(Tall) Girl meets (Tall) Boy, Part 1

In an attempt to get my creative juices flowing again, I have started writing ... just for fun. It has been a while since I have really written anything that wasn't for work (except this dear blog, of course) and I have missed it. Some of you know that creative non-fiction -- or non-creative fiction, as my dear husband accidentaly called it -- is my favorite genre. Some of you also know of my love for thepioneerwoman.com and her how-I-met-my-husband saga, that she wrote on her blog in a series of about 50 posts. Her blog has inspired me to chronicle my "love/life story." Here is the first installment, with many more to come. I hope you enjoy it.

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It’s funny how such a silly thing, a trait that I couldn’t choose nor change, ended up playing a huge role in how my life turned out.

I was born to parents of average height. At 5’4” my mother was exactly average, and at 6’0” my father stood a mere two inches above average. When it came to my vertical growth, I defied the odds. I stood level with my mother when I was 10 – a source of great pride for me – and reached the soaring altitude of 5’10” by the time I was 13.

Needless to say, I was tall for my age, tall in general. Unfortunately, as is common in cases of rapid vertical growth, my level of coordination had yet to catch up with my body. I was incredibly awkward, with long, gangly arms and legs that didn’t quite work the way I intended them to. The word “flail” comes to mind.

Equally unfortunate was that, by freshman year of high school, most boys had barely hit puberty, much less a growth spurt. I stood head and shoulders above all but three boys in the freshman class of St. Bernard’s High School.

That’s when I stopped being proud of my height, and started seeing it as a hindrance to romance.

The homecoming dance was coming up, and the freshman class was abuzz. Who was going to ask Heidi to the dance? Brian was taking Cristine – did that mean they were “going out”? Although I had never been to a dance, my much wiser – and shorter – friends had explained to me how, during the slow dances, you wrapped your arms around the boy’s neck and – if you especially liked him – laid you head against his chest. This knowledge induced terrifying visions of me slow dancing with a scrawny little boy, hulking and hunched, and resting my head on the top of his.

To spare myself from that unromantic fate, I desperately needed a boy who was taller than me to be my homecoming date. But I only had three options.

Jake, the towering 6’5”, thin, too-cool-for-school basketball player, was already ruled out. He wasn’t going to the dance … some basketball thing. Boo. Not that I would have had a chance of him asking me anyways.

Then there was Randy. If you could take my awkwardness and multiply it by 10, that wouldn’t even touch the level of awkwardness that Randy possessed. He was 6’3” with a flat top and Turrets Syndrome, which caused both of his eyes to blink, blink, blink … incessantly. Going to the dance with Randy would be social suicide – he tucked in his T-shirts for crying out loud!

And finally there was Karl. Tall, dark and handsome, he was a “good boy” if I had ever seen on. He wore nice khaki pants every day (but didn’t tuck his T-shirts, whew!), did well in his classes, and planned to try out for the basketball team. Not one of the cool kids, but not unpopular either, Karl was the perfect option – my only option!

But how was I going to get him to ask me out?

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“Like, do you have a date to Homecoming yet?” asked Chrissy, a dark-haired bosomy girl, from my science class.

“No, no yet,” I said, trying not to let my anxiety show. Homecoming was only a few weeks out, and everyone was making plans: coordinating their date’s tie with their new dress, making reservations for dinner before the dance, figuring out whose parents were cool enough to shuttle a group of over-dressed 14-year-olds without embarrassing anyone.

She lowered her voice, so I could barely her it over the din of students heading toward the cafeteria. “Who do you want to ask you?”

I glanced around, to make sure he wasn’t nearby. “Don’t tell anyone,” I said, “but I was kinda hoping Karl would ask me. He isn’t taking anyone yet, is he?”

“Ooooooooooooooohhhhhhhh,” Chrissy squealed. “You two would be soooooooooooo cute together. He should totally ask you. I don’t think he has asked anyone yet.”

She paused, then lowered her voice again. “You know what, I went to junior high with him, and we’re friends. I’ll totally tell him that he should ask you!”

My mind raced. Yes! Maybe he’ll ask me … or he’ll think I’m stupid and that I have a total crush on him, and then he won’t ask. Oh no, why did I tell Chrissy? But maybe, if he knows that I would say yes, he will ask me.

