Six.

The other day when we were still in Seattle, Justin looked at me over a Red Robin cheeseburger and said, "This is why I love you." 

"What do you mean?" I asked, a little confused.

"Because here we are, in a completely new place, and you still wanted to eat at Red Robin. So I'm sitting here eating garlic fries right now." 

Sounds like a weird statement, but it has a short back story. 

On our 2nd anniversary, I mapped out this "all the cool kids are doing it" itinerary for our getaway. We waited in line for almost 2 hours to eat pancakes that were...well, good pancakes but pancakes nevertheless. And we ate at this farm-to-table restaurant that served us 6 olives on a hot skillet for $12. That's $2 per olive, ya'll. And they still had the break-your-teeth pits in them. If I'm paying you $2 an olive, please take the pit out you jerkface. 

After that trip, we had a come to Olive Jesus moment and decided that we just needed to be ourselves. We were Chili's people. We were Red Robin people. The chicken in their chicken fingers came from a farm somewhere and is now on our table. And that was good enough for us. 

When we started owning our marriage and doing what was right by us, the enjoyment factor went up exponentially. 

We go to PetSmart and look at kittens and chinchillas for date night. 

We eat at PF Chang's and go to the zoo EVERY TIME we hit Memphis. As far as we're concerned, those are the only two things it has to offer. 

Our hotel a few weeks ago had a mini kitchen and we acted like the Kardashians had nothing on us.

Justin asked what I wanted to do for our anniversary tomorrow and I said I wanted to walk around IKEA because I've never been. 

I booked him a massage for our anniversary and he acted like I had sold him into Fifty Shades of bondage. I bought some clothes today and told him it could be my anniversary present. As usual, my gift is received with confusion and he let me buy my own stuff. 

This is Us. This is how we work. 

He is the optimistic fixer to my spiral of world-ending panic,

He's the Chip to my Joanna, and

the punchline to my Facebook quote. 

Happy #6! Let's go to a chain restaurant and I'll continue to tell you we're not owning a chinchilla and a parakeet. 

Abundance.

We have begun the "Justin being gone for a week at a time" stage of this new job transition. The day after he left, I reverted back to my early-20s single days and hit up Wal-Mart for some microwave meals (they were organic and a dollar more- so I upped my lifestyle a little more to grown-up status, OK?) I even put the meals on a plate so it didn't seem quite so sad.

Before you go thinking I'm a pillar of health and stability, I feel inclined to mention that I also bought Toaster Strudels for breakfast because warm pastries and coffee get me out of bed in the morning. I won't apologize for that.

My brother, his wife and their new baby child are coming to live with us at the end of this month for 4 weeks while he completes his first medical school rotation at the hospital here. So when I wasn't eating Toaster Strudels, I was cleaning out and organizing pantries and closets so they'll think I have my life together. I got all Real Simple magazine in the guest bathroom and put cotton balls and Q-tips in a glass jar and clean towels in a basket. They'll never know two days ago that chemicals were seeping out of a paint can next to the half-used tube of toothpaste that prior guests "could use I guess if you forgot yours." 

I've also had ample time to sit and think. I'm starting to enjoy this new freedom I have allowed myself. While the physical freedom from past obligations and duties has been beneficial, the mental and emotional freedom that is starting to make its appearance is also a welcomed guest. 

I have tried to pinpoint what has been different about my spirit lately; what has entered my heart and started planting joy lately that wasn't there before. And then I read this excerpt from Lysa TerKeurst's "Uninvited" in a chapter called, "Her Success Does Not Threaten Mine":

"In my better moments, I did the right thing and celebrated with [my friends]. But then there were other moments. Hard moments. Moments when I felt my friends' lives were rushing past me in a flurry of met goals, new opportunities, and affirmations of their callings from God. It seemed the world was literally passing me by. In those moments, I said, 'Good for them.' But on the inside, I kept thinking, 'Ouch...that means less and less opportunity for me.' That raw essence of honest hurting rarely produces pretty thoughts."

That paragraph stopped me in my tracks. Me. She was describing me. She goes on to delve into Covey's "7 Habits of Highly Successful People" and the scarcity mentality and abundance mentality. 

Long story short, people (like me) who were living with the scarcity mentality found it very difficult to be genuinely happy for others because they saw the world as one big pie. When people came up and got a slice, it meant less pie for you and everyone else. 

Since Covey's book was meant to address the business world, she searched the Bible for evidence of an abundant mentality and found it countless times, especially in the abundance of creation in Genesis 1. It left her feeling this way:

"As I studied these scriptures, I really felt like I was beginning to understand how this relates to my struggle with rejection. If I look at my dreams, desires, and hopes for the future as coming from a place of scarcity and the world's limited supply, it will constantly feed the notion that someone else's success is a threat to mine." 

It was after I read this that I realized that part of my newfound peace was this ability (that must have come from God because I sure didn't work on it) to separate my individual disappointments from comparable experiences that others were having. 

I was able to truly enjoy being an aunt and consider that as a fun adventure without feeding the irrational insecurity that I would soon be an awkward character in my family without a child. 

I was able to accept and celebrate a wonderful work opportunity for Justin, knowing that when I finally click with what I'm supposed to do, he will be overjoyed for me. 

My roles within friendships, family, and even marriage have changed over the last few years, but now I'm feeling hopeful about what that can mean, instead of an intense dread.

In fact, things I perceived as rejections suddenly became questionable to me. What if they weren't actually rejections at all? In the book, she says, "There is usually some element of protection wrapped in every rejection." Sometimes we find out when those closed doors were for protective purposes; sometimes we don't. But I'm trying to see the possibility that the things that I think I want might actually hinder what God wants for me. 

Because I serve a God of abundance. 

He didn't stick a proverbial bucket of fried chicken in the middle of the table and tell us to have at it. Anyone who grew up with teenage brothers knows this is how supper time works. To this day, I still eat lightning fast because of my training early on. You snooze, you lose half the casserole, why did you eat all the casserole, I hate you, I don't care if you had football practice. 

I'm not going to lie and pretend like there aren't still difficult days; or that every time someone's life advances or they have a baby, that there isn't sometimes a Facebook poke on my heart. 

But I'm slowly learning to use those pokes- not as a painful gesture- but a soft reminder that the God of abundance who blessed this person is the same one who dwells in me. And because of that, their abundance isn't robbing me; it can flow to, through, and from me. And sometimes, what is a bounty for them, might have been a burden for me. 

Remember all these things, friends. At least until we get to heaven where I am fairly certain there is a bottomless KFC buffet and pie for everyone. All the pies. 

Hotel Hermit

I'm fairly certain that the hotel maids think I'm like a La Quinta Inn Boo Radley. With the dogs here, I just put out a "Do Not Disturb" sign and just emerge when I need new towels or 4-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash/lotion. On that note, you can NOT combine that many things and them all fulfill their faithful duties. LIES. Either that, or there is a mass conspiracy by beauty companies to lie to the American people and force unsuspecting women to own 4,798 separate products.

I had big plans to see the sights and sounds of this new city, but I think my body was like, "For this first week, enjoy living somewhere you don't have to clean. Oh and binge watch Big Little Lies." In my defense, it only had seven episodes. And it's based on a book so my BRAIN WAS GROWING.

