Cranky Driver

Remember when you were first learning to drive and the road was so exciting? You would beg your mom to let you drive down the street to Dairy Queen just so you could practice parking-- and not hitting Wednesday night pedestrians that flooded the establishment after church let out. 

You would smile (or sometimes scream) as you changed lanes and when you got lost, it was a funny story to tell your friends at the basketball game. 

Fast forward like 10 years and you realize you have become your former worst enemy:

The cranky driver.

I realized I have become this person. The person who mumbles undistinguishable sentences when I'm at stop lights. The person who hits the vents like it makes the cool air come out any faster. The person who hands out arbitrary names to stupid individuals. 

"Well, Mary Lou-- please, by all means, just cut in front of me and forget to turn on your blinker. I appreciate it."

Multiply the grump by two when the crotchety Ray couple gets together in a vehicle. We have this bitter diatribe, especially when we see large trucks who think they rule the road.

Say we pull into Chili's and some Dodge monster truck has taken up two parking spaces. So it begins:

{In a low, sarcastic voice} "Hey, I drive a big truck." -Justin "Yeah, my truck's so big, I can do whatever I want." "I drive a big truck. Look at my truck. I drive a big truck."

Then we laugh. Somehow hoping that this is a proper disguise for our lame loathing of the open road.

Perhaps yesterday was the worst case of "I need a chauffeur. Bad."

Driving to Searcy, I dumped my Route 44 Sonic drink all over my feet and into my cup holders. I began to cry. That's when I came to this realization that I now hate driving.

I caught every red light, giving myself time to soak in that my favorite shoes were marinating in Diet Dr. Pepper. I began to cry and mumble about how I hate red lights, the people in front of me at red lights and how hot Arkansas is. And how driving causes me to want to say wordy-dirds. And.why.isn't.my.air.coming.on.right.now.

It's such a sad thing to discover. That the open road is now a go-cart track that you can't stop going in circles on. I used to go for "drives." Now I work 6 hours to pay for a tank of gas. 

Speaking of that, lunch break is over. I have to get back in my car and try not to kill anyone or shout anything but "Life is a highway. I want to ride it all night long." 

See ya in the fast lane. 

 

Happy Birthday to Me

On Sunday, I turned the wonderful 2-6. I had a little bit of a complex about it to be honest, but most people think I'm pushing 19 anyway so I think I can handle another decade. Bring it on.

Man, a lot can happen in just one year. I had some physical reactions to stress several months ago and I remember the doctor asking, "Have you had many changes in the past year?" I responded with not really, but began to rattle off, "I moved to a new town, packed a two-bedroom house into a tiny apartment, started a new job, got engaged, was a pet parent to a devil kitten for a week..."

Picking up his chart, he said, "I'm going to go with a yes on that one."

It's definitely been a milestone year for me. I got married, bought a house, began anew at two different jobs, hosted my first church small group. I'm actually starting to resemble a grown-up, which is kind of bizarre. I don't know how I feel about that.

I've learned lots of things. Like:

* Your career or lack thereof doesn't define you as a person. Don't apologize for your life. Truth be told, most people aren't where they said they would be 10 years ago.

* Love your wedding. Lose the details.

* Don't attempt to make "Pancake in a pan" unless your husband has a sense of humor and a love for food that resembles an alien planet.

*Find a few guilty pleasures that your husband can't stand. It adds a risk factor to your life. I'm feeling pretty devious when I'm driving down the road listening to country music.

* You will begin to say those "parent phrases" that you swore you would never say. They just fly out. I know, Mom-- "Well, whose fault is that?"

* Stand up for yourself. You show people how you deserve to be treated by what you allow.

* If it's painful, don't wear it. Life is already painful enough. Wear flats-- even the cute Croc ones.

* I should probably stop saying that I am going to pick up that running thing.

* It seems like you need your parents more now than when you were under their roof.

*Metabolism. What's that?

*I now complain about what "girls these days" are wearing and doing.

*It's OK to be hanging out in the jewelry and purse section when you're supposed to be raving about food processors and silverware sets.

