Bell Tower Blues

“I’m not superstitious,” I announced my freshmen year of college. I booked it under the bell tower alone, listening to a few snickers from girls who thought this doomed me to singlehood at a small, private Christian university.

Fast forward to my senior year. I would see couples lying on the front lawn, intertwined like the chord of three strands in Ecclesiastes. I would glare at the bell tower and think, “Maybe I should have been superstitious.”

I even prolonged my chances by attending graduate school, which left me in the dire predicament of being both unmarried and overqualified for any kind of career. At this point, I was a can of gasoline and a match short of telling the bell tower what I really thought.

I drudge through these times once more because I was reminded—via Buzzfeed yesterday—just how prevalent these thoughts were in my mind.

Facebook conducted a study that concluded that nearly one-third of all married people on Facebook attended the same college. Guess what itsy bitsy college appeared on this list? Yep. My alma mater.

With just a few simple maps, my suspicions were confirmed: The hysteria that I had built up in my head wasn’t imagined. I wasn’t just picturing myself in a less exciting version of “The Bachelor.”

I have to laugh now because the bell tower really did me a favor. I was spared the consequences of my misguided, immature decisions; I was given the ability to see what I really needed rather than jumping headfirst into an undeveloped version of my happy ending.

Why was I so misguided?
· My view of a Christian leader was flawed. The poor dudes didn’t stand a chance. If they led a song during chapel, if they spoke up in Bible class, if they passed that communion tray with the finesse of a point guard, they were perfect for me. Take into consideration that hundreds of guys did this on a weekly basis and you have the makings for some woe-is-me’s. So many Christian guys. And they all act like I have leprosy. When this superficiality finally wore off, I was able to see a man (from a public university of all places- gasp!) who taught guitar lessons to little kids from church, who had old ladies doting over him. And I began to see a heart and not a checklist.

· I focused too much on being led and not leading. Before someone throws me into the fiery pit of submission verses, let me say: I very much feel that the husband should lead his wife and children. This does not excuse, however, the years that I sat on my couch—never cracking open a Bible—waiting for this George Clooney lookalike televangelist to launch me into a relationship with God. I guess I thought holding his hand would—through osmosis—send me into a thousand Hallelujahs. It doesn’t work that way. Does Justin sit me down every night and lead us in a Bible study? No. But you know what? I often stuff my face before I say, “Let’s pray.” It goes both ways.

· I wanted to be Mother Teresa. When the pew scouting became increasingly unsuccessful, I started on another project: Find a fixer upper. I couldn’t afford the flight to Africa so I suppose finding a bad boy was the logical next step. Turns out your cheesy camp counselor was right—it’s easier to pull someone off the folding chair than to pull them up there with you. And boy did I tumble off the folding chair. I once harped at my mother for not liking a particular person. She looked at me straight in the face and said, “I have never said I didn’t like him. You are projecting that on me because you are too afraid to admit that you don’t like him.” Touché. Operation aborted.

· I refused to admit that I cared. The worst part about all of these things is the ferocious denial I released on anyone who dared to mention marriage. I stalked men who led my favorite hymns while simultaneously judging girls who had the audacity to think they had to leave college married. I turned into this faux career woman who was too prideful to admit that I cared; that I wanted to be married; that I was hurt that I spent weekends eating half of a Pizza Pro pizza within the confines of my bunk bed. What is so wrong with just not having an explanation? Why do we feel the need to explain away our lives? It’s OK to care.

I’m not going to end this by saying, “Keep your head up, ladies, your time will come.” First, because I hated this and every other cliché spouted at me during the “Bell Tower period.” Second, because it implies that your life doesn’t begin until love happens—which couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Don’t be afraid to care, but also don’t fear a period of your life when you don’t care. It is during that time that fake beliefs and mistaken assumptions can take a hike back to that bell tower where they belong.

And life (and sometimes love) will happen when you least expect it. (You didn’t think you’d get away without one cheap shot cliché, did you?)

Normal.