“Ummmm … well, maybe,” I reluctantly agreed, “but you can’t make it seem like a big deal or like I asked you to ask him to ask me or anything like that.”

“No problem,” Chrissy grinned. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about it.”

We agreed that, since she normally sat with Karl’s group over lunch, she would talk to him. Then, toward the end of lunch, I would leave my table of friends and go to my locker in the quiet deserted hallway. That would give Karl the opportunity to ask me to the dance.

My stomach fluttered all through lunch, and I barely ate a bite. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Chrissy sidle up to Karl and talk quietly with him. I made sure to be engaged in animated conversation with a friend and not look in his direction when I knew, inevitably, Karl would glance up at me. I needed to exude confidence. I didn’t care if he asked me. I was totally cool. There were tons of 6’3” boys just lining up to take me to Homecoming.

With about seven minutes left of lunch period, I gathered my barely touched lunch and headed for my locker. I fumbled with the combination, stashed my brown bag, ran my fingers through my hair and quickly applied some chapstick. I pretended to be looking for a book in my locker when I heard the echo of footsteps coming toward me in the hall. My heart leapt into a frenzy.

This is it! Karl is going to ask me to the dance!

I heard a voice behind me, “Ummm, Hannah?”

I whirled around and the nervous smile froze on my face as I was greeted, not by Karl’s face, but by the ever-blinking eyes of Randy.

On Facebook, Voyeurism and Relationships

I think I might take a hiatus from facebook.

You may now peel yourself off the floor.

I will admit it: I love facebook, maybe a little too much. I love the convenience of writing on a friend’s wall and asking her what time I should come over for dinner on Friday. I love being able to quickly notify my friends of an upcoming event. I love being able to share a funny link with lots of people. I love being able to see my best friend’s photos of her son, without having to ask her to email me all 202 pictures – after she emails them to her mom, dad, husband, grandma and Aunt Betty – because we all know the mom of a 3-year-old doesn’t have time to email that many people.



And I love stalking. I will admit it: I am a facebook stalker. If you put it up for all the world to see, I am going to see it. I love finding out who is pregnant, who got engaged, who broke up, who bought a house, who ate roast beef for dinner. It’s voyeurism, people, and it’s quite entertaining.

But I certainly don’t want anyone peering in at me. Hypocritical? Yes. But I know how much I revel in knowing all about – and judging, yes, I’ll admit it – the lives of people I haven’t talked to in years, so why the heck would I want them doing the same to me?

Think about this way: Would you really send “Susie-Q-from-3rd-period-8th-grade-English-class” all 53 photos of your recent vacation? No. But she can see all the gory details, with captions, on your facebook page.

Or think about it this way: Do you really want to post on Tuesday about your new flat screen TV, only to post on Friday that you are headed out of town for the weekend? Let me just mosey on over to your “Info” tab, get your address, which you have kindly displayed for me, your “one-time-we-met-in-a-bar” acquaintance, and use all of this unsolicited information to procure a new boob tube, thankyouverymuch. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to fertilize your alfalfa crop in Farmville as a thank you gift.

This is why my FB page is locked down. No one can see anything. Unless you are my friend, you will not know my “current city.” Not even “friends of friends” are looking at my photo albums, thanks to my privacy settings!

Even with my stringent privacy settings, I still try to be non-personal in the nature of my posts. I don’t have anything terribly revealing in the “About Me” section, and I haven’t filled out any of my interests, activities, etc.

The reason for this is the fact that I am “friends” with a lot of people I am not actually friends with in real life. Of the 386 people (small potatoes compared to some, I know) who can view my page, I probably actually talk to about 50 of them, if that. Most of my facebook friends’ numbers aren’t in my phone; in fact, their email addresses are not even in my contact list.
Which is the both the beauty and the detriment of facebook. I have enjoyed reconnecting with “old friends” and staying in touch with people I would have drifted away from otherwise. But it does make me wonder: If I didn’t take the time to stay in touch with them before, why do I want to find out what’s going on with them now? Is it because I care about them? Or is it just curiosity? I think we all know what the answer is about 90% of the time.

The same goes with people who want to “friend” me. Which makes me want to protect myself from people like, well, myself.