* Sometimes you have to let go of stupid shows you've been faithful to forever. Goodbye, Law and Order: SVU. Go work on some more plots and maybe you'll get me back.

* From here on out, you will have to continually teach people and new co-workers who you are. Lucky for you, they haven't heard your Top 10 stories.

* Your friends are going to have babies. Lots of them. Good practice.

* You find yourself seriously contemplating eye creams.

* I now know the proper definitions of "busy" and "tired."

*Sleeping in is now 9:00. Whoo hoo. Take that, wake-up-and-eat-lunch college me.

There's a million more where that came from.

This year has definitely had its highs and lows, but I would have to say it wins the "Ashton growth" award. So, happy birthday to me.

And many more.

 

Somethin' about a March

There's just something about a good march that gives me an extra boost of confidence. It could be because of my band director kid status, but even in my adulthood, I have found that life is just better when you walk in step with people and flex to keep your balance.

I will actually miss 3 beats of a bootcamp exercise to ensure that I am in step with the people around me. It drives me nuts if our leg kicks aren't simultaneous. I'll get back to the march here in a second.

I once revealed to someone that I had a short stint of liking rap music back in college to which the person responded, "I can't believe that. You're just so refined."

Definition of refined: Elegant and cultured in appearance, manner, or taste.

I wanted to laugh really hard, which for those of you who know me, would burst from my lungs as the farthest thing from elegant and cultured.

It's somewhat of a relief that my end statement is quite tasteful, but the process getting there is usually the polar opposite.

Had a job interview today for example.

I tried on my pretty business-y blouse, only to find something was very wrong. I realized that the attached spaghetti-strap camisole underneath was all kinds of inside out and twisted. I took it off, put it on, took it off, put it on, but could not get the silly thing right. I finally chunked the shirt across the room and settled for an older choice.

None of the rollers would stay in my hair. I would walk a few steps and several would fall on my foot. When it was time to leave, two of them decided to suck my hair into the center and hang on for dear life. I tugged until my brains hurt, but the only thing I was managing to do was create a bird's nest on the top of my head. "I don't have time for this!" I cried as I attacked those curlers like a competitor attacks a hot dog in an eating contest.

I finally freed my locks from their captor, put my hair in a low ponytail as to avoid the 80s rocker look and headed to the van I am driving. Talk about feeling sexy.

I put on a tweed business jacket, but halfway there realized that the itchy material in combination with my recent mosquito bites would not help me at all. Unless they are looking for someone to fill the ape position at the Memphis Zoo. So off flew the jacket to the passenger seat.

I caught every red light. When I went to turn in, I noticed construction workers had blocked off the main entrance. The people next to me saw me furiously talking to myself and raising my hands to the heavens.

I even verbally cried, "Lord, please just help me to be normal for the next hour...if you want to."

I hobbled out of the van in my heels, heels that only come out for these special occasions. But then I heard it. And my stature began to change.

A march. A John Philip Sousa march blaring from the company sound system outside. With each piccolo trill and snare drum rattle I began to think, "You can do this!"

I wish I could say from there it was a total breeze. I walked in and suddenly felt several hairs sticking to my lipgloss--trapped like a beetle in a spiderweb. I tried to discreetly pick them out without sending a smear of lipstick across my cheek. I began to sweat and immediately cherished my decision to kill the jacket idea.

They came and got me, I took a deep breath (prayed I was lip hair free), reviewed the march in my head and followed them.

And I think it went quite well. We'll see.

You see, being refined is a process. I am clumsy, I am about as elegant as a Sumo wrestler on a balance beam and I don't even know how to properly put on eye make-up.

But lucky for me, life isn't all about outward refining-- it's more about the process that turns our coal-like hearts into a diamond spirit.

And let's just say I need to get on that bird's nest.

If you need an extra boost of confidence to finish your day, have a listen:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ww2nFam-ycQ

1 Peter 1:7

So that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ.

The Giving Car

If you saw me right now, you would probably think that a) I lost a beloved pet or b) I just got punched in the face, when in all actuality, I just lost my first and only car to a salvage yard.

