I compulsively trim split ends with the scissors at my work desk. I realize that this can't be good for my hair in the long run, but I do it anyway.
I love 90s movies. The other day I caught a glimpse of Clueless on tv and it made me happy.
My son says the word "truck" with an f sound instead of a tr sound. I try not to let him see me giggle. Especially when he does this at church.
I wish my eyes were bigger and not so puffy.
And let's not even talk about my stomach.
I don't have any tattoos. I probably couldn't handle the pain, and there's the whole fact that my religion discourages it, but my biggest deterrence is just that I can't imagine anything that I'd want inked on my skin forever.
I feel similarly about bumper stickers.
I went to Google potpourri to make sure I was spelling it right, then realized that I could activate spell check (which apparently is two words) by typing it in the body of this post.
My computer has approximately one minute left of battery power, thereby condensing this post.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
Lucky
I'm in the middle of updating my resume but I had to stop and blog. I had to. For a girl who until a week ago hadn't written in months, this is...well, you'll see.
The last four years have been honestly hellish. I realize that part of, okay a decent chunk of, the blame falls to me. Not because I deserve(d) any of this, but because I blatantly made some choices that led me to those dark places.
Did I say last four years? Let's change that seven. The last seven years. They haven't been all bad and there are certainly some brilliantly bright spots. But. There have been times that were pretty bad. A lot of times that were pretty bad.
And then tonight...just a few minutes ago, actually...I was reading a friend's blog post. And I realized that I am incredibly lucky, and far more naive than I can comprehend, let alone admit.
Six and a half years ago, give or take a few months, I was engaged to be married. I'd like to say that I was ecstatic, but the truth is that there was just too much baggage to begin with. He ended things. Years later I realized what a wonderful stroke of mercy that was, for him to end something so damaging that I was clinging to so desperately. But at the time all I could see was betrayal. He'd taken my whole life away from me. I thought.
But the truth of the matter was, I didn't lose anything. I was thrust down a new path I didn't necessarily want to take, but my life as I knew it was not gone. It was only a hypothetical future that I lost. To this day I don't know what his motivations were, but they really don't matter. The relationship was killing me in every way conceivable, and it ended. Case closed.
So three years ago I peed on a stick and saw two pink lines. (I actually still have all five positive pregnancy tests. How gross is that?) I know I made choices that made it more likely for me to be a single parent. I know this. But, ultimately, I am doing this all alone because he chose not to be involved. Let's say that again. Because he chose not to be involved. I did not choose to be a single parent. I chose to be a parent, and I'm doing it alone because he's not here. And while I would never wish this upon my worst enemy I have to acknowledge that there are some so-called advantages.
There was pain in that situation, too. Obviously. In some ways the broken engagement was worse because I never saw it coming. I know it's cliche to say I felt like I was hit by a freight train, but I did. There were times that I was shocked to realize I could still breathe. Being single and pregnant was different. The loneliness and pain was suffocating but it was more of a slow burn. It lingered. Sometimes it still lingers when I look in Riley's blue eyes and know that he wouldn't recognize the person he inherited them from.
But as much as that hurt(s), I didn't lose anything. Well, a job that I loved because I chose to move back in with my parents, but a) that was the smartest thing I ever did and b) it's just a job. So once again I was thrust on a path I would not have consciously chosen thanks to the decisions (or lack thereof) of another person. My life was changed forever, but I didn't lose it. It's just...different. Sometimes a hard different.
Here I was thinking I know what pain is, what it's like to suffer or to survive. And I do. But I haven't had my whole world revoked without warning.
Someone very close to me recently told me how lucky I am to be my age and single and not ever have gone through a divorce. I thought this person must have no idea what it's like to be 27, single, female, and Mormon. But he was right. I read a friend's blog post that touched (just touched) on the pain from her divorce. Everything she'd ever wanted and/or depended on and/or never thought she'd lose. Gone.
I know it's not fair for me to say that I get it now, because of course I don't. I hope I never do. And it's easier for me to discount the pain I've felt over the last seven years because most of it is over now and I can see how I've risen from the ashes as a better phoenix. I mean person. Better person.
But tonight I am a little more grateful.
The last four years have been honestly hellish. I realize that part of, okay a decent chunk of, the blame falls to me. Not because I deserve(d) any of this, but because I blatantly made some choices that led me to those dark places.
Did I say last four years? Let's change that seven. The last seven years. They haven't been all bad and there are certainly some brilliantly bright spots. But. There have been times that were pretty bad. A lot of times that were pretty bad.
And then tonight...just a few minutes ago, actually...I was reading a friend's blog post. And I realized that I am incredibly lucky, and far more naive than I can comprehend, let alone admit.