I have a dorm-sized fridge and my snacks lying on top of it remind me of my freshman glory days. God and I struck a deal and this week, I have my 19-year-old metabolism back to celebrate my extra $60/week mini fridge. Holllla. I even got on to Justin for eating MY CHIPS. You have to fight for what is yours, just like on campus.

The events of this summer have zoomed by and I think it was nice to be a shut-in for a bit. At one point this summer, I was turning 31, directing part of VBS, had a nephew born, had a best friend have a baby, all while hoarding the secret that we might have to move. It was slightly maddening. But I survived by the grace of God and generic $4 Celexa.

The first night with the dogs was ROUGH, but they have slowly gotten used to being hotel hermits too. Now the lawn mower zips by our window and they sigh like it's old hat. We took them to the dog park yesterday, imagining them frolicking through the meadow but were met with dogs who licked weeds and meandered slowly and watched a graceful hunting dog sprint for Frisbees. Minnie barked at him and his owner said, "Man, she's scary!" While a joke, I had my first ping of pet parent defensiveness- like a mom at a play date.

The ping of "I CAN MAKE FUN OF MY DOG BUT YOU CAN'T. YOU DON'T KNOW HER HEART. Also, her #2s are small. So take that!"

Luckily, it quickly faded.

Justin, as expected, is off to the races and is already very busy. But he is energized and hopeful about what he can add to their company and is thankful that their enthusiasm and culture is allowing him to do that. I met several of the employees at a minor league baseball game the other night and I was very impressed with their personalities and takes on life. Conversations came pretty natural and I avoided (I think) being the awkward turtle that I am.

SMALL TALK IS MY NIGHTMARE.

Especially the "What do you do?" question. Somehow God's face shone upon me and no one asked me that. But I instantly panic and usually say something like, "I don't work but I do stuff with church and I like to write. I had a job once but was laid off and my short break turned into a long break and we do OK with just his salary so I watch my dogs. That's what I do. What do you do?"

"I'm a neurosurgeon and I have 4 small children. Balance is hard."

OK BYE. I'M GETTING A HOT DOG.

Thanks for reading my random rambling. I never want this blog to turn into a perpetual sad devotional so I like to throw in the occasional lighter fare. So here it is.

Thanks again for all your love and support. Now I need to get something to drink out of the mini fridge...

Free.

We drove down to Franklin, TN yesterday since Justin started his new job today. I told myself that- on the weeks I joined him- I would use that extra time to get more writing in or even explore places online that need freelance writers. 

While my dogs aren't spazzing at every creak the hotel makes, I thought I would try to spit something out. Their frequent wake-up calls last night and this morning haven't left me as clear-headed and inspired as I had hoped, but I have the ability to make an excuse every day if I let myself. 

I just finished the book, "You are Free," by Rebekah Lyons. She touches on all the areas of her life that were once crippled by anxiety and depression and discusses her journey to freedom. I read it from the perspective of the still crippled and was intrigued by the idea of freedom. 

The past several weeks have been a blur. Justin received a couple job opportunities that would have launched us into drastically different areas. When asked if I had peace about any of the possible paths, I responded with a very honest: "I don't know what peace even feels like." It's true though. I have often been envious of people who felt God's nudging or calling to do something or go somewhere. I feel like I'm such a ball of tension that gentle whispers and nudges don't often get through. 

This followed me into my church life too. I didn't have a clear direction for what I should be doing so I piled a random assortment of ministries and duties on my plate. I figured one of them would give me purpose. I juggled them all for years, many times doing them out of obligation, until I had a breaking point this spring. Justin and my friends encouraged me to just walk away and find where I actually belong.

So that's where I am now. On the journey to being set free. 

I have always battled with the miraculous or inwardly scoffed at something being a "God thing." I guess because it's become so distorted in our society. Vulnerability and humility are also not friends of anxiety so anything in our spiritual lives that seems like God reaching out to us is often met with cynicism. 

A couple weeks ago, in the middle of the night, I woke up. Those of you who know me realize that I am not alert or coherent until about 11 a.m. after some coffee. But this time I was. I felt like I should go into the bathroom and say a prayer. I'm not one to pray aloud or even feel prompted to pray. But these simple words came out:

"God, please heal me. If I'm not healed of my physical problems, please heal my heart so I can move forward and be strong." 

That was early Sunday morning. When I got to church that day, at the end of service, the pastor ending service decided to pray for anyone who needed healing, physical or spiritual. It's not something that we've ever done that I remember. For the first time in a long time, that seemed like a nudge. I had somehow unwound enough to feel a tug- to hear an "I heard you." 

>>>>>>>

The night before Justin had to give an answer to one of his offers, he got a call out of the blue from this company. Many on the management team were Christians and serve in different roles within their own churches. They had searched "engineer" and "church," and came across Justin's name. Knowing he had other opportunities available, they sped up their process and made him an offer in two days. 

The burden I had been carrying seemed lifted and I was finally able to tell him that I think what I was finally feeling was peace. 

Things are speeding up. Things are changing. Things are scary. But I'm trying to find the freedom to be vulnerable. The freedom to actually believe healing can happen if God and I team up on it. 

And most of all, the freedom to finally find my place and my purpose. To be continued :) 

Dog Mom Blog: A Parody

I would probably start off with a video blog (I think they call them vlogs these days. Unless that is already archaic). I would be sitting at a tall marble island with a glass of wine at 10 a.m. and behind me, you would see a chandelier, tall staircase, and an immaculate Better Homes and Gardens living room. I would tell you about how little time I have to do ANYTHING. My life is completely consumed by my two dogs, Fiona and Minnie. Every minute of every day is taken up by their relentless neediness. You know, except for the two hours I have to make this vlog. And the two hours I had to perfectly curling wand my hair and contour my face. Those four hours of complete freedom don't count. Do you feel me, moms? 

_____________________________________________

Next, I would then move over to my written blog. I would probably share this horrific crime scene that is my dogs' food bowls. I would probably say something like this:

Organic, non-GMO, veterinarian-recommended food in a bowl that matches the color scheme of my kitchen and THIS is the thanks I get. The cheapest Purina chicken nuggets it is from now on. The dog mom at the pet store who gave me the side eye for looking at hard-to-digest rawhides can just shove her Fromm where the sun don't shine. You get me? We've all been there. Walking at the park when our dog decides to pop a squat on the sidewalk. LIKE YOUR DOG DOESN'T POOP, JANICE. And yes. I put my dogs in pajamas from time to time. SO SUE ME. Oh, this rant started because they left some food in their bowl? Oops. I guess I'm on track to being a real blogger. 

__________________________________________________________________

I would next bring my written voice down to a soft whisper. 

Dog mommas, I understand. Your hearts are tired. All you want is a quiet bath. But toys, how they squeak. And with every squeak, you lose a little more of yourself. Is it a lizard? Is it a neon iguana? I don't know. But all I know is that I want it- and it's giant squeaker box- dead.

I can't eat a meal without four eyes staring up at me wanting some of my sandwich. What was it like to eat a sandwich without an audience? I don't know. And neither do you, precious dog momma. 