There are a few solutions: defriend everyone I am not in an actual relationship with or don’t post anything that I wouldn’t tell a stranger in the Home Depot checkout line. I try to go with the “stranger in the Home Depot” facebooking strategy, mostly because I feel like a mean person when I “ignore” “Susie-Q-from-3rd-period-8th-grade-English-class.” Which is actually an interesting concept. Why do I feel like a jerk for not being a “friend” to that person, when in reality I never was or stopped being their actual friend a long time ago and I never felt bad about that? I usually oblige their FB friend request, if I ever talked with that person and they didn’t annoy me too severely then. Unless they are the creepy, perv-ish father of a boy I went to 3rd grade with… then they automatically get the axe. Gross.

All of this facebooking has made me think about relationships. Why do some people want to share everything about their lives with almost total strangers? And why do people like me love knowing everything about those oversharing people’s lives without even having to enter into relationship with them?

I think it is two things:

1. We innately desire to be known and know others.

2. Relationships are hard.

Facebook is perfect for providing a false sense of intimacy. If you post something sad, your “friends” will leave comments to comfort you. If you post something happy, they will “like” your post. It gives a big payoff with little effort. I know my heart always skips a beat when I get a comment, and I get warm and fuzzy deep down when my clever and witty status update garners a bevy of admiring responses.

Facebook relationships are always easy, always positive. It is on your own terms. If you don’t want to talk with Billy today, you don’t go to his profile … or you go, but you don’t comment. And how often do you get in an argument on FB? Rarely, if ever. FB relationships are easy; they offer large returns on a little investment.

But at what expense? Are you really, truly being known or understood? Do you really, truly know and understand your “friends”?

I’ll leave you with this example. Last night I posted a facebook status based off a conversation that Steve and I had, after I showed him the facebook photos of a new baby (the son of a person I wouldn’t otherwise stay in touch with, ironically). You can read what happened next:

Please note that Anita is my husband’s aunt. Does she really think I would announce on Facebook news of that significance before I told the family? To her credit, it certainly wouldn’t be unheard of. Just last week one of my FB “friends” announced via “relationship status” change that she was getting divorced … before she told any of her family members in person. I am actually real life friends with one of her family members, who was shocked to find out via FB that her cousin was getting a divorce.
I don’t really have good way to sum this all up, other than to say that I am going to try to take a break from facebook and focus on my actual relationships. I don’t know how long I will be gone or how long it will last (no promises from this FB junkie) but I am interested to see what life is like without facebook.

Relaxation

There are certain things about being an adult that I didn’t “get” when I was a child or teenager. Whenever my mom, despite her exhaustion, would flit about the house cleaning and tidying, I would tell her to relax, to sit down. She would respond that she couldn’t relax until everything was clean.

I didn’t get it then, but now I do.

I can – and do – sit down when I am tired, but the level of relaxation is not nearly so complete if my house is in shambles around me. It irks me and my mind is not at ease. “Ridiculous,” the 13-year-old in me would say. The 25-year-old me just can’t help snapping, “It needs to get done, and if I don’t do it now, it will never get done; you’re certainly not helping.” To which the 13-year-old responds, “Oh no, please, please, please don’t say that … you are becoming … your mother!”

Having recently moved, I feel like my house is in shambles (still) and all of the to-dos are piling up. And decorating/home improvement projects are surpassing everyday tasks on my list of priorities … probably because they are more fun. I will confess, I haven’t cleaned the master bathroom toilet since we moved into the new house. That is shameful and downright disgusting. (I have, however, cleaned the guest bath, because guests can’t know I am that bad of a housekeeper … shhhhhhh!) I have also purchased ribbon, cloth and fabric glue and custom created a valence for the guest bathroom. So at least one bathroom is pretty and clean … glass half full, people.

Every time I go home from work, my mind races with things that need to be done: grocery shop, cook dinner, clean up after dinner, vacuum, pay bills, water the plants, do laundry, make phone calls, etc. And those things don’t leave much time for the other things on my list: build shelves in the garage, sew curtains, actually UNPACK the dozens of boxes still in the closet, or hang pictures on the wall. Two months in, I still don’t have any pictures on the wall, except for one … in the guest bathroom, actually.

