The "One" and Other Perfect Decisions

I am such a cliche. Something I've learned since being in a serious relationship. Ever since I can remember I worried there was something weird and wrong with me - that I was not girly enough or not boy-crazy enough or not cool enough (still working on that one! Ha.) I still struggle with pursuing that "perfection." I don't mean the make-up is flawless or shirt is nicely pressed perfection. I mean I worry about making the perfect decision. In life, in relationships, in work, in church, in everything I do. I worry that if I don't make a perfect decision, then I'm going to regret it and suffer the consequence - unhappiness. In trying to avoid unhappiness, I suffer from a more common consequence - anxiety. Always anxiety.

It's my thing. It's my buddy. If we don't hang out for a while I start to miss it and look for it high and low. I start to worry that it's not there and I start inventing it. Suddenly, it appears! Out of nowhere. Phew - thank goodness my buddy is back.

It's depressing really. Why must I search out worry and anxiety? It's become a crutch for me. Probably my biggest challenge in my relationship with my husband and my relationship with God is my inability to just be content with imperfection. I have this constant worry that I haven't chosen my perfect partner, that I don't have the perfect spiritual mindset, that I don't have the right and perfect thoughts and feelings, and so many other things. Who's to say what's perfect?

Our pastor at Crosspoint recently wrote a blog about "The One." He said he often gets asked if he believes there's only one person for you in this world. He doesn't! He believes that any given person could be compatible and happy with several people in this world. Does anyone else find relief in that? I do. It means there's no perfect decision in love. It's a choice. You make a choice to spend your life with someone. You make a choice to be happy, be faithful. You make a choice every day to work harder and harder at being "the one" for your spouse. It's a pretty liberating thought to me. I have a choice in this!

It's always a fine line to me, the one separating God's plan for me and my own free will. If I'm honest, I really don't understand the difference. I struggle with good hope (optimism!) and bad hope (selfish expectations.) I struggle with thinking God is just trying to control me and my life and ignoring that he's not about control, he's about love.

I like to forget that there are few things in this world that are perfect - least of all, any decision I make. That's just how the world turns. There may be only one perfect thing in this world, and that's God's love. Still wrapping my head and heart around that one.

I get the chance to pursue perfect every day. It's a crazy blessing!

A New Year, A New Leaf

Ever since I started working for a record label and dating a rather talented songwriter, I've sort of lost the desire to express myself creatively. Once upon a time it was playing piano and guitar, and attempting to write songs as an "outlet." For the last three and a half years I've had a hard time getting back into that. I used to write a blog, and I swear, it was really funny!

So, here's my New Year's Resolution: start blogging again. And of course the requisite get in shape resolution. Wedding body, here I come!

When I Dip, You Dip, We Dip

Forget terrorist attacks, the high price of oil, or the shrinking gender gap. A sweeping social change is being brought about by a little show called “So You Think You Can Dance.”

Now, I’ve never been accused of being a dancer. I surrendered my tap shoes and bedazzled leotards when I was 7, as soon as I had the option of giving up dance for basketball. As a result, my mantra of “It doesn’t matter how good you are but how cute you look in your uniform” really cannot apply in this situation. I don’t have a dance uniform anymore. In fact, I distinctly remember feeling humiliated at my 8th grade dance. In the 7th grade it was entirely acceptable to just stand around and chat, but it became unacceptable to stand on the edges of the dance floor and watch once you hit 13. To be one of the cool kids, you had to actually jump in there and “dance.” I was a hopeless tomboy, though, and it was all wrong when I joined that circle of girls and tried to sway and dip and throw my body into some sort of rhythmic fashion. Perhaps that is why I find the aforementioned show to be absolutely fascinating. I was a hater in the beginning. Last night I came home to find my roommates glued to the television, discussing these contestants’ strengths and weaknesses in technique and using first names. Unbeknownst to me, they’ve invested quite a bit of Wednesday nights to FOX. Last night was a doubleheader, and I’m gonna put myself out there and say it.

I’m hooked.

It was brilliant. I wanted to stand up, grab a partner, and throw myself into a modern interpretation of Chicago’s “Hard to Say I’m Sorry” or a hip-hop number to the tune of Chingy’s “Dem Jeans.” In my mind I was beautiful, and thin, and lithe, and capable of all manner of interpretive dance.

In my mind.

Which leads me to wonder how many millions of people across the nation feel as I do. How many are taken with the notion of becoming “a dancer?” Are we soon to see couples meandering along the streets in ball gowns and three piece suits, headed to ballroom dance class? Will we be witness to dancing in the aisles of grocery stores or even (heaven help us) “Dance Fridays” at the office?