Why am I talking to you like you're a gentle lamb who has no other name than dog momma? I don't know, dog momma. It's just what I do. 

There will come a day when you long for the squeak of a lizard iguana hybrid animal. But that squeak will no longer be there. So enjoy the squeaks, precious dog momma. 

________________________________________________________

To conclude, back to my vlog. Are you ready for a funny comparison of how being a dog mom is just like your clubbing days? Do you want to hear a pep talk about how it's OK if your dog's collar isn't designer? Well, look no more: join me in my... CAR. I will be videoing myself from the comfort of my luxury SUV (did I mention how hard my life is? And how I never have any time to myself?)

Farewell, dog mommas. And always remember: it's OK not to be perfect. And then tell everyone about it. 

Peace. Now give me 4.6K likes. Thanks. 

Road Kill & Street Chicken

My closest friends in this world know that there are two Ashtons they have to learn to love: normal Ashton and Panic Ashton. Panic Ashton, while in action, is a terrifying, what-in-the-world-is-she-doing monstrosity of spazz like you've never seen. But afterwards, she will make you laugh your head off. She will make herself laugh her own head off.

So Panic Ashton has been making more appearances lately. For those who read my Facebook post yesterday, you know that I heated a pan on high and poured tomato sauce in, resulting in World War Tomato Sauce. I looked like I had been shot multiple times, but I smelled like ketchup so it wasn't all bad.

What you don't know is what else happened yesterday. Something that makes tomato bullets seem like child's play.

I'll set the scene.

It was my turn to take dinner to a new mom at church. So I get an Aldi's paper bag out and load it with Mexican chicken, garlic bread, and a bag of salad. Easy peasy. On the road I go.

The entrance to her apartment complex is hidden in an alley so I wasn't sure if I was at the right place (there are many apartments in this area). So I get out, call her and tell her to open her door so I can see if I'm at the right place.

She does. Don't see anyone. Realize I'm at the wrong place.

Some kids are staring at me at this point while I get in my car and loop around the block to find the right place. WHY ARE YOU STARING AT ME, KIDS? MIND YOUR OWN! (I later learn why they're staring at me).

Get to the right apartment and reach over to get the food. THERE IS NO MORE PAPER BAG.

Instant flashback of me putting the paper bag of food on the roof while I waited for her to come to the door of the other apartment. Ya'll. I DROVE DOWN THE ROAD WITH FOOD ON MY CAR AND IT FELL OFF. I was involved in a Mexican chicken drive-by murder.

Instant panic sets in. I am shaking and twitching and all the other fun things that come, batteries included, with Panic Ashton. I drive back to the other apartment and I can't find the bag of food on the ground anywhere. MORE PANIC. The kids are STILL STARING AT ME. Because they now know me as the girl who sent Mexican chicken flying off my roof. Panic Ashton almost asked them if they had seen my Mexican chicken, but regular Ashton took over for a brief moment and said, "That's stupid. They're kids. Don't bring their innocence into this."

I call Justin and I say, "Something very bad has happened and I no longer have the food. Please go to Dairy Queen and get them some chicken tenders. I need you to do this."

He has learned to not ask Panic Ashton questions so he just said, "Come home and I'll take it from here."

I get home, sit on the couch, and nurse my adrenaline rush headache while Justin goes to bring them fast food. Several minutes later, he arrives home holding a paper bag. "I found this in the middle of the road on the way back."

I open it up and laugh.

The Mexican chicken is mangled but it is all still in the container. "Well, at least you have lunch for the rest of the week," he said.

When I told my friend (who LOVES Panic Ashton) this story, she said,  "That recipe will forever be called street chicken to me."

Oh for the love of street chicken. I ate it today for lunch and it was quite tasty for Jonesboro roadkill.

I was going to try to roll this into a spiritual analogy about how anxious people struggle with the concept of peace and what it feels like, but I don't think even the best preacher can follow STREET CHICKEN.

So I'll just pray for peace, less Panic Ashton visits, and that all of you who put up with me in this state will receive extra jewels in your crown when you hit heaven's gates.

In the Middle

In many areas of my life, I feel like I'm kind of stuck in the middle. I'm not really a newlywed anymore, but I'm not submerged in the early trenches of parenting. Twenty-somethings seem light-years away from me but I'm barely in my 30s. I can see myself in modern worship music but a part of me is planted in the comfort and reassurance of old hymns. 

The current social and political climate has made me feel no different. I celebrate with women around the world today. While I long for equality and empowerment, the other half of me fights some of the messages I'm inundated with along the way. 

I can pinpoint the beginning of my discomfort and it began with the breast cancer awareness marketing several years ago. "Save the Boobies!" was on t-shirts, bracelets and hats. Vague Facebook posts, laden with sexual innuendos, made their rounds all in the name of awareness. Women who boycotted a Disney movie were now posting, "I like it on the table" as their status. 

Somewhere along the way, we equated our bodies and body parts with who we are as women. We don't want to be objectified or labeled, but we have made a tragic disease about how we look in a bikini top. 

And it has only escalated in recent years. The women's marches around the world were impressive; they were a wonderful display of bravery and an accurate demand for equality in areas that are still lacking for us. 

But, in my opinion, we have let our own body objectification get in the way once again. It creates a noise so loud that it causes people to turn away and miss the point completely.

I can't say to the world that I am more than my genitalia and then walk around town dressed as my own private parts. I can't demand that the world treat me with respect and then repeat vulgarity on a poster board.

This behavior alienates a whole class of women who feel pressured to say "Not my march" when they might have asked important questions and gained information instead. 

If we want to be taken seriously; if we want to be seen as equal and capable, we need to focus on the voice that makes us powerful instead of the body part that makes us female. 

I pray that God gives us all wisdom as we tread these sensitive times. These are important days, months and years ahead. And standing up will be our duty. 

But let's stand on our virtues; let's stand on the God-given gifts we possess as women. 

Only then will our chants rise above the noise. 

Yours, Mine and Ours

Having taught in children's ministry since I was a teenager, I have taught some of these stories what seems no less than 500 times. But it's funny how my understanding of a story has varied depending on what stage of life I'm in when I teach it.

Last Sunday, I was reading from Luke and delving into the story of the prodigal son. In the past, I have always kind of hated on the older son and painted him as the bad guy. 

"Do we want to be like the older brother?" "NOOOO!" the kids would shout. Close book, end of story, here's your snack. 

But last week as I read this part of the passage, a lump gathered in my throat for the first time:

"Now his older son was in the field, and as he came and drew near to the house, he heard music and dancing. And he called one of his servants and asked what these things meant. And he said, 'Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fattened calf, because he has received him back safe and sound.' But he was angry and refused to go in. 

His father came out and entreated him, but he answered his father, 'Look, these many years I have served you, and I never disobeyed your command, yet you never gave me a young goat, that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fattened calf for him!"

And he said to him, "Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours..." 

Not that I have ever wanted to kill a young goat and celebrate with my friends (some Domino's pizzas would suffice), but the older brother is starting to look a little more human to me at age 30. 