This event teamed with the broken air conditioner of our other vehicle teamed with my encroaching 26th birthday is the perfect makings for an emotional overreaction. Nothing like a car to remind you that you are closer to 30 now than 20.

Justin called to report the news from his work site in Osceola, where it was discovered that my lovely '99 Camry had a hole in the engine and the cost exceeded the car's worth. He consoled me lovingly, knowing that this car had seen me through many stages of life. He finally concluded, however, that coughing up our savings was not advisable and that the Camry would be left in Osceola. And I didn't even get to say goodbye.

I wept. And then told myself it was a car. A piece of metal. And then I cried more.

I realize that places like that can't pay you in memories so they usually just offer you like $200. It's hard to believe that the car that somehow helped you survive being 16, transported you through 6 years of college, and drove you to your honeymoon has amounted to a large grocery bill. But that's life, right?

I feel like people who were raised on old faithful junk cars will hear me out on this. I feel like we have a shared experience with our vehicles. You hate them at the time, but in the end they kind of remind you of yourself, taking some beatings, breaking down on the side of a highway and always missing a few hubcaps. But when they make it to where you want them to go or they come out of that auto repair shop one more time, you are reminded that you, too, can make it.

I remember having pillows in the back of one of our old cars as kids. We would occasionally have "car conk out" drills in which Mom would ask, "If we're stalled in the middle of Kingshighway, what do you do?" We would pull the pillows up and shield each other. Though we thankfully never had to use them and I highly doubt it would have even worked, it was an experience passengers of brand new vehicles never get to have.

My parents actually just salvaged the old van I despised as an adolescent. Mom informed me today that her and Dad had deemed it "The Giving Van" (based loosely on Shel Silverstein's "The Giving Tree") because it would help with some of our car finances right now. It gave until it could give no more. It drove us to endless basketball games, band practices and family trips. And when it decided it was time to go, it provided a newly married couple with the last small token it had remaining.

If you haven't read the children's book I spoke of earlier, I highly recommend it. In "The Giving Tree," this little boy uses this tree his whole life-- he swings on it, he picks apples, he eventually makes a boat out of it. When he comes back as an older man, the tree thinks she has nothing left to offer him. But she soon finds out he is weary and tired and that her stump is the perfect resting place. And the tree was happy.

I am not old and weary yet, thank goodness, but I feel like my car has given me the last thing she has to give-- and that is wonderful memories. And when I'm telling my kids about why they don't drive a brand new car, I will recount the day my parents' overused phrase, "Old cars build character" was proven right.

And the Camry was happy.

New Experiences, Old Times

Many of you have probably kept up with my Facebook updates chronicling the joys of long road trips with family. It is true. This past week, several of my extended family members piled into a 15-passenger van and headed to New Mexico for my Aunt Chiara's wedding, or as she is also affectionately known by friends: Sat Purkh Kaur Khalsa.

I was reminded of many things on this trip; my family's unique ability to engage in high mental capacity conversations early in the morning, the uncanny way cousins can act like no time has gone by when several seasons have passed, and --of course-- my mom's wonderful suggestions for alternative bathroom options. On the way home, she made me squat in some grass outside of a gas station with no public restroom because "You don't have to go that bad if you can't go right here."

But, above all, this week was a portrait of love. We spent several days as guests in the Sikh community in Espanola. Though it was an experience outside of the realm of our everyday lives, we were greeted with love, laughter, and lots of food-- and let's not forget the mariachi band.

Fresh out of the van (or not so fresh in all actuality), I sat a little dazed at her shower as they sang a melodic chant to honor and calm the bride's nerves. This sweet woman next to me leaned in and said, "It's OK. You're probably just suffering from turban shock." I couldn't help but smile.

It was then that I realized: We are all aware of our differences and even that we stick out sometimes. But if we don't take ourselves too seriously and love instead, we can be touched in ways we never saw coming. I wasn't familiar with their songs, but I recognized acts of complete selflessness and hospitality. We wore different clothes, but we both clothed ourselves in deep love for the same two people. We may march to a different beat, but the rhythm of music still evokes screams and dancing.