I sat in the boardroom. I heard the words that many before me had heard; worst case scenarios, a final date of December 6^th; the culmination of months of speculation. I saw the faces of friends who had been coworkers since I was in middle school become painted with the realization of the looming separation.
But I sat there; engulfed in this haze that has recently become my new normal; perhaps the same haze that overtook my body when I slung myself on top of a pipe that sprayed our kitchen a few weekends ago. My fear that I lack motherly instincts slightly faded as I took the water’s beating until Justin could get the water turned off. Now that’s a woman who loves her kitchen floor.
It has been one thing after another. And amidst all the ugly that is becoming an adult, there has been some beauty too: the beauty that occurs when you feel like you have taken the reins of your own life; your own marriage; the satisfaction you feel when you have been initiated into the club of other adults who are on a runaway train filled with crappy appliances and ants in their cabinets.
You accidentally buy an oversized fridge on a whim after your old one bites the dust; you chainsaw away at your top cabinet until it fits. And such is life. You make it fit. You make it work.
And you look at this man; this man who you tried to write off because he was a youngster with weird musical taste-- and you realize your naivety. You realize just how little you knew about what you needed to sort out adulthood. And here’s a hint: You don’t need a guy that runs through an airport and makes you miss your plane. You need a guy who understands the importance of having an entire fridge drawer dedicated to cheese.
You want to know what else you don't want anymore, sister friends?

1. A Man Standing at Your Doorstep. He’s also usually holding some stuffed animal or other item you don’t need. Throw in some rain and you have enough precipitation to complete the female fantasy. Scratch that wet dog business. A real man comes barreling through the backdoor carrying a half-gallon of milk, your monthly crazy pills and a box of Tampax. Love.

2. A Man Running Through the Airport. For the self-conscious female, the last thing I need in my adult life is a man making a scene near my gate. Plus, I paid a lot of money for this ticket and I don’t want to try to book another flight because you watched one too many Garry Marshall films. When I’m in the butt-to-butt traffic that is the Wal-Mart checkout line and realize I forgot cornstarch, I need a useful sprinter that can hit the baking aisle before Beatrice scans the last item in slow motion. Now that’s an Olympian worth aspiring to.

3. A Man Who Dances with You in the Street. You can thank Noah from “The Notebook” for this gem. Now that one of my favorite hobbies doesn’t include playing a game of Frogger on Stadium, I appreciate a different kind of jig. He’s going to kill me for including this—but he’s out of town so I’m feeling brave. If I am in one of my “zones” or appear to be getting too serious, Justin will begin doing this dance in my line of vision to see how long it takes me to notice. It has been a year and a half and I burst into laughter every time. Imagine arthritic Granny meets belly dancer.

4. A Man Who Uses Clichés. I’ll never forget when he said it. I was sitting there holding the dog in the car and he looked at me and said, “You know, you’re kind of like a dachshund. You’ve got a really long back and short little legs.” Um thanks? These are the kinds of compliments you will receive when you reach the comfort stage of a relationship. And though you’ll roll your eyes at your random Romeo, you will stare at your back in the mirror that night and wonder what that even means.

Marriage and adulthood look a whole lot different than what I had in my head in college. Contrary to Pinterest belief, not everything is Pumpkin Spice all the time. Sometimes life’s a plain pound cake; sometimes it’s a nasty fruitcake; sometimes it’s a pan of Funfetti (Life’s a box of chocolates was already taken).

But one of the positives I have found is that all the things that don’t matter fade away; they disappear into the fog of naivety from which they came. And somehow, somehow you are able to gain just enough strength to deal with a situation at a time. And when you feel like you don’t have what it takes, your true self kicks in and takes the grenade…or the volcanic kitchen pipe.

Ant Soup

Everyone has that picture of what kitchens post-marriage look like. You’ve got the chandeliers, of course. And then the pillows. Because everyone needs a little cushioning while they eat their hard-boiled eggs and toast.

But I’m here to tell you what a real kitchen looks like.

What it looks like when a real human being decides to whip up a soup with the bare staples that are jumping from the cabinets saying, “Pick me! I’ve been in here for 3 months!”

This is what it looks like when said real human being continually taste tests the soup. This is what happens when that same real human being discovers that she has been eating ANTS, not pepper. Yep. There were ants floating in my soup.

I head over to the cabinets where the flour resides (I narrowed this down as my target) and discovered that the unlucky floaters had family members. I’m talking Madea’s Family Reunion family members.

I will cut right to the chase and say: This week has been fun. Canned goods and boxes of macaroni everywhere; the fume of ant killer flooding the homestead instead of candles. Justin’s judging stares when he catches me trying to line up the cream of mushroom soups on the dining room table to feel a sense of order.

These are the scenes of marriage. They don’t tell you about them because they think you’ll skip town. The truth is—in some form or fashion—there are always going to be ants in your soup. There’s gonna be a kink in your plans. You’re going to regularly yell, “DANG IT!” while your husband calls from the room, “Left it on preheat again, huh?” It’s like he knows.

