Hottie.

I don't know what it is, but when you're 28+ and someone--anyone--hits on you, you feel ashamedly flattered. Like you go inside and do the three head turns in front of the mirror (profile, front, other profile). This very sad, very pathetic phenomenon is new to me. I preface with this to say:

A bold stranger rolled up while I was pulling weeds and asked if I was single. I got to hold up my left hand and say, "I'm married." The look of defeat on his face--this is going to sound awful--made me feel awesome. You can judge me all you want, but you can't tell me that when that Subway guy looked you up and down, you didn't feel a little elated when you responded, "Toasted." So hush it.

I think it's because-- for five brief seconds--someone finds you mysterious. Someone doesn't know:

• You scrounge your house for half an hour searching for $1.31 in change--the price of a Route 44 drink during Happy Hour at the shady Sonic. If your husband doesn't see another Sonic charge on your debit, the trip didn't exist. 

• You have bad yoga pants and good yoga pants and you switch them out depending on where you are going. Nice dinner party? Let's go with the ones that don't have fuzzies lining the inner-leg from your lack of thigh gap.

• You get sore from doing very mundane things. Painted a hutch? Yeah, you're gonna feel that tomorrow. 

• One of your levels of Dante's Inferno includes CrossFit and a juicer. ("When We All Get to Heaven," sing it with me now!)

• You cook recipes that are for a family of four...and your family of two often eats the whole thing. What kind of family shares an 8x8 casserole? We would turn into the Donner party up in here. 

• You watch hours of Criminal Minds and plan out your course of action if you were to get attacked in various places. 

• Using the scan gun at Sam's sends a rush of adrenaline through your veins and fulfills your childhood dream of being a cashier. 

During a period when your life is changing, your body is changing, your metabolism is changing (read: quitting), it's nice to become a mystery--even if it's to Weirdy McWeirdston. 

So enjoy a creepy staredown every now and then and don't be ashamed that it made you feel like a junior high hottie again. 

I'll catch ya'll later. It's 2:37 and I've got loose change to find. 

Dream On

For the past several months, I have started having what I will call "housewife nightmares." I go to pick up a vehicle after a minor tune-up and the guy nonchalantly states, "That will be 6000 dollars, please."

Or I'm in the middle of painting an old piece of furniture and someone grabs it and takes it to the living room and destroys the rug I saved up for. I wake up in a cold sweat over a rug, ya'll. A large piece of carpet keeps me up at night.

I've also dreamed that everyone brought me a weenie dog and my house was overtaken by dachshunds (contrary to popular belief--and my Facebook wall--this was not a positive dream).

It's so funny how, as our lives shift, so do our ridiculous insecurities that weasel their way into our mind's reject pile of thoughts during our REM cycle.

Let's compare dreams:

Before: You're standing at your high school locker and can't remember the combination.

Now: You're in the grocery store line and you forgot your membership card. To make matters worse, you suddenly have no recollection of your phone number either.

Before: You are giving a speech in Oral Communications completely naked.

Now: Being naked. Period.

Before: You meet the man of your dreams.

Now: You killed your husband, but wake up relieved that he's still lying beside you.

Before: You're being chased through a crowd of people.

Now: A crowd of people come over to your house and tell you that they thought you were in charge of Thanksgiving dinner this year.

I'm sure when I become a parent, the dreams will take a turn for the weirder. Each stage of life brings its own set of nightmares and challenges.

But when we wake up, we know who is in control. Even if I have to unexpectedly cook a turkey or dish out my life savings for a couple spark plugs, I know (praise ye the Lord) that goofy nightmares are not my reality.

So mail me a thousand dachshunds. I got this.

Conversation Change

I sat in the drab lobby. I cut my eyes between the other people in the waiting room and the shriveled, dying ferns placed everywhere. Isn't it kind of hard to kill a fern? I thought to myself. It smelled musty in there, like a dying rain forest. I was contemplating leaving when I heard my name called. Here goes nothing.

This was me at a counseling center a couple years ago. After a quick rundown, I was told that I suffered from high anxiety and mild depression (they're kind of disorder best friends). The news flooded me with both relief and guilt. You see, I had no reason to feel like I felt.

I have a loving family. A supportive husband. Great friends. A sense of humor. And a God who created me in his own image.

This. This isn't his image. What's wrong with me? There are people out there who have pah-lenty of reasons to feel like they can't leave their bed, and I am most certainly not one of them.

And I can't share this with anyone because I'm the "funny one." I make people laugh. They don't want to hear about my problems. Heck, I'm one goofy Facebook status away from them not believing me anyway.

That was me up until about a year ago. 

That probably comes as a surprise to many of you; and if it is, I accomplished what I intended. But recent events have led me to be a little more open. Because the truth is, there are people in your midst every single day whose struggle is exponentially more severe than mine was. And perhaps they don't have the means to seek the help they need.

And that's why the church desperately needs to change its outlook on mental illnesses. We are supposed to be the gateway to getting those people help--not the deniers who send them to their homes to pray more fervently.

Depression and anxiety are not correlated to how much spirituality a person possesses or lacks. And until we immerse ourselves in that fact, we will continue to go to funerals and read hateful literature afterward about suicide's "selfishness" to lick our wounds.

I sought help. I got help. And it was because there were a few people in my life who refused to step in and say stupid, outdated things to me. And it made all the difference in my life and in my marriage.

So instead of uttering something tacky like, "That just goes to show you that money doesn't buy happiness," how about we vow to see people. To actually see people. Depression doesn't have a poster child; it can be the chatty waitress you had at lunch or the star of the high school basketball team.

It can be hidden; or it can be so painfully obvious it just can't be ignored. So don't ignore it. Educate yourself, but don't think you're the answer. Realize that God's faithfulness makes a difference, but its implementation can take the form of a medical professional.

Church, we need to change the conversation. And it starts with you.