I'd be remiss to act like "flexibility" is my middle name. I'm usually the person who spends half the night in the restroom after an adventurous bout with exotic food. Or the girl who has a hot flash in a new environment and begins to sweat uncontrollably. I spent most of the evening concocting a way to hike my long skirt up for air flow without a great number of witnesses.

Flexibility in situations may not be my gift, but I do consider myself a spiderweb for lessons I can learn when faced with a different perspective (a lot of this thinking may be attributed to alone time gained as a result of spicy food).

Our lives, when compared side by side, may seem drastically different, but our hearts are always able to find a commonality.

The service wasn't what I was accustomed to; the traditions varied from what I know; but I found a comfortable home in the outstretched arms that held my aunt, uncle and family.

And seeing all those who traveled to partake in customs far from what they are used to was proof that people are still willing to escape comfort zones for the sake of investing in those they love.

It was a beautiful day and I am overjoyed for my aunt who has found the "milk to her Cheerios" in Pete.

And for me, I received the renewal that comes from being a part of something new while enjoying the satisfaction of the old and familiar...even if that means a forceful push to tall grass on the side of a gas station, napkin in hand.

A mind that is stretched by a new experience can never go back to its old dimensions.
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.

With this Ring, I Me Wed.

I just read an article about a girl who just celebrated her ninth wedding anniversary ... with herself. Yep, the Dutch woman, in front of a cloud of witnesses and cameras, said "With this ring, I me wed." I wish I could make this stuff up.

I am very much a proponent of loving oneself. In the "Love your neighbor as yourself" persuasion as opposed to the "Put me on a reality show and invade my life" self-worship.

Weddings are stressful if there is actually another human being involved. Why endure such measures when you could look in the mirror and say the same thing?

But moving on-- I have compiled the differences involved in being married to yourself versus another person.

Married to yourself: Reality TV is your reality. You are the adopted Kardashian sister.

Married to a husband: Your false reality is popped with the dart that is an incessant amount of comments. "I can't believe you watch this," "You know that the Bachelor isn't real right? Like he doesn't love either of those girls." "That argument was so staged. You know the producers told them to say that, right?" Pretty soon, the NBA play-offs are looking mighty appealing to watch.

Married to yourself: You don't have to worry about signals you are giving off, whether good or bad. Wearing the same sweatpants 5 days in a row doesn't mean you're giving up on life.

Married to a husband: It's all about the subtleties. Your regularly worn sweatpants speak volumes. Your smiles now have to be the right smiles. One failed look or missed cue could land you in for a field of surprises or disappointments.

Married to yourself: You complete minor details that have to be managed because you know you are the only person who is there to do them.

Married to a husband: You now stick the new roll of toilet paper on top of the holder instead of placing it properly inside. It's like this stand-off of stubbornness until someone finally cracks.

Married to yourself: If you're interested, you're interested. If you're not, you can walk off.

Married to a husband: "Hey baby, come watch this," will become a phrase you both love and fear. I know I'm usually in for a YouTube video that involves animals or a UFC match that involves body triangles or broken limbs. I personally don't like my body in anyway linked to a shape it's not already in, but I attempt to grasp the "art" and avoid calling it wrestling.

Married to yourself: You make your own friends.

Married to a husband: You get to journey into the world of making "couple friends." It is a tricky endeavor because you kind of have to go two for two for it to work entirely. They should probably have e-Harmony for couples. Instead, you get to feel it out with the new person you've met. You listen for subtle hints to let you know if setting up a double is going to work. Things are going so well and then the guy has to drop that his wife only eats locally-grown lettuce, wears a piece of yarn in lieu of a wedding ring to boycott the diamond minds, and doesn't believe in watching TV. Sweet Justin knows at this point that it will simply be a bro relationship. And so it goes..

Married to yourself: For dinner, anything is free game.