One can only hope.

I'm Gonna Be Famous!

The most exciting thing just crossed my mind. It's occurred to me that in response to the influx of extremely important actors moving to Nashvegas (well, one, but it’s Nicole Kidman for gosh sake!) paparazzi shall soon follow suit and begin flashing away in our dear village of Nash. Odds are very high you’ll see my shoulder, elbow, or butt cheek making a cameo in People, Us Weekly, etc.

Needless to say, I am going to turn the tables on these paparazzi. Henceforth, I shall stalk them. Jump in front of their cameras every chance I get, flash a little Hook ‘Em Horns…

You just wait.

Turtlenecks in July

As I type, I am blowing warm recycled air out of my lungs and onto my icy fingers. My legs are wrapped in a giant fleece, and for my toes, there is no hope.

I would like to put my summer wardrobe to use, but as it is, I am keen on wearing sweaters and wool trousers to work everyday. Why? Because what has become the norm in the working world is making me miserable. While 90+ degress outside, it is a frosty 60 degrees in my "area."

I’m onto them. I suppose they've devised a new method of “forcing out” an employee – it’s a little game they like to call, Freeze the Bitch. My alcove I now refer to, lovingly, as my igloo. I expect little penguins and giant Coca-Cola bears to come wandering over at any moment now. My orchid, which enjoys humid, tropical weather, is very angry and looking rather ill. As a result of my location, no one has really bothered to come check on me. For all they know I could be frozen to my chair and unable to get up. Therefore, I suffer my fate alone.

I’ll give ‘em this much. It’s a valiant effort, but they will not succeed. I will continue in my state, even if I have to build a fire out of pencils and old file folders. I’m not going anywhere…unless a hot Eskimo comes to whisk me away, but I digress…

Rock Concert + Blind Date = No Bueno

Who in their right mind would think it’s a good idea to have a blind date at a rock concert? Aren’t blind dates usually reserved for coffee or a light dinner or something? Certainly they are not meant for a venue where you can’t hear yourself think much less speak. Seriously.

A friend shows up at a Black Crowes concert at a freaking amphitheatre for gosh sake, dragging along some poor intern who is his supposed “blind date.” He decides he can’t be on his own with this girl, so he’s latched on to us. This girl is so nice, so cute, and he’s acting like she’s some scab of his, uninvited, that tagged along to the show.

Please.

He proceeds to text message throughout the concert alerting his friends that she doesn’t know any Black Crowes songs. Not her fault! Don’t bring her to the concert! God bless.

Some guys think they are just God’s gift, and they are soooo not. It’s enough to turn you off a rock concert for life.

Save the "rock" for her hand, not a blind date. M-kay?

Lessons Learned from a Modern Western

My roommates and I are obsessed with AMC’s new two part series, “Broken Trail.” I guess I’m a little more country than I thought, because I don’t care who you are, there’s always enough time for a good western movie. (I’m sort of partial to the contemporary kind as opposed to the John Wayne types, but that’s just me.) You know, the kind with the shoot outs and the helpless women in prairie skirts and the good cowboy/bad cowboy duels. This one even had exotic foreigners – 5 Chinese girls sold into slavery. Complete with lyme disease, suicide by stampeding horses (Oh, Ye Fung, did it have to come to this?) and pure love between the hardened cowboy and lonely Chinese woman #3.

There are lots of worthwhile lessons to be taught by western movies. For starters, love can grow across even the language barrier. Love is its own language. You can feel the longing in the heart. Even though the hardened cowboy tried to send off the Chinese girl to San Francisco to be with her own - even so - she stayed because she knew he really loved her. Lesson to be learned: should your love interest put you in a stagecoach with the intentions of shipping you off to an unknown land run by greedy gold miners, get off said stagecoach and stay put in the wilds of Wyoming. Force the issue and you shall prosper.

It also taught us that when your good-for-nothin' husband gets his legs chopped off and commits suicide, you can always turn tricks to support yourself. And when you no longer draw the lonely cowboys with your crooked teeth and sagging cleave, there is a way to avoid a whore's final stop, "the hog farm." Latch onto a rich horse wrangler and profess your willingness to consummate the partnership. Explicitly. In fact, the more explicit, the more likely he will love you.

And finally, it taught us that cowboys in the wild west of the 1800’s used the words nuts and cooter. Seriously.

I send you into the world with this wisdom.

Go west, young (wo)man.