I often have to run a spiritual diagnostics test when I'm sitting in various medical waiting rooms. A few days prior to this prodigal revelation, I inwardly judged a pregnant woman who was almost two hours late to her appointment and was arguing to reschedule. I listened as she said, "I can't come that day because someone has to drive me here because I don't have a car." As she walked away, she mumbled that she couldn't believe she drove all the way from two towns over to have missed her appointment. 

Insert conviction. 

I was "older brother"ing her. It's the same game I pull when I see someone whose career has taken off. When I see someone who has checked off more bucket list items than I have even written down.

The father's response at the end of that verse stuck out to me this time when I normally trail off to end the story so we can finish coloring the handout of the father hugging the younger son. 

"Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours..."

The dad could have said a lot of things. He could have said, quit yo whining (that's the KJV version). He could have rattled off all the good things he had done for the older son that the young son missed out on. But he didn't. 

He just said, "You are always with me." 

To me, this spins his prior complaints into an advantage rather than something to gripe about: 

Look how many years I served you. Yes, my child, and think about how this has been the compass of your life and given you direction while your brother spent years completely lost. Look how many years I never disobeyed your commands. Yes, my child, and think about how that obedience saved you from consequences that your brother will have to deal with for years to come. 

I'm slowly learning that faithfulness isn't a scorecard like the older brother liked to think it was. How we like to think it works. We think if we wait our turn,  if we do everything by the book, we should be able to have a Fast Pass to every Disney World ride we desire. But we never stop to realize the great privilege and blessing it is to reside in Disney World at all. (Only I could try to throw Mickey Mouse into a life analogy). 

The father in the story ends by saying, "It was fitting to celebrate and be glad, for this your brother was dead, and is alive; he was lost, and is found." 

I'm not saying you are always going to feel like celebrating. But never mistake your lack of a party as God's inattention. We have to realize that we're just part of the celebratory committee because we've been with him the whole time- and everything he offers that truly matters- is already ours. 

Fix.

As many of you know, I am mildly obsessed with Fixer Upper and Chip and Joanna Gaines. I've read their book. I've read their magazine. I've been to their store in Waco twice. I am claustrophobic and cringe at crowds, yet I push my way through their store every holiday like a Black Friday shopper who wants a flatscreen.

I love their style. I love their affection for each other and their children. I love Chip's constant physical comedy. 

They ran into a slight bump about a month ago after a Buzzfeed article. I call it a bump because escalating it to "persecution" or "controversy" is just what many media outlets, especially Christian ones, want to happen. Because we don't get thrown into the Colosseum with lions anymore, we often- consciously or not- puff up situations to be persecution so we can say that we experienced some. 

I was impressed with Chip and Joanna because they refused to be martyr poster children. They lived their life, they loved their babies, and they redesigned houses. Period.

I've seen articles going around quoting Chip as saying, "Disagreeing with someone is not the same as hate." 

This is a true statement and one that Christians everywhere are throwing up as a protective fort around their beliefs. 

But here's the thing: Chip and Joanna, so far anyway, are living this statement. From what I have read and know about them, they seem to treat everyone with dignity and respect. 

It's true. Disagreeing with someone isn't the same as hating them. 

But as a society, we have done more than disagree. We have started believing that sharing human dignity and basic rights with each other is the same as sharing each other's beliefs.

And it's not the same.

Thinking that everyone should be able to be served at a restaurant; that everyone should be able to buy a cake; that everyone should be able to use a bathroom; that everyone should have governmental protection; doesn't make what you believe any less of a personal stance. Extending service and grace to people you disagree with isn't you saying, "I'm completely OK with how you live your life." It's saying, your life matters. Your life deserves the same freedom, the same attention, the same amenities as mine gets.

Both sides are to blame. The Buzzfeed reporter who started this whole mess applied malice and motives where there were none. He assumed, maybe from past experience, that having a certain stance is the same as being a hateful individual. And that's not the same either.

We need to stop trying to find and become martyrs for causes that fall short on the long list of devastating things happening in our world today. We have chosen causes that are easy to grab onto; causes that require nothing from us but our computer keyboards; causes that call us only to the higher calling of eating a particular chicken sandwich.

Anyone who watches Fixer Upper knows what Chip's favorite day is: Demolition Day. It's about tearing down the old to make room for the new.

Let's make 2017 about reconciliation. Christians have hurt a lot of people. People have thrown unnecessary daggers at Christians. We have a lot of work to do. Let's get to it.

2 Corinthians 5:17-21: 

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come. All this is from God, who through Christ reconciled us to himself and gave us the ministry of reconciliation; that is, in Christ God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and entrusting to us the message of reconciliation. Therefore, we are ambassadors for Christ, God making his appeal through us. We implore you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God. For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. 

Keeping it Real

Ever since I was a young child, negativity has been my game. I'm pretty sure if you had asked me if my sippy cup was half full or half empty, I would have put on an emotional breakdown rendition of "I need more apple juice!"

It's just my default setting. 

My junior high diaries make Romeo and Juliet look like well-adjusted teenagers.

Which is why I married a man who has never felt slighted in his life. I have to actually get offended for him sometimes. "Babe, that guy shot you." 

"You're getting a little negative. I've always thought I looked kind of like a buck. He didn't mean it. We should have them over for dinner sometime." 

So I've made my New Years Resolution this year to bury some of my negativity. Notice I didn't say, "Be more positive." That's like me vowing to lose 20 pounds again. I just want to get less negative and rise to emotional, neutral Switzerland. 

Having this resolution will probably require the retirement of mom blogs and life blogs and discourses from people trying to "keep it real." 

I think, in this recent quest for "realness," we have unknowingly become a society that idolizes every experience, good or bad. We have become "faux-authentic." We have strived so hard not to worship perfection that we have bowed down to the messes of life instead. 

What started as an opponent to Pinterest womanhood and Pinterest motherhood has taken over and is now the leading voice. And that voice has magnified sticky fingers and messy houses and clueless husbands and made them more than the speck on the map of life that they are.

They aren't great. They aren't the worst thing. They just are. They're things that have happened for thousands of years but were never anything to write home about. 

I never really thought much about this until I a) decided to be less negative and b) began to struggle with infertility. 

I would read these lifestyle and family blogs and think, "If this is what my life is going to be like, why even try?" As a default negative person, I feared that motherhood would sap any happiness or positivity I had left. 

They all try to seal it with a big, encompassing bow of, "But I wouldn't trade it for anything." No. You don't get to do that. That's like those people who say something rude and then go, "No offense." That's not how this works, AGNES. And I'm just big-boned.

I'm not saying that motherhood isn't messy, that life isn't messy. I'm not saying you're going to love every second. I actually prefer that you don't. I'm especially not saying that you only post or talk about the perfect times. 

We can be real without taking out a billboard saying, "Hey, look at me. I'm real. Look at how real I am!" 

I have a friend (she knows who she is) and I love her posts. Sometimes her toddler is wearing a lifejacket in front of the Christmas tree when it's 30 degrees. Sometimes the kids think the fridge water dispenser is an in-home water park (I'm probably giving it away here).