Six and a half years ago, give or take a few months, I was engaged to be married. I'd like to say that I was ecstatic, but the truth is that there was just too much baggage to begin with. He ended things. Years later I realized what a wonderful stroke of mercy that was, for him to end something so damaging that I was clinging to so desperately. But at the time all I could see was betrayal. He'd taken my whole life away from me. I thought.
But the truth of the matter was, I didn't lose anything. I was thrust down a new path I didn't necessarily want to take, but my life as I knew it was not gone. It was only a hypothetical future that I lost. To this day I don't know what his motivations were, but they really don't matter. The relationship was killing me in every way conceivable, and it ended. Case closed.
So three years ago I peed on a stick and saw two pink lines. (I actually still have all five positive pregnancy tests. How gross is that?) I know I made choices that made it more likely for me to be a single parent. I know this. But, ultimately, I am doing this all alone because he chose not to be involved. Let's say that again. Because he chose not to be involved. I did not choose to be a single parent. I chose to be a parent, and I'm doing it alone because he's not here. And while I would never wish this upon my worst enemy I have to acknowledge that there are some so-called advantages.
There was pain in that situation, too. Obviously. In some ways the broken engagement was worse because I never saw it coming. I know it's cliche to say I felt like I was hit by a freight train, but I did. There were times that I was shocked to realize I could still breathe. Being single and pregnant was different. The loneliness and pain was suffocating but it was more of a slow burn. It lingered. Sometimes it still lingers when I look in Riley's blue eyes and know that he wouldn't recognize the person he inherited them from.
But as much as that hurt(s), I didn't lose anything. Well, a job that I loved because I chose to move back in with my parents, but a) that was the smartest thing I ever did and b) it's just a job. So once again I was thrust on a path I would not have consciously chosen thanks to the decisions (or lack thereof) of another person. My life was changed forever, but I didn't lose it. It's just...different. Sometimes a hard different.
Here I was thinking I know what pain is, what it's like to suffer or to survive. And I do. But I haven't had my whole world revoked without warning.
Someone very close to me recently told me how lucky I am to be my age and single and not ever have gone through a divorce. I thought this person must have no idea what it's like to be 27, single, female, and Mormon. But he was right. I read a friend's blog post that touched (just touched) on the pain from her divorce. Everything she'd ever wanted and/or depended on and/or never thought she'd lose. Gone.
I know it's not fair for me to say that I get it now, because of course I don't. I hope I never do. And it's easier for me to discount the pain I've felt over the last seven years because most of it is over now and I can see how I've risen from the ashes as a better phoenix. I mean person. Better person.
But tonight I am a little more grateful.
Thursday, September 08, 2011
Mess in a dress can’t show up on time even if it would save my life
Help. I do not have a punctual bone in my body. I was the little girl who was late to kindergarten. (Literally – the bus never showed up in our neighborhood that day.) My friends in high school were never alarmed if I showed up 15, 20, or 45 minutes late; they were shocked if I showed up on time. Or at least I suppose they probably would have been had that actually ever happened.
It’s not that I mean to be late. I know it’s considered rude. I know it’s inconveniencing other people. I assure you that I am filled with self-loathing every. single. time I show up late anywhere – even if it’s to something so big that no one else notices.
But I don’t know what to do. I set the alarm on my phone to go off 20 minutes before I have to leave for work, and every 5 minutes after that. I used to set all of my clocks ahead, but then I just didn’t know what time it WAS, so I stopped doing that. I just do not understand how other people do it. And apparently they do, since punctuality is assumed to be the standard thing to do. Some people even show up early to places. That baffles me. (One time – and one time only – in high school I came really early – read 5 or 10 minutes before the bell rang — and I was surprised to find all of my friends already there. Mind. Blown.)
I expect that in the event that this blog is actually read, that some of you will be tempted to give me advice on how to cure this ailment of mine. Go ahead. I’ve probably heard it all before. It probably won’t make any difference. But you can try if you want. I’ve been told that to be on time I “just have to do it.”
But…how?
It’s not that I mean to be late. I know it’s considered rude. I know it’s inconveniencing other people. I assure you that I am filled with self-loathing every. single. time I show up late anywhere – even if it’s to something so big that no one else notices.
But I don’t know what to do. I set the alarm on my phone to go off 20 minutes before I have to leave for work, and every 5 minutes after that. I used to set all of my clocks ahead, but then I just didn’t know what time it WAS, so I stopped doing that. I just do not understand how other people do it. And apparently they do, since punctuality is assumed to be the standard thing to do. Some people even show up early to places. That baffles me. (One time – and one time only – in high school I came really early – read 5 or 10 minutes before the bell rang — and I was surprised to find all of my friends already there. Mind. Blown.)
I expect that in the event that this blog is actually read, that some of you will be tempted to give me advice on how to cure this ailment of mine. Go ahead. I’ve probably heard it all before. It probably won’t make any difference. But you can try if you want. I’ve been told that to be on time I “just have to do it.”
But…how?
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