher you to the seat of your choice (within the defined parameters). Once seated, I will remind you every 7 minutes or so that you are entirely too loud and that there should be no talking during reading time. After you do your homework, I'll be the one with you in the computer lab who reminds you every 7 minutes or so that your volume has reached an unacceptable level and you are mere decibels away from total silence being imposed upon you. Then I'll take a quick break to tell you what a decibel is. From time to time-- approximately every two minutes-- you may approach me with your most recent request to go get a book you left in Mrs. So-and-So's room, go quench your desperate thirst, or make your third absolutely necessary trip to the restroom. I have also been commissioned with the great responsibility of determining when it is time to go out to the playground. What time is it?, you ask. It's about a degree to 98, so no, still not time to go outside. But, miniature friends, do not despair, for I will also be granting your requests to color and assigning line leaders (HUGE deal for those of you not in the "know"). And should your head hurt, your tummy ache, your tooth start hanging out of your mouth, or your knee start inexplicably hurting, I will take you to the magical water fountain that miraculously cures all ailments.

After school fairy godmother or cat herder, you decide.