Baggage

The news makes me sad.

With headlines like, “See angry wife toss love rival off cliff” or “Pot makes us better parents” or “Teen impaled by statue’s bull horn,” how could it not?

This is where you think I’m going to start going off on the media; which I’m not. It feeds us what we want to hear, whether we are willing to admit it or not.

And you know what we like to hear most of all?

You’re not as screwed up as you think you are. Here, get offended by somebody else. Get so entrenched in other people’s business that you can’t see your crazy forest for all the semi-dysfunctional trees.

That alone sells stories. That alone gets people elected. That alone is the reason Paula Deen can’t put 14 sticks of butter in macaroni and cheese anymore. That alone is the reason people feel the need to make their profile pictures equal signs or a stick figure family.

Most people would assert that we tend to hate on things we don’t understand; hate on people different than us. That’s not untrue; but I would go a step further and say that we also boycott people who look a lot like us; they mirror us so much in fact that we feel that an utter disregard is the only cure.

Our marriages are in disarray; let’s speak out against a movement instead; our prejudiced and judgmental past haunts us; let’s find the ultimate Southern poster child and humiliate her in front of America. Our children long for our attention; let’s instead get on “Team Breastfeed” or “Team Formula.” Let’s make new mothers and new fathers feel like they aren’t doing an adequate enough job.

I once heard a sermon on the movie “Lars and the Real Girl,” starring Ryan Gosling. If you rent it, don’t imagine “The Notebook” Ryan Gosling or you will be a tad disappointed.

I hadn’t seen the movie—so I was very nervous, like sweaty palms nervous—when the preacher stated that was his topic. It has an internet doll on the cover, for goodness sake.

But it was such a beautiful message—and the movie that I watched later that evening—was a marvelous display of what Christianity is supposed to look like. It’s supposed to be a group of people, aware of their own weirdness, surrounding people with a kind spirit even when they don’t understand; even when they don’t necessarily agree.

Because we all have issues; we all have things that could be smeared across a tabloid on us.

So let me start:

I have a really bizarre, full-out arm twitch that happens when I’m overly excited or nervous—I usually hide it via bathroom; I yell really hateful stuff at myself when I get lost; I occasionally leave rehearsal dinners because I hate impromptu speeches—they make me so anxiety-ridden I can hardly stand it; when I’m feeling fat, I eat everything in my kitchen cabinet. I use Google maps to navigate places I’ve been a million times. I lock myself out of my house at least twice a week. I once proclaimed to my husband, “You love the dog more than me!” and stormed out of the house in front of my whole family. I feel like a bad person because I don’t like Christian radio or books very much. I saw my first counselor the other day in an attempt to unwind the balls of yarn that are my nerves.

That list could go on for days. I, like you, don’t have to look any further than my own head for baggage to talk about. Embracing everyone’s weird isn’t the same thing as changing your beliefs; it’s not saying, “I’m comfortable with this.”

It’s saying—I’m going to stop ignoring my own junk mail while I simultaneously dig through your inbox messages.

Jesus doesn’t expect you to take a stand on every single moral conundrum that’s out there. He doesn’t expect you to single-handedly overthrow your government or research what people may or may not have done in the past.

But he does expect you to bestow the same grace, the same humility, and the same anonymity that covers your messy life to other people; and to realize that sometimes we react to our mirrored reflections rather than to our enemies.

Getting Older: The Top 5

Top 5 Reasons To Get Older:

Today is the day. 27. The odd numbers get me every time. To some, it is a reminder that 30 is around the corner. Others are ready to pounce and tell you to quit whining. Getting older—and on a Monday nevertheless—isn’t always an easy transition. But I’ve decided to look on the bright side (I guess Justin’s optimism and youth is rubbing off on me).