I find it odd, in fact, that the master bathroom, which gets a whole lot more use than the guest bath, only has a pillow case hanging over the window. (Just keeping in classy, ya’ll.)

But back to my point (is there a point?) about relaxation. Sometimes, when everything is a mess (literally and figuratively), it is hard to quiet my mind enough to just enjoy life. And try as I might to make it otherwise, I am realizing that most of the time life is simply a mess (again, literally and figuratively). So what am I to do with that?

The only answer I have comes from my 13-year-old self. Reorder my priorities. Actually enjoying time with the people I care about is much more valuable than a clean bathroom. Train my nagging brain and its never-ending chore checklists to shut up already! Accept the fact that my house will never be perfectly tidy, and give myself permission not to unpack the last box until 2012 (It will have been so long since I’ve seen those things, it will seem like Christmas. See? Glass half full.)

Of course these things are all easier said than done … which is why I will be spending the majority of my “relaxation” time in the only tidy, decorated place in the house … the guest bathroom.

Next on the list … ?

I am a planner, a planner by nature. I like to make lists … OK, I LOVE to make lists. I compulsively make lists. If you looked in my purse right now, you would probably find five or six different lists: shopping lists (subdivided by store, of course), to-do lists (in order of what is most urgent), packing lists (going on an early 3rd anniversary weekend getaway to Atlanta) and lists planning events (like my upcoming Kentucky Derby party).

The thing is, even though I love, love, love to plan, I really do not love to do the things on my lists. But lately, I have been struggling even more with the doing part. Somehow I feel like if I write it down, that counts for something. I was planning on sewing those new curtains after all. See? It’s written down. Who cares if it is 2 months later?

But not doing is a serious problem. My lists get out of control, and I get stressed out … so overwhelmed that I don’t know where to start. So I do nothing, which helps nothing. I have learned in that past few years that I am not an intrinsically motivated person. I feed off other people, whether it is from their good or bad traits. When I was in high school, I used other people’s negative life choices to motivate me to make different choices. When I was in college, I surrounded myself with highly motivated people who made me want to “go places” in life.

Now, I feel isolated at times. Sure, I have friends, but unlike in high school or college, they are not so closely in tune with where I am in life. We are not making the same life choices (such as where to go to college, what to study, what internship to apply for). So I have to learn to motivate myself, and I’m not as good at it as I would like to be.

Part of the problem is that – this is going to sound kind of snobbish and elitist, and I really don’t want it to come across that way – I have been blessed enough to have accomplished most of my major life goals.

Let me explain.

My whole life I was motivated by making a different life for myself than the one in which I grew up. I was going to move away from that dinky, loser town, get a college education, have a career, meet a great guy, get married, be financially stable and buy a house.

By the grace of God, those things have happened for me. And I am so incredibly grateful and don’t want to sound like I am rubbing it in anyone’s face, for I certainly do not deserve an ounce of it.
But what is next?

I know some of you are thinking, “Well, logically speaking, children are next.” But I don’t know that I am ready for that one yet. (This could be a whole other post.)

For the first time in my life, I don’t know what’s next on my checklist of goals. In fact, I don’t even have a list. And that weirds me out. And makes me incredibly unmotivated. I’m not complaining; this isn’t a bad place to be. My husband reminds me that I really, really stink at just “being,” soaking in the moment, loving where I am.

Maybe that is what is next: learning to just be, to live in the now, to be joyful and grateful for all of God’s gifts, to stop and smell the proverbial roses.

So here I am, my unmotivated self, praying about what I should be excited about next in life. And praying that I would be excited about NOW.

More of my favorite things …

I am starting to feel like Oprah here (who, incidentally, is not on my list of favorite things) as I start my second list. But my first list was so well received (by all four of my readers) that I thought you all must be dying to know more of my newfound loves.

KittenCam
http://www.ustream.tv/ offers live streaming for webcams, and the latest trend is for people to watch their pets. I have been watching a litter of rescued kittens and their mama, and it has become a staple of my workday. I keep the KittenCam up and check it periodically. It makes the day so much better. I have watched this litter from the time they were two weeks old, with eyes just opening, unable to do anything but squirm to their mother’s belly to eat. Now they are running about, pouncing, playing, and will soon be adopted. I have named them all, and will be sad to see them go. But I am sure I can find a new litter to follow. Actually, I have found a litter of puppies and a squirrel nest that are fun to watch too.