It’s the grin you have on your face when the lawn mower is broken and your husband is whacking at your grass with a stupid weed eater.

It’s making “I might get laid off” jokes like it’s a funny situation. It’s standing on a scale while your husband eats onion rings and simultaneously loses weight. It’s comparing the difference in severity of your dog-chewed underwear collections.

And this is a weird thing to say--especially with ya’ll knowing I’m a few dynamite sticks short of an explosion most of the time-- but I feel oddly at peace. It’s like I’m eating those ants and God is saying, “Ashton, my child, it’s just a little extra protein.” (Disclaimer: I’m not so at peace that I will keep eating ants. Just thought I’d put that out there).

So, here’s my take away, people:

· Instead of harping about your splotchy yard, thank the sweet man who looks a fool to make sure it doesn’t grow over your house post-rain.

· Instead of beating yourself up because Martha Stewart would NEVER serve ants, pat yourself on the back for attempting to cook and then head to Ruby Tuesday’s.

· Instead of burning the pizza, accidentally leave the cardboard on the bottom so that it doesn’t get cooked enough. It shakes up the surprise factor.

· Instead of worrying about your career path, bring back some of the dreams you forgot you even had.

· Instead of being OCD about Cream of Mushroom soup, tell yourself to chill out and push one over.

And most of all, don’t make a mountain out of an anthill.

Celebrate

For the record, I did not throw a birthday party for my one-year-old weenie dog and put picture evidence on Facebook. Ok, I lied. I did. I bought a three-tiered treat cake for Fiona and actually wrapped her present.

The realist in me knows that she has no comprehension that Wednesday was her birthday; she probably just wondered why in the world she was dangling up in the air over the biggest treat she’s ever seen. (It’s because I made your dad crawl under the table and prop you up. He was thrilled). Add this to her tally of the other weird things we do on a daily basis.

Who am I? Like seriously. I have a king-size bed, but wake up most mornings falling off the side because a 10-pound little creature has sprawled out beside me. I opt to stay in on nights we’ve been gone all day so I don’t have to see her sad “You’re leaving me again” face.

It’s like Sarah McLachlan and her shelter puppies sent out a magic spell during a late-night commercial or something.

So, perhaps this small celebration was for me. I’ve come a long way. In that time, she’s taught me:

· Being greeted excitedly is so important. Whether I’ve been gone 30 minutes or 8 hours, I get the same reaction: tail-wagging, circle-looping, high-jumping ENTHUSIASM. She’s even peed before she was so ecstatic (I don’t recommend this when visiting your relatives). I can’t even begin to compete with her energy, but I’ve started trying to make an effort to smile more and acknowledge people wherever I go. It really does make a difference.

· Just being there is so important. When my grandpa passed away, I spent most of that morning in bed crying. Fiona cuddled up next to me and just stayed there. She didn’t get all up in my face; she didn’t try to rattle off any condolences (yes, I do realize dogs aren’t physically capable of this); she simply sensed my hurt and stuck it out.

· Being lazy is so important. Laundry. Dishes. Dinner. Full dishwasher. Dirty tile. These are constantly rotating in my head. But sometimes I’m sitting there and she’s sprawled on my lap and I think, ‘Those things can wait. They’re always going to be there.’ And I’m just still. It’s marvelous.

· Being able to forgive is so important. Following a pricey shoe chew, I had a yelling meltdown in front of the poor animal. I sent her outside in fury. I took some time to cool off before letting her come back in. She slowly made her way back in and began licking my face (her “sorry”). I realized that material things are just that—and that momentary frustration with people should never lead to lifetime resentment.

· Being goofy is so important. It’s not an evening at our house now unless the dog has danced to something; rap, a commercial, a solo number by Justin. You name it, she’s done it. Before her, I’m sure there were nights that we went without a good laugh. Not anymore.

There are many more where this came from. Happy Birthday FiFi (also realize she can’t read this); Thanks for everything.

Love, Mom

Reinvention

Oh, Miley Cyrus. I only tuned into the MTV Music Awards to see if my darling *NSYNC boys would reunite. Texting back and forth, my friends and I eagerly anticipated the possibility of seeing our junior high heartthrobs once more.

One of my friends put her children to sleep and came over in her pajamas; we sat on my bed and ate candy until the wee hours (OK, confession: 11 p.m. is now the wee hours).