Here are some not-so-bad things about getting older:

5. You begin to form friendships with your siblings. Sitting around the living room laughing, it’s hard to imagine that it was this side of 15 years ago that these same individuals repeatedly tied you up, convinced you that you were a captured cowgirl, and left you to perish. Not to mention the duct-taped “Fat Sister” message cryptically written on your bedroom door.

4. Time is now more valuable. Want to know why 27-year-olds are less likely to date Neanderthals? We don’t have the energy for that mess. I used to have 2 a.m. text message conversations that consisted of “Sup, girl.” “NM. U?” And I was bored enough to think that was cute. Now I’m married to an efficient communicator who can use big words in the right context. Hot. Stuff.

3. Birthday presents are gifts from above. Mortgage, utilities; these are the sugar plums dancing around in your head most of the time. But when your Momma gives you a Vera Bradley overnight bag that you wouldn’t dish out the dough for yourself, you are on cloud nine. If I get a new tube of lip gloss, I’m as enthusiastic as Richard Simmons in those “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” videos.

2. You’re in a new league. It’s like when you sign up for the Intramural B team. You can’t quite hang with the “A’s” but you’re the star when you demote yourself. I can dribble—you’re looking at your team captain. I don’t have the body and energy of a college freshman, but no one expects me to. But I’ll be darned if that caffeinated mother of three is going to knock me out of the race.

1. You know who you are…and who you aren’t. I no longer feel the need to adapt to my surroundings. That’s great that you’re a wine connoisseur; I know the exact price of a happy hour Diet Dr. Pepper, add light vanilla. And you know what? I hate classical literature. I’m not going to sit here and act like Wuthering Heights changed my life.

So bring it on 27. I can take you. But can we be on the B team? Thanks.

Girl Power

If you’ve been on the internet this week, you’ve most likely seen a) the video of the swimsuit designer giving the history of the female swimsuit b) the video of Miss Utah’s jumbled up answer to the question about women receiving unequal pay or c) both of them.

If you answered “C,” the rest of this blog entry may make sense to you. If not, get to YouTube’in.

In video “A,” Jessica Rey explores the history of the bikini in a very interesting way. She even throws in some science to show us what happens when the male brain sees an immodest woman:

“Brain scans revealed that when men are shown pictures of scantily-clad women, the regions of the brain that are associated with tools, such as screwdrivers and hammers, light up," Rey said. "One professor said, 'It is as if they are reacting to these women as if they are not fully human.' "

The video is 8 minutes long—but in summary—women’s attempt at power and equality is being undone when they allow their clothing choices to dictate how men see them; that women aren’t helping in the whole objectification battle. [Disclaimer for later on: I agree with this and found it interesting].

Now let’s skip to lighter reading: Oh, Miss Utah. The question posed to her was:

“A recent report shows that in 40 percent of American families with children, women are the primary earners, yet they continue to earn less than men. What does this say about society?”

The transcript?

“I think we can re… relate this back to education, and how we are…continuing to try to strive to… figure out how to create jobs, right now. That is the biggest problem in… I think, especially the men, are, um… seen as the leaders of this, and so we need to try to figure out how to… create education better so that we can solve this problem.”

And just like that, Miss Teen South Carolina and her South Africa maps are off the hook.

Here’s my futile attempt at tying the two together and exposing my beef with both of them.

We wonder, as a society, why young girls grow up confused; why they feel the need to dress provocatively; why they can’t seem to grasp their value.

Maybe it’s because the only thing they learn in a girls-only Bible class is how to keep boys from sinning; maybe it’s because they don’t even know the redemption of Esther, Ruth, Rahab and other women in the Bible. Maybe it’s because we worship physical beauty while simultaneously linking it with public stupidity.

Maybe it's because we say to them: Do you want to be an outspoken feminist or do you want to be June Cleaver?

I was sitting in a co-ed Bible study one time and the topic of female modesty came up. Several of the guys chimed in with various versions of, “You need to stop making it hard on us.”