She doesn't write a haiku about how her kitchen is messy. She just posts a funny picture. She doesn't write a doctoral thesis on how the dog threw up on the couch. She just gets Bounty, 409, and a deep breath and cleans it up. She moves on. She forgets that the dog threw up until he does it again. And then she forgets again.

This is real, real life. 

In 2017, let's magnify the small moments that matter. 

Everyone has laundry. Everyone's toddlers occasionally need to be exorcised. 

But not everyone gets to see what you see when you wake up. Not everyone gets to hear the words you hear from those you love. 

Only you get to experience that. 

And that's real. 

 

Fa la la la Freakout

The holidays, while still enjoyable, are an overall different experience for people with anxiety. Here's my naughty list: 

1. Dirty Santa. We sit there fidgeting at the planning session. Kelly talks about how she's bringing her famous seven-layer dip in the shape of a Christmas tree (you go, girl. You defy science and get that not to mold into a blob. O Blob-Blob Tree, O Blob-Blob Tree). Anyway, everyone picks a finger food and then there's always that one person who pipes up, "And what about Dirty Santa? Everyone loves Dirty Santa. Bring a $5 gag gift." 

This just in: not everyone loves Dirty Santa. Some people do good to just get actual Christmas gifts that have been specified. You can tell me you want a purse and I will stare at a rack of purses like if I pull off the wrong one, a terrorizing Krampus is going to hop out and tie me up with tinsel. 

So take this already tense ball of Christmas cheer and tell her that she has to be clever and hipsterly ironic for $5 and we're talking fa-la-la-la freakout. 

I could wrap up a pack of toilet paper. It's like, haha, everybody goes to the bathroom. No. That's stupid and not ironic. What if I got a calendar with animals? Nope. Some people like animals so it wouldn't be a gag gift. Repeat this until the day before party.

2. Black Friday. No. Just no. You might as well put me in a straight jacket and watch me try to Hatchimal.

3. Ugly Christmas Sweaters. This goes back to my complete inability to be hipsterly ironic. I have spent my life (unsuccessfully at times) trying not to look like Frumpy McFrumperston. But now people are like, "Wear an ugly, shapeless sweater out in public. It will be fun!" Taming my party anxiety is not soothed by having real ornaments hanging on by a thread off my body. Rudolph's overly sized face also does not do my body insecurities any favors.

4. Mariah Carey songs playing at a million decibels in Old Navy. I don't want a lot for  Christmas, there is just one thing I need: and that's for Mariah to calm down. I go in looking for a peacoat and I leave in handcuffs for homicide. And I just wanted a peacoat. Thanks, Mariah. I hope it was worth it. (I wonder if I sneak out my prison jumpsuit, if it will make a funny dirty Santa gift next year?)

5. Gift Equality. You're standing there. You exchange gifts. She opens up hers and she's like, "Oh, body lotion, I love it." And then you open yours and it's a thoughtful, handmade gift that's like if your soul vacated your body and became an object. Red alert, red alert. Times this by a thousand if someone brings you a gift and you don't have one for them. 

Merry Christmas to everyone, especially my fellow nervous Nellies. If I wasn't so anxious, I would host a party for us so we could burn Mariah CDs and turn ugly sweaters into sweaters for our pets. 

I've Got a Feeling

I have always been a little (cough, a lot) on the emotional side. Anyone who knows my mother knows that the crying apple doesn't fall far from the crying tree. If apples fell from Weeping Willows, it would be our story.

It was kind of the joke of my study abroad trip to Greece, Israel, and Egypt in college: "Ashton is crying again!"

The tour guide would tell us the Apostle Paul walked here. Cry.

"We are walking the path where Jesus carried the cross." Cry.

Here are the pyramids. Cry. Ok, I didn't cry at the pyramids...that I recall.

Being an emotional person, a feelings-driven person, a justice-oriented person seems to be the target of many jokes and eye rolls lately.

I get that, like with everything, feelings can be taken too far. But I also know that, regardless of reason, making fun of young people for seeking counsel if they need it or crying if they need to can have detrimental consequences.

It's one of the reasons I didn't go to counseling for depression and anxiety until I was 27 years old. Because I was being silly. Because my life was easy. I had no reason to be sad.

Most of these kids aren't just sad because their person didn't win. It's about who won for them. It's about their friends that are different than them.  It's about their future and their graduation. As someone who graduated during the last recession, I can say that policy decisions are sometimes worth crying over (I didn't cry until I was turned down for every job I interviewed for).

I think we also forget sometimes that Jesus was a passionate person and felt things deeply. He was a compassionate champion for lepers, for widows, for the downcast.

He often addressed religious leaders with anger, while also being distraught that he couldn't seem to soften their hardened hearts. Their behavior outraged him but their spirits caused him grief. And remember when he turned tables? His anger served a purpose and renewed the mission the temple was created to serve.

He wept at the tomb of Lazarus. He grieved intensely about the destruction of Jerusalem.

This doesn't even encompass the emotional component of Jesus. Every interaction rocked his spirit and every person he came across stuck with him as he journeyed through his time on Earth.

I think young people today have yoked themselves with this Jesus. Circular theological discussions in a classroom have been replaced with the desire to act, to make a difference, to experience. Feelings have become the beating heart and the compass.

Does this approach sometimes lead to mistakes or poor judgment calls? Absolutely. Does it sometimes not give someone the entire perspective of a situation? I'm sure it does.

But if their learning curve is in the name of social justice and compassion and making a difference, who are we to criticize them and ridicule them?

Feelings and emotions are no longer a thing to be hidden; they are no longer seen as a hindrance but a strength; they are the window to the soul and an explanation of who we are.

Times have changed. People have changed. Motivations and inspirations have changed.

And that's OK.

Instead of all the negativity and shaming, we need to accept how the world works now. We need to reach them where they are and guide them using the knowledge we have of their language and their needs.

Our maturity can steady their newly discovered emotions and their ability to tap into their feelings can get us to become more aware of our own thoughts, fears, and dreams.

The world needs us both.

Let's act like it.
 

Wounded

I have been very flattered by the amount of people who have said they missed me and my posts during my three-month hiatus from Facebook. I have loved to entertain and make people laugh since I was old enough to walk in front of a camera and push my brothers out of the way. Most of our home videos are just of my face and singing voice- and I'm OK with that.

So why would I walk away from this platform to entertain? 

Because beyond the "likes" and the comments and the laughs, I was left feeling empty, raw, and often wounded.

It hasn't been an easy season of life; I had surgery in September to remove some ovarian cysts and when they were in there, they found widespread endometriosis (to save you a Google, the inside of my body has more cobwebs than your neighbor's house on Halloween). 

This diagnosis explains the infertility and does give us a possible path of hope. But when this is a card that's dealt to you, it's like you're already walking around without an extra layer of thick skin. 

As a typically thick-skinned person, it's hard to get used to this new bareness that is your life. You're one comment away at any time from becoming a volcanic display of emotion. You can act cordially to someone who asks if "you're next" and then melt down at the mention of a pregnant pause in a paragraph. It's nonsense. 

Add in this year's election cycle and you have the recipe for my Facebook hiatus. 