Patio furniture
Spring is finally here, and I am loving every second of the perfect weather. I have now adopted the habit of eating dinner outside, using my new patio furniture. Somehow eating on the patio, listening to the birds chirping makes for a much more relaxing dinner. All I can say is "A-maze-ing." Do it, people; you won't regret it.

GoogleReader
I was surprised to find out how many people don’t know about GoogleReader. People, get with the program. Maybe it is just me, but I LOVE getting mail. I LOVE getting email. Which is why I love GoogleReader. You use it to subscribe to any blog that you read, and everytime something new is posted, it goes to your Reader “inbox.” It is so exciting. Plus, it is very convenient. Instead of having to bookmark everyone’s blog and go to each site, Reader checks all of them for you and keeps everything in one place. I LOVE IT. And it comes with your gmail account, and everyone knows that all the cool kids have gmail.

Iced Chai Tea Lattes
Can I confess something? I have an addiction and it’s getting serious. As a tea drinker, Starbucks isn’t usually on the top of my list, but they have been upping their tea selection. The Iced Chai Tea Latte is a classic, but man-oh-man, it has me hooked. I can’t justify paying for one of these Starbucks treats everyday, but thankfully I don’t have to. Did you know that you can buy the Tazo chai mix – the exact same stuff Starbucks uses – in the tea section of any grocery store? (And the grocery store offers a decaf option that is not available at the coffee shop.) For just a little more than the price of one drink at Starbucks, you can make about five drinks. All you need to add is ice and milk and you have the exact drink they sell you at the coffee shop. That’s a defninite WIN for me. I may or may not be drinking these every morning …

I never want to forget

I was instant messaging my dear friend, Erin, today, and she reminded me of how blessed I am, and how often I forget to be grateful. There are so many wonderful blessings I have now, and I never want to forget to be thankful for them.

It makes me think back to a time when I had so much less than I have now – and yet, I had so much, so very, very much. I was aware of it at the time, and I was grateful for it. But looking back, I can see even more clearly, how wonderful that time of being “poor” really was.

Please bear in mind, when I say “poor” I don’t want to make light of the fact that even then, I had more than probably 80% of the world’s population. I had food, clothing, shelter, clean water, and many, many amenities that so many people never experience. So please understand, when I say “poor” I understand how much I had, and how blessed I was.

When I say we were “poor,” I mean that both Steve and I were working part-time, low-paying jobs, with no health insurance, and barely paying the bills at the end of the month. New clothes were out of the question, and so was eating out.

But those times taught me to enjoy and be creative with what I had. And it taught me to appreciate the little things. I remember one time my mom sent us $20 and said to do something fun. We went to A&W and got burgers, fries and root beer floats. It was pure LUXURY!

In that first year and a half, Steve worked a job that, by most people’s standards, was a dead-end, menial labor, part-time job that paid very little: he hauled junk. But I never want to forget the wonderful things that came of it. Like the super cute shoes I am wearing right now. It was amazing the things that people threw out, as trash! I have several brand-new or like-new pairs of shoes that Steve brought home to me. And these were just the things he found in my size – countless other items were casually tossed out by people with more money than sense. (They didn’t even take them to Goodwill, but don’t worry, Steve did. No use in filling our landfills with perfectly useful, wonderful things.) I have several jackets, backpacks, a brand spankin’ new – still-sealed-in-the-box – DVD player, a year’s supply of Mary Kay products, a 16th map of the United States (quite valuable it turns out), framed art and a lovely accent table.

One of our favorite “junk” finds was the set of tennis rackets Steve brought home. We spent several nights a week in the city park, learning to play tennis, having fun – and all it cost was $2 for a can of three tennis balls that lasted all summer.

One of things I miss about those days was the time we had together. With both of us working part-time, we were able to spend the early months of our marriage together. Lately, with both of us working full-time, overtime and opposite shifts from each other, time together is a precious commodity. Even though we can now afford brand new tennis gear, I can’t remember that last time we had time to play tennis together. I am thankful that we were able to build a foundation with the abundance of time together in the early days.