Having been a youth group intern the previous summer, I felt the need to respond. It later gained me a nickname, but that’s the risk you take in boldness.

“I worked with teenage girls last summer,” I started. “When they set foot in a classroom, they rarely take out a copy of the Bible. They take out the latest book, usually with a title like, “Hot Girls,” where they mainly talk about boys.

“But at the end of the day, when the girls are getting on the youth group bus to go to Six Flags, they know who the Christian guys want to sit by; they know who the guys are going to talk about to their friends; they know who is going to get asked out on a date. And they know that it’s not little Miss Margaret with her turtleneck on. So if you want them to help you; if you want them to dress modestly, reward it. Tell the girl with the one-piece on that she looks pretty. Ask out the girl whose face isn’t masked in Maybelline.”

Laughter happened, some “Amens” resounded and I was later known as Little Miss Margaret to a select few.

But really, people.

If you want girls to think deeply, if you want girls to speak about intellectual things; if you want girls to grow spiritually, we can no longer sit around and stunt their growth. We can no longer minimize their Christian responsibility to the length of their in-seams.

This isn’t a knock on modesty; this isn’t a “Shame on you if you made fun of a beauty pageant.” It is simply a challenge for positive change. It is a call for people to—for once—lend the girls a helping hand.

Perhaps when we preach what it really means to be a woman; the vastness; the uniqueness; the possibilities; maybe then girls will want to take hold of the power they’ve had in their possession the whole time.

Until then, they will continue to barely make it through answers they’ve memorized rather than seize the opportunity to express individual thought.

And if you don’t believe me, ask Little Miss Margaret.

Put Some Love in It

I was driving down the road on my lunch break and I cut my eyes between the grocery store and McDonald’s.

Do I want to go in and get some home cookin’? Or do I want to wait in a line and be yelled at through a loud speaker? First world problems, I know.

I opted to go into Harp’s. This older black lady, grinning from ear to ear, called me “child” and “darlin’” after everything she said. There’s something about a buttery, Southern drawl that just gets me.

If there had been a rocking chair present, I would have curled up in her lap—she’d probably have me cut down on the fried chicken—and request that she tell me her favorite story.

She wrapped up my food and said, “You wanna know why you come here, child?”

I stopped the hurriedness that often overtakes my life and said, “Why’s that?”

“Because there’s love in this chicken. I bake love in my food.”

I sat in my car, clutching the free roll in my hand, and I felt my eyes begin to well up with tears. I don’t make a habit out of crying over macaroni and cheese (when it’s homemade, it’s negotiable), but for whatever reason, that’s what I needed to hear today.

Love is a word we throw around. It’s found in the Bible and in Taylor Swift songs. It’s what we declare to our ice cream and to our boyfriends.

We scream it at Justin Bieber and we sing it to Jesus.

But how profound is it when we say to someone else—this service I’ve provided for you; this labor I’ve performed for you; this phone call I’ve taken for you was done in love. It’s not much—but it’s what I have to give to you.

I can say that I rarely have that attitude when I go about my daily life; and I can say without a shadow of a doubt that my spirit would not have matched hers if I was battering chicken tenders at my local grocery store.

God knows how to get my attention; if he keeps doing it through fried chicken, I wouldn’t complain.

But I have failed so many times this week (and it’s only Wednesday, heaven help us). In life, in marriage, in missed opportunities.

I crack a lot of jokes and have how-to marriage lists that run for miles—but sometimes ya’ll—I feel like I couldn’t be farther from having it together. Humor is sometimes as big of a mask as hypocrisy.

But I know that there’s love in me. God has created me in love and he’s baked plenty in there to last a lifetime.

It’s up to me to dish it out in heaping spoonfuls.

And I might even throw in some macaroni and cheese.

Hello There, 27.

It seems like only a few months ago that I was blogging about what I had learned during the year preceding my 26th birthday.

