Girl Fight.

I consider myself a well-traveled person; a well-educated person; a supporter of women. Which is why I am one judgmental post away from calling together a Kotex-sponsored United Nations meeting.

I am here to represent an ignored demographic; the woman who sees value in both having ambition and having family. I will never understand why we have pitted the two against each other as this unavoidable dichotomy rather than encouraging one another to strive for both. 

To imply true purpose ends in a law degree or a medical residency is just as flawed as looking down on women who choose to forego family life.

So here's the truth: 

1. A passport, in itself, does not lead to growth. I have one. Besides the fact that my picture resembles the mugshot of a criminal with a bad haircut, I love that thing. It represents a time in my life where I chose to mature, I chose to see people from all walks of life in a whole new way. If it's the stamped paper document that's on your "before I get married bucket list," it is as meaningless as a McDonald's napkin.

2. You don't have to take time to be selfish; you kind of already are. If you really want to "stick it to the man," learn how to be unselfish; how to coexist with another human being and put their needs before your own. I wrote a 30-page graduate thesis with four international students who didn't speak English. But reaching marital equilibrium has been my greatest feat. 

3. Freedom isn't exclusive to a particular marital status. Yes, I'm sure my sister friends out there with kids aren't singing the National Anthem on a daily basis. The closest thing they have to a jail break is when their kids haven't yet figured out they're sitting on the toilet. But there were days when my single freedom was stinted by my bank account or a less than desirable job. Real freedom isn't standing naked in front of a window (this was in an article); real freedom isn't dating two guys at once; real freedom isn't kissing a random stranger. It's a choice. It's chasing contentment rather than momentary gratification. 

It's time to end the division; the notion that dreams die in a sea of "I do's" and the inclination that naivety surrounds women without the title of wife or mom. 

I have spent ample time on both sides of the fence and have found that my emotional and intellectual development was less dependent on my role at the time-- and more contingent on my desire to continually learn and empathize with other human beings. 

While You Were Working...

When I was stuck at the office every day from 8-5, I would occasionally stare out the window and ponder what life was like in the outside world. These mysterious human creatures that were clogging up traffic at two in the afternoon were an oddity that I wanted to explore.

It had to be magical. It just had to be. The world was their oyster while I was clammed up in a four-story asylum. 

So fast forward to today. I am one of them. This is what my research has shown me.

1. They love to stand in pharmacy lines. You go to Wal-Mart at 3 p.m. and find yourself googling, "Is swine flu back in town?" They wind through the roped maze like they're awaiting Space Mountain, rattling off medications like a rapper in a studio. (Vicodin, Lortab, Hydros too-- fill up my bag or I'll yell at you). If you get too close, your apt to hear someone announce that their sister's "got the diabetes." See Exhibit 1.

Exhibit 1

2. Hobby Lobby is the New Country Club. Being the exciting person I am, I went to the craft store to nab some deliciously real-looking fake fruit for the bowl in my kitchen. I'm walking around the place with a bag of plastic green apples, and I see this parade of beautiful moms. Their children (see exhibit 2) follow closely behind--not touching a single glass vase. I'm in awe. They are decorating for their summer home no doubt.

Exhibit 2

3. They like to file lawsuits. You can't make it through one daytime television show without some commercial on television encouraging you to sue the pants off somebody. I would hope, dear sir, that if a doctor had left MESH in my body and I knew about it that it wouldn't take an ad during "The View" to cause me to spring to action. By the end of "The Price is Right," I've already succumbed to believing I've at one point taken all of those medications. What's that number again? 

4. They like to watch instant streaming. Ok, maybe this is just me. Every day-- for a few hours-- I pretend I'm an attorney. I get so sucked in that I feel like we're all friends. (See Exhibit 3).

Exhibit 3

5. They like to talk more out in public. Post five o'clock shoppers got places to BE, yo. I remember marching into Kroger, my demeanor speaking volumes: Don't talk to me. I just need toilet paper. There's something about mid-day shopping that says, "I have all the time in the world. Please tell me everything." I was making my way to the front with an ironing board (Justin's new job encourages not looking like an upright dorm room floor) and this old man approaches me. "About time you got to work." I figured ironing board manslaughter might come with some hard time so I smiled and went on my merry way.

Most importantly, we:

6. Like to bug you. Hide yo bank, hide yo office, hide yo clinics and pharmacies, hide yo restaurants.

We're coming for you.

The Cupcake

I can't quite put my finger on why government-funded offices are so incredibly irritating. Maybe it's the stark white walls. Maybe it's the cardigan police who are inconvenienced by your very presence. Maybe it's the baby doll chairs they link together to provide as much personal space invasion as possible. Maybe it's the prehistoric computers they make you use, consuming you with the sense that your life is moving at the speed of someone on a Wal-Mart scooter.

But there I was in the unemployment office...again. Dealing with the same issues...again. I waited for about an hour, listening to the laughter and banter of people who could have been calling my name. I knew my next stop was my former employer to sign some unfinished paperwork. It was the makings for a grumpfest. 

I left moody--no surprise--but what I did next is what makes this Hot Mess Friday.

I went to the cupcake store next door. How the taste of disdain doesn't float over and poison the batter I shall never know.

"Let me go find a box for this," said the baker (are they still called this?). She was dusted with flour and had a touch of frosting on her face--but in a cute way. I think I will own a bakery in another life. And Justin (or second life husband) will fall in love with me as I describe my favorite cake. He will reach in and lightly remove the frosting that's on the tip of my nose.

I was this close to saying the truth: I don't need a box, mam. It will only get in my way. But I let her do her thing. She sealed it with a sticker and passed it to me with a smile, probably assuming this was a gift for someone special.