I think I could have a bar of soap for every person in that audience and I still wouldn't be able to scrub my eyeballs enough to obliterate your performance from my memory. That’s the funny thing about brains; I can’t remember any of my work passwords; but I will forever have those dancing bears etched into my subconscious.

When I realized that my beloved boy band would only dance for approximately 5.6 seconds (they’re getting older like us, I guess), I was even more furious that I had to endure “entertainment” from you and your peers to get my snippet of glory.

I think my beef with you—besides the obvious—is that you and your friends are trying to make reinvention synonymous with promiscuity; you are telling young girls that if they want to graduate from Hannah Montana, the natural next step is trading in their innocence.

And I’m here to tell ya, girls. It’s OK to change. It’s OK to switch up your likes and dislikes (“Your taste buds will change every few years,” says Mom). It’s OK to have an experience that rocks how you see the world. It’s even OK to reinvent yourself.

You can do this without shaving your hair off. I promise. You can do this without strutting around with nothing on in front of millions. I promise. You can do this without compromising who you are. Promise. Scout’s honor. You don’t even mysteriously gain the urge to leave your tongue spiraling out of your mouth like a lizard all the time.

I am not the Ashton from Paragould Junior High School (thank the good Lord); I am not the Ashton from college; I’m only a remnant of the Ashton who got married a year and a half ago. As time has gone on, I have seen a need for several reinvention interventions.

But they have made my life better; easier—not emptier and more humiliating.

• I used to be Judge Judy. Ok, not literally (otherwise I would be sitting at home counting my money, not writing this blog). This fun little reinvention formed after I got to be poor for a little while (Kudos, higher education). I sat in a low income health clinic and realized I couldn't even afford that. It hit me. No one wants to be poor. No one wants to fail as a parent. No one wants to have to ask for help. But there I was. If you replace your judgment with grace and your assumptions with compassion, I promise it will change your life.

• I used to have no worldview.  Travel the world if you get the chance. Or at least to some place that varies from your norm. When you meet kind and gracious people from a Muslim faith, you are less likely to stare at an airport. When it occurs to you that you are a tiny speck on a large map, your perspective of what's important will drastically alter.

• I used to be unhelpful. I didn't realize until I got married how little I did for my own mother growing up. I spent the first part of our marriage in a state of denial; I apparently lived in a world where my mom was going to show up and do all the stuff I didn't want to do. Now that I am pitching in and have laid to rest my pride, our partnership has gotten even stronger. And I've even made some semi-decent meals.

• I used to think everything was the end of the world. This is probably my latest work in progress. I once went to make a recipe and realized we didn't have eggs. You would have thought the small group was known for excommunicating members who had to make something else. I had someone say to me recently, "In every situation, ask yourself: 'What is the worst thing that can possibly happen here?" It's amazing the transformation that takes place when you realize you are ten times harder on yourself than anyone else could ever be.

• I used to have a list. Maybe it's just a youth group girl thing, but we all had blueprints of our perfect mate. I'm sure if you fed the paper into a machine that magically popped out a guy, it would respond with, "You're stupid." When I realized that God wasn't sending me on the hunt for this one guy from this one college with this one major with all these generic hobbies, guess what? I got married. And I found that qualities that were not even in my Top 10 made all the difference.

We'd be here all day if I listed every way that I have changed my heart; evolved my spirit; and donned a new look (farewell, red confetti glasses of '99).

But each stage was so needed in making me who I am today.

So please don't look to Hollywood to get your cues for transformation; look no further than yourself.

"Personal transformation can and does have global effects. As we go, so goes the world, for the world is us. The revolution that will save the world is ultimately a personal one."
Marianne Williamson

1938

So I found some “Tips for Single Women” from a 1938 article. Good thing the good Lord saw it fit to save my grand entrance into the world for later. Otherwise, I probably would have spent the roaring 20s and 30s sitting in a rocking chair in the attic collecting the bones of all of my animals while my sophisticated lady friends dated their way up in society. Let’s take a stab at some of them.

1. “Don’t use the car mirror to fix your make-up. Man needs it in driving, and it annoys him very much to have to turn around to see what’s behind him.” You want to talk annoying? Let’s talk annoying. I have to hurriedly plop globs of goop on my face (say that ten times fast) because society has almost made it an expectation. Sure, men have that awful chore of rotating their neck a fourth of an inch—but at least they don’t get asked if they’re sick a million times if they forego the eyeliner for a day. And have you TRIED to put on makeup in a car lately? It’s a wonder I haven’t had to have a mascara wand surgically removed from my eyeball.