Not only was I an outsider because I don't have children but I also felt incredibly alone in how I was affected this political season. Imagine feeling like (irrational or not) that your Christian value is not only wrapped up in motherhood but it's also wrapped up in how you vote. 

That's two strikes. That's two blows to the spirit. 

Anyone who votes for her is evil and has no place in church. 

You're talking about me. 

What kind of moron...

You're talking to me. 

Friends; churches- I beg you for grace. Every hurtful question you ask or blanket statement you publicly assert always leaves someone out. It always leaves its stinger in someone while you go about your day. 

People, like me, are walking around raw- all for different reasons- doing the very best they can. 

Back to the volcanic display of emotions, Justin read this during our college devotional Sunday night and I had to sneakily remove the lump that grew in my throat (no 30-year-old woman wants to lose it in front of the cool kids). 

Hebrews 6: 18-19 

"So God has given us two unchanging things: His promise and His oath. These prove that it is impossible for God to lie. As a result, we who come to God for refuge might be encouraged to seize that hope that is set before us. That hope is real and true, an anchor to steady our restless souls, a hope that leads us back behind the curtain to where God is." 

When he read it aloud, it was almost as if my raw self was engulfed in the words. Refuge. Hope. It is impossible for God to lie. His promises give us hope. 

It's all the words I have craved all year and not received.

May we all seek out the wounded among us and provide refuge. May we remember there is a person behind every crude comment or joke. May we be a beacon of hope rather than a quick stop of judgment. 

Thanks for your love and your patience with me.

So This is 30

Even when my blogging is stalled, I usually pull out a post on my birthday- an obligatory, "Hey, I'm here, look at what I have learned this year" barrel of randomness. 

But this year, I skipped it. I used to make fun of people who wallowed in birthday pity, but alas, I became that person. 

June 24th hit and I was three decades of moodiness that day. I sat on the couch in my pajamas all day and asked my dogs how old they thought I was. They didn't answer so I took that to mean TWENTY-TWO.

I have asked myself since that day why this got to me. Aside from my fleeting metabolism and new facial hair growth, I wasn't really any different. People told me that "30 was the new 20," and I went along with it even though IT'S ALL LIES. Shortly after my birthday, the female portion of my body decided to turn 30 too which led to doctors' visits, hormone testing, and the ultrasound WAND OF DOOM. If 30 is indeed the new 20, why did my 20-year-old body get a pass from this medieval torture device? Lady asked me if I wanted to see my uterus on the TV and I was like, "I'll pass. Got Netflix?"

Bodily shifts aside, I think 30 was hard for me because it's the age of accountability. Every questionnaire includes, "Where do you want to be by the time you're 30?" And you, in your naivety, write: "I want to be married with 5 kids, be a scientist and a lawyer and a doctor, travel the world twice, and start a non-profit and a hospital where everyone can be seen for free." And that's if you're a slacker. 

But 30 sneaks up on you. 

One day you're sitting in your dorm wearing an oversized college sweatshirt and the next thing you know, you're sitting in your house in that same sweatshirt and it fits. 

You're heavy. The world is heavy. You worry about things that you never worried about before. 

I'm not a scientist-doctor-lawyer hybrid, but I have a goal for my 30s: be deliberate. 

I spent my 20s sinking in self-doubt, surrounded by what people thought of me, covered in obligation, and hidden in humor. 

So here's my prayer for my 30s.

If I have children, may I be deliberate in their upbringing,

raising them to ask questions, form conclusions and practice compassion.

If I am infertile, may I be deliberate in my marriage and in my walk,

replacing any bitterness with opportunities that wouldn't be possible otherwise.

If I see a need for change, may I be deliberate in opening minds and demanding thought,

presenting ideas with purpose rather than letting fear cloak them in humor. 

Amen. (Is it weird to say Amen at the end of your personal prayer? Whatever. Amen).

Here's to a decade of accountability only to God, myself, and truth. 

Lowered.

I started working on lessons for children's camp today. For one, the weather is terrible so I decided not to waste precious life minutes by fixing my hair and going somewhere. And two, June is sneaking up on me- carrying with it my 30th birthday, VBS, and children's camp. I get to summon my new decade by comparing how my 30-year-old knees weather campground hills versus my 20-year-old knees. I'm going to predict a lot of shouts of "Hey, bring that four-wheeler over here." 

Today's story was about the friends who desperately wanted to get their friend who was paralyzed in to see Jesus. Crowds of people flooded the place where Jesus was staying; the line was so long that it bled out into the streets. I picture Disney World without a fast pass. I somehow survived Mickey's Kingdom in the early 2000s without colorful bands. I had to wait in a line for 2 hours like everyone else and try not to throw up as I realized I was about to be plunged into darkness and spun around in fake space. 

But anyway, the friends concocted a pretty crazy plan to help their friend. They climbed up on the roof, created a human-sized hole and lowered their friend down on a mat. Many of us have heard this story so many times that it's become an oh, whatever. Big deal. 

I'm sitting here watching Reba on Lifetime, muted. I can't stand her voice but somehow the silent scenes are comforting in the background. If my roof suddenly gave way and a man started coming down in front of my TV, there would be some dog-whistle-pitched screams up in here. This wasn't an oh, whatever. This was actually a big deal. And Jesus treated it as so. 

He doesn't say, "Dude, this was a new stick and clay roof" or "Why didn't you wait your turn?"

He says, "Son, your sins are forgiven." 

The scribes get all up in arms about this and start throwing the B-word around (blasphemy- what were you thinking about?)

Jesus realized they were in a tizzy and asked, "Why do my words trouble you so? Think about this: is it easier to tell this paralyzed man, "Your sins are forgiven," or to tell him, "Get up, pick up your mat, and walk? [...]"

As we know, the story goes on and the man eventually takes up his mat and walks away. But the above section is what I want to focus on really quick. 

There is so much noise going on right now. Sometimes I feel like the way to Jesus is too crowded for me. Instead of people, it's clouded with social media posts, boycotts and hateful language. Sometimes I feel like I have to climb up on a roof, tear it open and ninja it down there to find him and to be with him. 

And when I finally lower myself and lower my burdens and lower my questions, I hear three words resounding in my head. 

Is. it. easier.

Is it easier to treat people with human dignity or to tell them, "Get up and leave, you sicken us." 

Is it easier to take a stand against causes that break the very heart of God or to take a stand against a retail chain?

Is it easier to desperately seek policy that will honor the Christian calling or to be complacent with a candidate who manipulatively sticks the title next to his name? 

Is it easier to pray for our brothers and sisters who experience actual persecution or to share a post that boasts of our own apparent oppression? 

The right choice isn't always the easiest choice. It's not always what we're most comfortable doing. Like in the story, it's not always the phrase or the attitude that people want or expect from you. 

But it's the choice that points to Jesus and his message in the quickest, most efficient way possible. Jesus said, "Your sins are forgiven" first because he wanted the man (and the people) to know who He was and what He was capable of. 

We need to make sure that we lower ourselves, lower our opinions, lower our anger, lower our fear down so far into the house that we reach Jesus. 

When we jump off the pedestal of self-righteousness and self exaltation, Jesus can finally speak to the people we bring before him. 