Married to a husband: You can't just pop some popcorn, get out a slice of cheese and eat a bowl of cereal like you used to previously. You now have to combine an assortment of colors and food groups when you suggest or prepare a meal. I resorted back to my old ways while my mom was here. "You can't have cheesy mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese on the same plate! You need some green." Mom- 1, Ashton- 0.

Married to yourself: The TV is your domain.

Married to a husband: You learn how to get 3 DVR-ed shows in within an hour. Justin will say, "Hey, I've gotta run to softball practice." First plan of attack? "How long are you going to be there?" "Oh, don't worry. It will only be like an hour or so." After waving goodbye, I run to the living room and begin all of my recorded shows that he can't stand. Once I get the gist of what they are saying, I will fast forward it. If they aren't explaining themselves fast enough, they are getting two fast forward arrows on their face. He'll walk in and I'll nonchalantly say, "Oh, I'm just finishing up my show. I'll turn it to ESPN after."

I spent several years practically married to myself so I can write these up all day. But when I really read the advantages of being married to myself, they seem petty and, well, somewhat selfish.

When you marry someone else, you are essentially separating from yourself and divorcing your selfishness. It is a long process and doesn't happen immediately upon the exchanging of vows. I pray that I can grow each day and display less of me and more of Him.

And I should probably start by putting the toilet paper in the holder. Be right back.

A Lesson in Spontaneity

I have never been known for my spontaneity. In college, I would be lying in bed with my light off and one of my roommates would bust in, "Hey, we're going to Wal-Mart to get some cookie dough. Do you want to go?" I would mildly begin to panic. It's bedtime. This wasn't on my calendar. This wasn't my plan. I would often go after much persuasion, usually with my arms crossed and a miserable look on my face. I once made myself dress in all black and play cemetery capture the flag at midnight. 

Rewind to Friday night. I'm getting ready to start on supper and Justin calls from work. "Let's go to Memphis tonight!" he suggests excitedly. 

"Huh? Why?" 

"Just go take a shower and get packed. You'll have fun." 

After I hung up, I was confused but began to get ready. I knew if I thought too long about it, I would begin to reason myself out of leaving town.

I realized something this weekend: There is always something you are leaving behind. Laundry. Dishes. Checklists. But sometimes you just have to take off while you still can. 

We went swimming in the hotel pool. We're sitting there in the hot tub--probably staring lovingly into each other's eyes--when we hear a series of plops, splashes and giggles. In an instant, we are no longer alone in the small circular haven. Five--yes, five--cute, freckled-face redheaded siblings all under the age of 8 have decided to join us.

They stared at us in amazement, like we were a zoo exhibit. We would try to make conversation and they wouldn't utter a word; only look at each other with this unspoken code. They probably didn't know that two parent-age adults could coexist alone, without 5 clones following them into Quality Suites. One of the youngest ones waved violently at me. I waved back only to find that she was waving at her mother who was peering through the window from their first-floor room. I have no doubt that Mom sent Dad with his iPad and munchkins to give her 30 seconds to take a shower in complete solitude.

We had no solitude, however, until Justin bravely scooped every bug from in front of Lucy--OK, I have no clue if that's her name, but she looks like a Lucy to me. I may not know her name, but Lucy does not like bugs. But Lucy does have a strong set of lungs, this we know.    

We quietly made our way to the main pool, allowing enough time for the children not to think we were leaving because of them. They watched as I dramatically made my entrance into the freezing water, grinning from ear to ear as I let out those standard, "I'm cold" sound effects. They then made their way to join us once more. 

The kids were adorable, don't get me wrong. But they were a subtle reminder that if I am going to start being spontaneous, now is certainly the time. Sometimes, when you get married, people automatically skip the whole first part and begin to inquire about when you're starting a family. 

I choose to think that this is a very special time, and I am going to try to soak it up and stop being such a bad sport. There will come a day when leaving on a whim will not even be an option. 

So anytime my fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants husband suggests something, I am going to first think of my little red-headed hot tub friends. There will come a day when I want to share my bubble with kids, 10 stuffed animals and a dog, but for now, I am confident that a pool for two is worth diving into.