I am not trying to say that it was all roses and peaches. We were stressed about making rent. What if one of us got sick? We had no health insurance? I remember having to have a blood test done: my doctor refused to refill my absolutely-necessary-for-life thyroid prescription (thank goodness for $4 prescriptions!) without a standard blood test … that just happened to cost $400. I had to fill out financial hardship paperwork with the lab, to get them to discount the test. It was disheartening and embarrassing.

I was interesting to watch how people treated us when we were “poor.” There were the people who remembered what it was like to be just starting out, and the people who had forgotten. Some people were so wonderful to us, sending us Kroger gift cards and giving us hand-me-downs. Others treated us like we were such sticks-in-the-mud when we didn’t join the group going out to eat after church, and eyed our homemade Christmas gifts with disappointment and disdain.

Those people taught me that I always want to remember what it is like to not have much. I never want to forget that going out for a burger, fries and float really is a luxury. I should never take for granted a routine test paid for by my health insurance.

One of my most treasured memories was our first married Christmas. I desperately wanted a Christmas tree. Steve hoped someone would toss out an artificial tree (he is allergic to real trees) before Christmas, but no one did. We figured everyone must toss out their trees after Christmas, and buy a brand new one during the after-holidays sales. I didn’t want our first Christmas together to be un-Christmas-y, so we went to Target and priced the artificial variety. Can I say waaaaaaaaaaaay out of price range? I was heartbroken, but resolved to decorate our little bamboo houseplant with the few ornaments we already owned. Then one day, a week before Christmas, I came home to find a very excited husband and a crooked, shedding, half-lit Charlie Brown Christmas tree leaning in the corner! Steve had found a tree at the last minute and dragged it up to our second floor apartment. We scrounged up enough money to buy a stand, some new lights and a few cheap glass bulbs, and it was Christmas! I still consider it one of the most romantic things Steve ever did for me. To this day, we still have and use that tree, and I don’t ever want to replace it. You can’t buy memories like that.

This photo was taken after the "poor" years. But notice the very crooked, leaning, beautiful Charlie Brown Christmas tree that reminds us that in everything, we should be thankful.

2 a.m. Terror

I dozed off on the couch last night … at 9 p.m. Obviously I was tuckered out. So I trundled off to bed and quickly fell into a heavy slumber. Around 2 a.m., I awoke ­– startled – to a terrible, horrifying, deep-throated, loud, rattling, choking sound. I sat up. The sound was coming from downstairs. My mind raced and quickly came up with a likely reason for the awful noise. Grover (my cat) must be choking on the mother of all hairballs, or even worse, being strangled in the blinds. Since Grover never once has had a hairball, I dismissed that theory and immediately thought the worst: my precious pet was in peril!

I sprang from the bed and dashed through the darkness to aid my ensnared feline. But as I reached the bedroom doorway, I heard the teeniest, sleepiest, cutest “meow” coming from the corner of the bedroom where Grover enjoys napping. “What’s the ruckus all about and why did you have to wake me up?” the kitty communicated with the little squeak. My sleepy mind raced. If Grover was OK (whew!), what on earth was that awful racket coming from downstairs?

I came to the obvious conclusion. Someone had broken into our house and was now having a heart attack and dying on my kitchen floor.

I froze in the doorway, thinking a thousand jumbled thoughts: Steve’s not here. What am I going to do? If he (the burglar) is having a heart attack, he can’t be that dangerous. I should go downstairs and make sure there actually is a burglar and make sure he actually is dying – then I can call 911. No wait! If for some reason he isn’t dying, just hacking up a lung or something, he might be dangerous. I need a weapon. And my cell phone.

As I stood in doorway and contemplated weapon choices (Where was that mini baseball bat?), again I heard the violent, scraping, snarlish, ear-racking noise. Except it wasn’t coming from downstairs.

It was coming from the guest bedroom – just down the hallway.

And that’s when the light bulb turned on. My mother-in-law, whose faults are very few, was nearly ripping the paint off the walls with the ferocity of her snores.

Giggling, both at the impossibility of such a lovely human being able to make such a horrific, explosive sound (and not wake up!) and at my comical cognitive reaction, I shut my bedroom door and tiptoed back bed.

After all, I had four hours to sleep until my alarm went off.