I had just painfully gulped the recommended dosage of adulthood; I was trying to balance disappointment and optimism; marriage and individual identity; a full-time job and enough freedom to maintain sanity. It was a party, let me tell ya.

But here I sit at the brink of 27.

I guess this is how people end up getting old. One second you’re at your desk, the next you’re in a rocking chair at Cracker Barrel bemoaning current political conditions.

So, in similar fashion, let’s cover a few things I’ve learned this year:

- Buy something you feel like you’re not cool enough to pull off. While I started out walking like a newborn giraffe, by event time, I was a gazelle in my tall, pink wedges. Ok, more like grown-up giraffe—but progress is progress.

- Do things outside of work with fellow coworkers. Even if it’s trading in your business pants for sweatpants and a set of dumbbells. Office talk suddenly shifts from number-crunching to a comparison of body parts you can no longer feel.

- Invest in a $1 plastic back massager from Dollar Tree. Husbands will want a backrub until the end of time. This enables you to sleepily bang it across their shoulders without looking.

- Babysit for couples whenever you can. I call it my mental health ministry. It’s not Africa, but it can be a jungle out there.

- Remember a detail about a passing conversation with someone and follow up another day with a question. I just had a lady ask me how my brother’s wedding was; I didn’t expect her to remember it, but let’s face it—it made me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

- Buy wedgie-free underwear. Glorious. Hope you like solid colors and stripes, though.

- You’re only as important as you think you are. If I didn’t clearly express myself in this email, the message would be lost. My communication skills are vital for the distribution of information within this company. Atta, girl.

- Embrace the “benefit of the doubt.” When you start to picture other people swarmed in the madness you find yourself in, your leniency and grace is extended—and understanding and continued friendship results.

- Watch dramatic teenage dramas. It makes being an adult sound like a better idea.

- Bake when you’re mad. Egg cracking is therapeutic and your husband doesn’t mind the end result.

- Cars mean a lot more when you work to pay for one. And it’s nice being able to open the car prior to running out in the rain.

- Become friends with people of all ages. That’s the fun thing about your late 20s. You can hang out with the youth group and the Golden Girls all in one night. But try not to get arrested.

- Sometimes “who you are” changes—and that’s OK. Or at least that’s what I tell myself now that I spoon with a dog every night and toss around the idea of being a stay-at-home mom someday.

I know these life lessons aren’t earth shattering in nature. I’m sure I could have pulled some more serious ones out if I had taken the time to do so.

But to me, life lessons sneak up on you just like another year of life. They don’t come in with a thunderous herd or trumpet sound; but they change you all the same.

Happy Birthday, kid.

Spazz.

Let’s just say I have coined a new phrase: “That was a bad day with a stray cat on top.”

God bless the husbands of spastic women. If being a spazz was an Olympic event, I would take gold, silver, and bronze. And I would probably be too twitchy to stand on any of the elevated steps during the national anthem.

On Friday, things were going well. I was going to get off at 2:30, I had packed all of the bags for the wedding; I was feeling good…more than good.

Then I find out that Justin is getting off work late. While I know that this isn’t his fault, I go into spazz mode. We’re going to be late. We are going to walk into rehearsal and everyone is going to be staring at us. The wedding planner is going to assume we are “those” people who can’t responsibly show up to an event on time. Someone else is going to have to stand in for us and they’re probably going to flash us dagger eyes.

I call my mom and she does her usual, “Calm down, it’s not a big deal” thing, which skyrockets my adrenaline and sends me almost into convulsions.

Irrational? Of course. But the spazz brain doesn’t compute this yet.

I am pacing the house when I hear Justin finally pull up. He doesn’t come in the house. What is he doing?

I exit the house and find him bathing this little kitten outside.

I just stood there, mouth agape.

“I told you about this abandoned kitten and that we were going to take her to your grandma.”

I have a flashback to the conversation that I had forgotten amidst my fury.