Nostalgia.

You don't have to look very hard to see what America is digging these days. 

Star Wars: The Force Awakens. 

Jurassic World. 

Every Marvel character times 100.

Fuller House. 

Gilmore Girls remake. 

The X Files are reopened. 

The list is expanding by the hour. As a people, we are crying out for things that pander to our nostalgia. We want to sit back, for an hour, and remember an easier time. Even if that involves raising Bob Saget from the career dead. 

I'm not saying this nostalgic yearning is a bad thing. It's fun to be reminded of how stinkin hot John Stamos is things that hold fond memories for us of places, people, and childhoods gone by.

But we have been played. Individuals have come along and taken our nostalgic desires and used it against us. They have cherry-picked screenshots of our memories and told us that the past is where it's at. 

Let's make America great again.

Again.

Like it was perfect then. Like we were a thirty-minute sitcom with an annoying laugh track (For the love, how is it humanly possible to laugh after every single thing a person says?)

I could fill up a Netflix reboot with happy times from my childhood, from my teenage years, from my college years. I could pretend those were the only memories that exist for me. 

But they aren't.

I was introduced to sin. I was introduced to cruelty. I was introduced to suffering.

But more than anything, I was introduced to a God who was bigger than the cheesy recurring catchphrases of my story; who was bigger than the few story lines I wanted to keep; who was bigger than my past. 

Social media and a 24-hour news cycle have created the false impression that things have just recently gone awry. But nothing could be farther from the truth. 

While you were watching Michelle Tanner preciously quip, "You got it dude," there was domestic violence, racial inequality, and struggling families not 5 miles away from you.

You may have been watching dinosaurs chomp down victims in Jurassic Park, but that doesn't mean that simultaneously crooked politicians and a broken system weren't closing their powerful jaws on people who so desperately needed their help. 

Nostalgia is a yearning. But we can't let that yearning cripple us from looking forward and striving to be better.

I may be alone here, but I don't want the America of yesterday. The America of "again." I don't want the America where women and children are expected to silently suffer at the hands of abusers; where churches get to decide who is worthy of God's love and acceptance; where people can be cast out based on nothing but race, ethnicity or socio-economic levels beyond their control. 

I don't want the America that only tries to relive the good times. I don't want the America that ignores the ugly parts or denies that they even happened. 

Perhaps what scares me most of all is that - in the back of my head and heart- I know that for some people, this complacency in ignorance is what made America great back then. They miss not being expected to be better. They miss not being expected to change. 

But the Bible is filled to the brim with evolving stories and evolving people. In 1 Corinthians, Paul says,

"When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up my childish ways. For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known. So now faith, hope and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love." 

It's time to stop thinking like children. It's time to stop reasoning like children. It's time to give up our childish ways.

Let's contain the nostalgia to Uncle Jessie Netflix, shall we? 

 

Living the Dream

Every season of my life has been filled to the brim with something. When I was in my early 20s, it was bridesmaid dresses. My now ancient and extinct Garmin GPS had David's Bridal in Little Rock listed as one of my "favorites." Surprisingly, I have worn a couple of those dresses more than once. Probably to attend other weddings. Let's be honest.

My mid-20s was baby shower season. I remember the first time I saw a breast pump in Target. I told myself that I was not going to be the friend who turned my bestie into a milk farm. So I bought a Boppee pillow. It was still in the nursing realm but could also be used to lie on when 'ol Bess needs a break from filling buckets.

I'm turning 30 in a couple months and oh this season has already started, ya'll. The "I dos" have been said, the babies have been had, and now we're all trying to become millionaires.

I'm almost 30, I don't have a full-time gig, and I spend a lot of money on dogs. I get it. I have a large target on my back.

But I just gotta say it. Nicely. But I gotta.

I. Don't. Want. To. Sell. Anything.

Not in a house. Not with a mouse. Not in a box. Not with a fox.

I'm not saying this to dog on people who do. But this is a perspective I think needs to be addressed.

Driving a company car, exceeding my husband's salary, taking a trip with women, having bodily insides pretty enough to hang in The Louvre, is not my dream. It's not a lot of people's dream.

And that's OK.

You know what one of my dreams is, though?

Authentic friendships. Someone cheerleading me to be thankful for what I have. The understanding that often extra spending money comes from the extra spending money that someone else doesn't have.

I write this, because after numerous meetings, messages, coffee dates, etc, I felt empty. I felt like something was wrong with me because I was being told I could "live the dream," only to wonder if something was wrong with me if I didn't want it.

I love deep conversation, but was always hesitant because I knew the person was probably going to ask me to buy something or start selling something once the preliminary catch-up was over. I was waiting for the bomb to drop.

I can do bridesmaid dresses. I can do baby showers. But I can't let my 30s be ruled by this.

I drive a 2011 Camry. My husband is one of the hardest workers I know and provides wonderfully for our family. We go on trips to Little Rock to see superhero movies in IMAX 3-D.

Essentially, I am living the dream.

I'm Only Good at Holding Dogs

I have always been a crazy dreamer. Not like the ambitious, shoot-for-the-stars kind. Like if I sleep, even for 30 minutes, I become a drunk wandering in an Inception movie. Usually without Leonardo DiCaprio present, unfortunately.

It was no surprise that last night I had a baby nightmare. My Facebook newsfeed is one big gender reveal party right now. I can't even remember who is having what at this point- there might have been some puppies thrown in there too. I've just resorted to saying, "Congratulations on that new thing."

I digress.

So, in my dream, I give birth. It was super easy and I looked at the doctor and said, "This was way easier than I thought it was going to be. People have been scaring me my whole life for this?" Some people come in and they try to put me in a wheelchair. "It's time to go see your baby," they say. I don't want to go. Like I straight up refuse to go see my dream baby.

But they wheel me in there and suddenly, I am standing over the baby and I realize that I am holding Minnie (my dog).

The soft-spoken nurse picks up the baby and asks sweetly, "Do you want to hold your baby?"

This is where crap gets real.

I squeeze Minnie to my chest and I yell, "I'M ONLY GOOD AT HOLDING DOGS!"

I woke up in panic mode, embarrassed that I had just yelled at these people- and that I had a weenie dog in a hospital. But then I laughed really, really hard.

Because, as ridiculous as this whole dream was, it encapsulates how I feel on an almost daily basis.

There are so many times in my life when I want to holler at God and other people, "I'M ONLY GOOD AT HOLDING DOGS!"

Prayer is a much easier concept when you know the absolute desires of your heart. It is not so easy when you and your heart are conflicted. When your heart is like all the emotion characters on "Inside Out" and they like to argue with each other.

It's hard to pray for a career when you're not sure it's the right move for your family and sanity. It's hard to pray for a child when you don't know if being a mother is the high calling for your life. So prayer gets put on the back burner because, let's face it, you're ONLY GOOD AT HOLDING DOGS.

But one of my favorite verses is Romans 8:26: Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words." 

Oh, intercede for me, Spirit. Intercede for us. Fulfill the unknown desires of our heart and give us the faith to accept the unexpected intercession.

But in the meantime, I will be over here- probably holding my dogs.