2. “Don’t be familiar with the headwaiter talking about the fun you had with someone else another time. Men deserve, desire your entire attention.” Dang. I’m going to have to cool it in Olive Garden. Justin understands. More distracting small talk = more grated cheese on your salad. What Justin desires is more breadsticks, not attention. So schmooze your way to more carbs.

3. “If you need a brassiere, wear one. Don’t tug at your girdle and be careful your stockings are not wrinkled.” Ok, 1938, do you have some type of “brassiere test” we have to pass in order to justify needing one? Let’s go with 2013 here and flat out say: WEAR ONE. I don’t care who you are. I would rather you tug at your Spanx and not iron your pantyhose than have you cause me to gouge my own eyes out anytime it’s cold outside or unforeseen circumstances warrant you having to run.

4. “Don’t be sentimental or try to get him to say something he doesn’t want to by working on his emotions. Men don’t like tears, especially in public places.” You know. Because we women just live in excited anticipation for our next meltdown. We plan them actually. Personally, I keep tally of how many times I can cry in front of a crowd in a week’s time. We love being overtaken by a hormonal surge that makes us want to kill the ones we love the most.


5. “Don’t talk about clothes or try to describe your new gown to a man. Please and flatter your date by talking about the things he wants to talk about.” Cotton. Target Pajama Section. $10.99. That’s the end of my gown descriptions. (Not many fancy parties in my circle). And may I say you are looking dashing, fine sir, in your boxers with an unraveling waistband. How’s that for elegant evening flattery?

6. “Don’t sit in awkward positions—and never look bored, even if you are. Be alert, and if you must chew gum (not advised), do it silently, mouth closed.” I spend 8+ hours a day at work avoiding sitting in awkward positions. My reward for somehow maintaining an upright stature for 8 hours? Being as stinkin’ awkward as I want when I get home. I will lay my legs across your face if they want to be there. I will contort my body like a circus act to reach the remote before I will retrieve it like a normal person.

So when one of those “It’s tough to be a woman” days hits, just be thankful that we’ve reached a time when females can be transparent; they can be a little crazy and that’s OK; they can quit walking on eggshells; and an article making them feel better about themselves as wives, mothers, and women is just a Google search away rather than a newspaper article slap to the face. So, in honor of those who came before us, go sit awkwardly somewhere and smack your gum as loud as you can.

Anti-Bucket List

There is no easy way to transition from yesterday’s blog post to today’s more light-hearted banter. Whenever I am following up to an excruciatingly transparent entry, I always feel like that emotional teenager who has to come back into the family room after erupting in front of everyone: “So, yeah, I don’t hate any of you. I’m sorry.”

I read a column today where the author decided to make out an “Anti-Bucket List.”

It caught my attention because normally I have to sift through compilations of things people with a lot more drive than me are going to do before they turn 30 or whatever.

I have to know about the arch nemesis of this, I thought.

It made me want to do the same. So here we go:

· I will never eat yogurt for breakfast. I somehow get disillusioned sometimes in the grocery store and buy like a 6-pack of Yoplait. I will open the first one, eat a spoonful, gag, goodbye entire pack. No more.

· I will never run with a number on my back. If you receive word that I have paid a large lump sum of money to run, swim, bike, or anything else equally horrible, alert the authorities. My evil twin that no one knew I had has assumed my life and left me on a couch somewhere.

· I will never share one of those “If you love your husband, son, daughter, brother, sister” things on Facebook. I love you. You know I love you. And if you need an illustrated teddy bear to realize this, I might take it back.

· I will never look up the calorie count for a Zaxby’s chicken salad. I will live in my own little world where all salads are good for you.

· I will not stop using writing as an avenue to document my life. Pity the children whose every tantrum is a chapter in a book somewhere.

· I will never stop smiling when Justin affectionately refers to me as “Goopert.” I will never, however, allow this to become my full-time name when I’m 90 years old. “Great Aunt Goopert” is not happening.

· I will not fill my brain up with useless music trivia. Justin can ask, “Who sang this?” in every restaurant until we’re in nursing homes but I am not going to fill up my precious brain space with the 80s greatest hits.

· I will never purposely do any activity that puts me in imminent danger. If I get some incurable disease, don’t expect me to jump out of a plane. It’s just not going to happen.

We all get so caught up in what we haven’t done. Why not occasionally enjoy listing the things you’re just flat out not going to do? It’s kind of refreshing.

So start listing.