By this time, the dog has proceeded to bang violently on the glass door and whimper. We load the wet kitten, the crying dog and everything else into the car. I put Fiona in her car seat but she jumps out, strangling herself in an attempt to reach this frightened kitten.

The rest of the way I was required to straightjacket the dog in a large blanket while she cried and squirmed non-stop. In order to keep myself from crying, I began to depressingly sing Sarah McLachlan’s “Arms of an Angel.” I laughed at the hilarity that had become my life; one minute I’m devotedly not an animal person; the next minute I could be on a commercial asking you to donate 10 cents a day.

“Where ARE you right now?” Justin asked, concerned and a tad agitated.

Snap back to reality.

“I’m where I need to be right now. Just let me stay here. Please.”

I think I speak for all the other spazzy Christians out there when I say that our biggest spiritual battle has got to be the idea of peace.

Oh, the peace that passes understanding, how I long for thee.

Just hearing the 23rd Psalm stresses me out because I can’t imagine lying down in a green pasture without accidentally landing on a cow patty. And I’m sure not in bathing suit shape for when he leads me beside still waters.

We hear “Be anxious about nothing,” and think, “Good one, God. Good one.”

I await the day when I can write a post about how to handle this; how to fix this; how to find that peace. But I’m not really there yet.

I guess for now you will just have to find the nearest microfiber blanket and makeshift it as a straightjacket.

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.

John 14:27 ESV

A Wedding Toast

My baby brother is getting married this weekend. Rather than subject myself to the post-wedding recap, which consists of me sitting on the couch weeping hot, embarrassing tears on my hands as I type, I decided to one-up my emotional self by writing it preemptively.

I wrote a similar tribute for Ryan a few years ago on my former blog, but being the Casanova that he was—he snuck in and beat his older sister to the altar, keeping me from asserting my role as the nuptial Yoda.

I by no means consider myself the “Dear Abby” of marriage knowledge now, but I feel like this time around I can contribute more to the wedding scene than acting as the fondue taste-tester at the reception.

Because public speaking outranks death on people’s greatest fears list, wedding toasts are understandably kept short; traditional; light-hearted; congratulatory. There’s always that one person who doesn’t make sense but ends with the boisterous “To the happy couple” that makes people cheer and forget the incoherence that happened two minutes prior.

But I wanted to toast to the things that never get said; to the things that do the dirty work behind the scenes of happiness:

· Taylor: May your spontaneous “I’m thinking of you” texts outnumber the 1,247 articles of dirty laundry that will now consume your life.

· Kelsey: May you have the Domino’s app on your phone for just the right occasion. Signs to look for: a stressed out female and/or a burned food item.

· Taylor: May no Febreeze, no Glade, no candle find itself capable of hiding your genuine excitement to see each other. But may it mask everything else that comes along with living with a dude.

· Kelsey: May your quirky sound effects, unmatchable facial expressions and inability to get embarrassed create laughter when it is so desperately needed.

· Taylor: May you cover him with respect, love, and admiration always. And continue to make sure he is covered in fashionable attire. (Minus the Grizzly bear shirt. You have to keep that for posterity).

· Kelsey: May you come to understand that washing a few pans and folding some underwear trumps roses every day of the week, and twice on chili day.

· Taylor: May your hints not be subtle, your frustrations not be coded, and your expectations plainly written with a boldface marker on a whiteboard.

· Kelsey: May you learn the value of the phrase, “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

· Taylor: May you sleep an extra hour every time someone asks when you’re having kids.

· Kelsey: May you find something cute about her when she’s mad; and keep that to yourself until she’s done being mad.

· To both of you: May you know how to graciously take advice; and when to kindly ignore it. May you pave the way to your own happiness and find it in unsuspecting places.

Funny Face

I think one of the toughest things about trying to make it in the humorist blogosphere is the fact that there are days where you are just so…over it.