Weird Things and Winter Storm Jonas

So I'm over here stuck in Winter Storm Jonas. Actually, in Jonesboro, it was a pitiful "Winter Storm Jonas Brothers when they were scrawny and on Disney Channel." The National Weather Service deemed that name too long. They're no fun. 

Regardless, Justin took my vehicle today because his Ford Ranger would react to an ice cube tray like it was a frozen lake. We keep trying to remind it that it's a truck, but it doesn't seem to get the memo.

Let's be honest, I don't do cold. I would be doing the exact same thing if I had a car- but something about not having one makes me feel trapped. So I've had five days of personal reflection. I didn't reflect on things that matter, like how I can change the world or develop obliques that show. Instead, I realized some of the weird things I do when left to my own devices during long stretches of days. If you do any of these things, feel free to tell me and make me feel better about myself. If you don't see how anyone could do these things without being neurotic, please don't tell me that. 

• I own cute pajamas, but wear really weird clothing combinations instead. I passed a mirror at some point this morning and realized I was wearing: striped orange shorts, a blue nightgown, and a forest green Beale Street sweatshirt. You know that lounging seductress in Victoria's Secret catalogues that is drinking coffee with half of her long t-shirt hanging off her shoulder? Have that mental image? Yeah, that wasn't me. Because I wear shorts, I have to wrap myself in a blanket to stay warm. WHY DO I DO THIS? It's like I feel like if I wear a matching set of pajamas, my dogs will think I'm a Kardashian or something. 

• I have a sub-par makeup bag. I like to keep things "spicy" in our marriage so I try to occasionally have on makeup when Justin gets home. I also wear body spray and deodorant if I'm feeling particularly alluring. But because he has no regard for beauty products, I just can't bring myself to doll up with my $38 foundation or Urban Decay eyeshadow unless I'm going somewhere. So I pull out $5 foundation that I've had since college and dab on some ice pink lipgloss that wound up in my stocking a few Christmases ago. I look like an 80s pop singer, but I'm his 80s pop singer. I smell like Juniper Breeze and he gets lasagna. 

• I fast forward workout DVDs. I have been known to do the warm-up, fast forward through most of the exercises, and finish with the cool down. When people ask if you completed a workout, you can say yes without being a liar, liar, pants on fire. But your pants may, however, stay the same size and never get smaller.

• I pretend I'm on cooking shows. I don't like to cook when other people are around, partially because of insecurity. Partially because the kitchen looks like 3 competitors were running around, slinging pasta sauce and dropping food. My dogs wait beside my feet like I'm a toddler about to drop them some yogurt puffs. That's why, when Justin calls, I sprint to the finish like a contestant on "Chopped." I clean up my surroundings, I clean up the plate, and I put it on the table and await his judgment. Luckily, he's not pretentious like judge Scott Conant (who once told a contestant that he was "disrespectful" to his fish). If it's not poisonous or meaty, my vegetarian man will eat it up and go for seconds. 

• I squeeze my dogs as hard as I can, on the hour, every hour. This needs no further explanation.

Work Out, Baby.

One of my favorite hobbies is whining, whether it be in-person or virtually, with girl friends about eating right and working out. If I exercised as much as a I whined, Sports Illustrated would have itself a new cover model. We often send each other those clearly fake studies that say, "20 ounces of chocolate a day equals 1 hour of exercise, says scientist." We're like, "See? We're doing great. Move along."

Today's discussion covered what exercise style best fits our personality. My friend said, "I need structured classes. I need someone to tell me what to do and change it up. I get bored easily; I'm like a toddler." She has had two toddlers so I consider her an expert on toddlerisms.

It got me thinking. I already whine like a toddler. I bet we have more in common when it comes to exercise than one would think. Using what I have absorbed from my FWTs (Friends with Toddlers), I have come up with a few similarities.

1. Puddle Melting: It's not unusual for toddlers to go completely limp in aisle 7 of Target. One minute they are jabbering about wanting fruit snacks, the next minute they have morphed into an Alex Mack pile of goo (Nickelodeon 90s kid shout-out). With judging glares, you collect your 30-pound glob, place it in the cart and cover it with two loaves of bread.

This is me after spin class. Every time I have attempted a spin class, I loathe it with every muscle fiber of my being. This is the cycle for me. Friend asks if I want to take spin, I picture leisurely riding a bicycle, I realize- 30 seconds in- that this in no way resembles riding a bicycle, I go home and cry when I have to go to the bathroom, I vow to never do it again, a friend asks if I want to take spin, I picture myself leisurely riding a bicycle, and so on. The gig is UP. The last time I attempted Satan's favorite group class, I literally couldn't walk for a week. Like I needed someone to collect me, put me in a shopping cart and stick two loaves of bread on my face (I would have used it as a pillow).

2. No: Why we made the worst possible word to hear so easy to say, I don't know. But someone did that and now we have to live with tiny humans spouting it like there's no tomorrow. Come here. "No." Do you want applesauce? "No." Do you need to take a nap? "No." DO YOU WANT A MILLION DOLLAR GIFT CARD TO TOYS R US? That's what I thought.

This is me when a workout instructor (especially DVD ones- I own you. I'm the boss) tell me to do burpees. Some Crossfit fanatic please tell me why these are called that. If I eat a Sam's barrel of cheese balls while binging "Making a Murderer," I will often burpee. If I am going to do something as strenuous as drop down to all fours, get back up, slap my hands, and jump, I'm going to need it to be called something more hardcore, OK? When I'm told to do these, I straight up, toddler style, say, "Oh heck no." I will march in place until you are done with that nonsense.

3. Instantaneous Boredom: Have you ever been to a little kid's birthday party? The gift opening segment is pretty much parental damage control, It's a PR nightmare. You spend 15 minutes amidst the aisles of Wal-Mart doing FBI research on what toddlers like these days and the kid looks at it for 1.5 seconds and tosses it and grabs the next package. The parents pick it up, embarrassed, and try to show it to them again, but the child is like "BYE FELICIA" and tosses it to the curb once more. The parents try to explain that it will get played with when there isn't so much stimuli around. It's OK. He's 2. I get it.

I also get it because this is how I am with workout routines. Zumba classes tread the very fine line of being repetitive enough for you to learn the dang dance and not being so repetitive that you want to send threatening letters to Carly Rae Jepsen for bringing "Call Me Maybe" into the world. There came a point when "Dark Horse" by Katy Perry would come on and my legs would begin to shake in preparation of the leg routine. It's like my thighs were Pavlov's dogs and Katy Perry was the bell. I need to constantly shake it up (NOT SHAKE IT OFF. GO AWAY TECHNO TAYLOR SWIFT).

You see, when it comes to staying in shape, we're all babies. Ok, maybe not all of us. Some of you have Instagram accounts full of pictures of you and your boyfriend working out together. If I did that, it would be a picture of Justin telling me that if I can go immediately into my second set, I need to add more weight and push myself harder. It would be a sepia tone picture of me rolling my eyes.

I'm starting a "Biggest Loser" challenge next week with some church mates. Luckily, our church has inherited some shopping carts from the Target across the parking lot. Now I just need two loaves of bread and someone to push me around.