I got in my car and ripped that box apart like it had also denied my claims for no reason and went to TOWN. 

I was an awkward 7th grader with braces and the cupcake was the unfortunate soul who asked me to the school dance and tried to seal the night with a goodbye kiss. It was ugly. I looked like a kid whose parents paid a gazillion dollars for a cake smash photography session.

Feeling like a raptor in Jurassic Park, I took a breath and laughed at myself. Hard. 

Who would be friends with me? Would I be friends with myself?

Yes. Yes, I think I would.

I was going to turn this into a wonderful comparison for something quite deep. But then I decided...no. Sometimes you just gorged a cupcake and it's time to move on. You get back up. You drink a Special K protein shake the next day and ask the god of metabolism to forgive your sins. 

Happy Hot Mess Friday, everyone. You can have your cake and eat it too. 

Full-Time

Before I lost my job, I honestly wondered what I was going to do all day. I pictured a scene out of an insane asylum -- a straight-jacketed me rocking back and forth indistinguishably parroting what I heard on "Live with Kelly and Michael." 

This season of my life (all one month of it) has been--surprisingly--not like that at all. While I do sometimes indistinguishably mutter under my breath during morning television (large-framed, black glasses don't a philosopher make, Jenny McCarthy), this month has brought a vitality and refreshment to my life and marriage that I never predicted. 

I have come to this conclusion: 

Being a woman and a wife is a full-time job; one that most of us double-up with another one. Everything I was pathetically fitting in can now fill the hours of my normal day.

I had to cut out five loaves of bread and two fish (at least it wasn't 5000) for each of my students for last night's Bible class. As I leisurely weaved my scissors around the very curvaceous fish (Come on, Picasso-- they're 4), I flashed back to my previous life; a life where I would balance a spreadsheet and reward myself by cutting out paper disciples and stuffing them in my purse for later. 

I'm sure whoever emptied my trash in the evenings wondered who hired the psychopath with the mangled paper dolls in her trashcan. 

When Justin gets home from work, I am able to sit down with him and talk to him about his day; beforehand, it wasn't uncommon for me to say, "How was work?" and then start the vacuum before he had time to answer. Nothing says, "I care about your day" like scream over this monstrous machine. 

All of this and I'm not even a mother. I honestly don't know how you people do it. I went to shut a closet door today and my dog had already pulled every square of toilet paper off the roll and shredded it into confetti pieces. I'm talking 10 seconds- tops. Word on the street is that toddlers are faster and more destructive. 

It is so taboo now to simply enjoy being a woman; a new wife; a friend; a church member. We feel like these are adjunct jobs to the nucleus of our life; I know I did. And it was because I refused to admit that they are a central piece of the puzzle that I questioned what value I would find when the other was gone. 

Much to my surprise, I have found great fulfillment. Justin came in the other day and I gleefully boasted, "I made a chowder-- and I cut up a bunch of vegetables!" Eating vegetables and cutting vegetables are both very dangerous tasks for me. 

Am I saying quit your job? Absolutely not. Am I saying everyone's personality is conducive to not working? Heck no. I know some of you can only digest a Subway sandwich if you're in front of a full email inbox. And that's perfectly OK. 

What I am saying is give yourself a break, sister. You have 3+ full-time jobs and you're beating yourself up like you only have one. 

You are preparing Sunday School lessons when the last thing you want to think about is someone getting swallowed by a giant fish. Someone on TV makes you wonder if your child is gluten-intolerant but the foul-smelling gook all over your business suit informs you that you only have time to deal with his green pea intolerance. You stare at the pudgy mass that has taken residence on your abs and wonder if the gas station food you grab on your lunch break could be the culprit.

I can tell you--from this perspective--that you are a superhero without a cape; a pioneer without praise. 

Know your worth-- with or without a job; know your value within your family (even if it's Dodge's Fried Chicken for supper); know that your husband still sees his college sweetheart even if you don't. 

Get to life. 

The New Year Tree

Walking down the street with the women in my family can be a daunting journey for rushed, oblivious people like me. Every tree, every flower, every shrub has a name; it is to be recognized; it is to be adored.

If not for my green-thumbed mother, I could probably skate through life void of the realization that plants exist. To me, they are fixtures on medians that I try not to hit with my car. But to her, they are a refreshing reminder of the beauty and vitality of life.

The trip to Texas--between her and my grandmother--was full of pleas to look at trees off to the side of the road. I found myself looking up from my book, staring out the window for the customary 4 seconds, then going back to what I was doing (something important l'm sure like catching up on that one girl from high school's latest selfie). They talk about leafless trees like I would talk about ice cream; my grandma sees them as a picture to paint; I see them as the representation of winter-- and Grinch over here hates her some winter. 

I've been asked about New Year's Resolutions. Here's where you think I'm going to transition from my flower-hating ways to an inspiring piece on stopping to smell the roses. 

Nope.

Instead of resolutions, I resolve to take everything that's thrown at me in 2014 as it comes. Each triumph; each heartache; each disappointment will be acknowledged for what it is. I will adopt the courage and knowledge I need in that moment; and pray for the strength to face the uncertainty that is ahead. 

I thought about dishing out the usual "lose 20 pounds," "Take up a new hobby," etc., but decided that it's much scarier to pledge yourself to events that aren't even on the horizon of your life (although losing 20 pounds is frightening and at this point would only be accomplished if I cut off multiple limbs).  

But I want to look up-- from the distractions, from the negative voices, from the rush of life--and see everything. To give it a name. To acknowledge why it's there in my path. To pull out the thorns when there are thorns and not let it shadow the beauty of the landscape. 

Here's to 2014. May I notice everything--even the trees.