You lock yourself out of your house again (and it’s not so funny this time). You practice the “This is what is wrong with our air conditioner speech” that your husband prepared for you and the AC guy won’t even hear it (except instead of writing a funny list you want to write a dissertation about how girls can’t get no respect).

You stand by the elevator door for several minutes before you realize that you have yet to push the button.

A guy squeezes by and utters, “Excuse me” and you say, “You’re welcome.” Then all the way down the elevator you get to meditate on how stupid that sounded. You’re welcome? You’re welcome, sir—I usually don’t let people be excused. Or pass me. But you’re. welcome.

You seal up an envelope to mail and then later open it up thinking it was yours.

It’s just been one of those days.

I hope other bloggers can somewhat relate; you stare at the blinking cursor and think, “All of these things that are normally my material, they’re my thing. They’re my bread and butter. But today, right now, in this moment, they are really getting on my nerves.

It’s the equivalent I guess to a boxer deciding one day, “You know what? I am sick and tired of people punching me in the face.”

Here are some signs that you, like me, are getting kind of life-jaded:

- You can’t perfect everything so you start trying to perfect stupid things. I was getting so frustrated last night trying to write out a church softball line-up while Justin drove his jackhammer of a truck. After about my 6th frustrated sigh, he said, “You know this isn’t a competition right?” I looked up at him like a fifth-grader who got a B and said, “I take PRIDE in my handwriting.”

- You just throw things outside. Sitting there watching the Game Show Network (don’t judge me) and Fiona decides to throw up black stuff all over me and the blanket (later found out she got a hold of some steak scraps). I made Justin throw the blanket outside. I just couldn’t handle it. It was like a dramatic get-out-of-my-house moment minus the homeless spouse.

- You need a change of scenery. I was driving to work today and everything I passed received an inner, “I hate that stop sign.” “I hate that school.” “Here’s the light where NO ONE understands that you can turn right on red.” Maybe I’m setting myself up for a psych eval here, but there are days where I think if I see that Arby’s sign one more time, I might lose it and throw roast beef on everyone.

- You type out a post of some kind and then delete it. I’m kind of impulsive. Sort of like I am being right now. I will furiously type out a Facebook status. Post. There, world. That’s what I think about you. Then I will realize that I sound like a crazy person and I pray that none of my 1,524 “friends” happened to be online at 5:23 p.m.

- Sounds you hear every day suddenly become intolerable. Do ya really have to click those keys to type? And just try me, coin machine downstairs.

I am writing this in hopes that I am not the only one who has stared at a pile of laundry on the guest bed for a week now. That I’m not the only one who has succumbed to digging like a mole to find clean underwear. That I’m not the only one who needs therapy every Sunday night because it’s, well, Sunday night. Please find solace in the fact that sometimes things are SO not funny, that they’re pretty darn funny. So let’s take a minute and laugh at ourselves. One. Two. Three. Go.

Man Date

“We need to see other people.”

This phrase, when used in dating, is pretty much a death sentence.

It’s the passive aggressive way of saying, “There is someone I really want to see…and you’re not that person.”

When you’re married, it’s a whole new ballgame. It’s the realization that perhaps you should try to interact more with other people of your own gender.

That maybe one night out of your newfound comfort zone won’t kill you.

You know, like that Beyonce song: If you liked it then you should’ve put a ring on it, married it, isolated yourself with it, and watched DVR-ed shows in your pajamas with it (Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh).

I say all this to say that Justin has a man-date tonight. Despite my encouragement to branch out and regardless of my complaints about potentially seeing Star Trek, I was surprisingly a little jealous when he told me he had found a guy friend to go see it with him.

I don’t get time travel. I don’t grasp space. I ask WAY too many questions if a movie even mentions galaxies.

So it’s for the best. This I know.

But there is just something so pathetic about being a newlywed. It’s not that you nauseatingly recite love sonnets to each other all evening. Or even talk all that much. Sometimes you pull more moves on your iPhone game than you do on the other person (I’m not condoning this, but it’s the truth, people).

For whatever reason, though, you lose track of your stunted social growth.

Then one day you start talking to another female and you Can’t. Shut. Up. It was like someone turned on my faucet and left it running, causing streams of too-much-information to flood the place.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I just don’t really get to have girl talk all that often anymore.”

A bystander chimed in, “I can see that.” (Nobody asked you, lady).

I never understood why my married friends seemed to abandon all others. Now that I’m one of the nuptial hermits, I have realized that it is a slow, accidental progression more than it is a purposeful segregation. You’re comfortable. You’re tired. You don’t have to try to be entertaining. You have a sparkling reminder on your hand that they think you’re pretty cool.

But there comes a point when you will see other people. And it’s healthy. It’s a good thing. It’s a necessary thing.

And I can watch The Bachelorette and the Voice tonight and forego drink coasters all together (yep, that particular nag is flip-flopped in our family).

On second thought...

I think I’m starting to feel a little better…

Shake it Up

I was on my way back to work from lunch. The country music station was on. A lifelong favorite, I was surprised to find that it was becoming increasingly irritating to me.

I was unable to put my finger on why I was getting aggravated, but then it hit me: Who ARE these people?

These country girls who have time to stand on tailgates and shake it for the forest animals all the time? (Sorry, Luke Bryan, that’s a paraphrase.)

These girls who appear to have no business clothes in their closets—only cutoff jeans on top of bikini bottoms.

These couples who have time to kiss in barns all the time.

These men who somehow manage to have wives who make sure their post-work experience is nothing but a country-fried, radio-blaring, white sundress-wearing good time.

Maybe I’m just bitter because my summers used to entail pretending to live in an apartment complex so I could swim in the community pool.

Maybe I’m just bitter because company dress code implies that I wear suffocating clothing and not shake it for anyone, much less squirrels and trees.

Whatever the reason, I must accept my fate and enjoy the small glimpses of summer instead of dwelling on the tans of summers past.

Then: There was nothing like riding in my roommate’s Jeep, feeling the cool nightly breeze and driving nowhere in particular.

Now: 3rd floor bathroom. Handicapped stall. Plenty of space, cool marble tile and a nice breeze—if you count the spray of the automatic Glade dispenser. You can even hold on like you’re in the Wrangler.

Then: I promised myself I would wear a polka-dot bikini on Spring Break if I did 100 sit-ups a day. And I did.

Now: My Dillard’s one-piece with slimming panels also has an attached skirt. (It’s not as bad as it sounds, I promise).

Then: My part-time paycheck went to Sonic, Maurice’s, Bath and Body Works, and Mi Ranchito. In that order.

Now: When the revenue office lady gave me the total for taxes, I had to think about how to write out such a large amount in word-form. “Hey, lady, do you happen to have a machine that can just type that sucker out for me while I weep in the corner?”

Then: Friends dared me to jump off of a cliff at the lake and videoed me screaming bloody murder all the way down.

Now: I’m occasionally tagged in a horrible candid shot at a baby shower or something with “It’s a boy!” cake dribbling from my mouth.

Then: Being sweaty and hot meant I was getting a TAN.

Now: Being sweaty and hot means this teeny-bopper deodorant that smells like cherry blossoms just isn’t cutting it anymore. Platinum strength, here we come.

It appears that I’m being too hard on my new summer self. There are days that I miss my carefree lifestyle like I miss my red polka dot bikini. There are days that I miss thinking a four-hour work day a few times a week is enough to kill a person.

But I didn’t have Justin. I didn’t have Fiona (bless her shoe-chewing soul). I didn’t have the satisfaction that comes when you work hard to own things.

My Sonic drink may reside on my desk now instead of pool-side, but my heart loves the small moments of summer that occasionally peak out from the day’s monotony.

And that’s enough shaking it up for me, Luke.