sad, sad bat

I hit a bat on my way home tonight. Actually, the bat flew into my windshield, so it hit me. I watched it hit the top and then slide down to get tangled in my windshield wipers, which seemed impossible at 55 mph (the sliding DOWN part, not the hitting part).

Poor bat. Sad bat. I drove my last 2 miles home watching the unmistakeable bat wing flap in the wind while hoping that it was just knocked out.

At home, the mag flashlight and a straw proved to me that it was dead. I felt sad. I also hope that an animal eats it in the night so that I don't have a rotting bat at the end of my sidewalk in the morning.

I've always loved bats the same way that I love frogs, turtles, lizards, and snakes. Maybe more the way that I love snakes...I like to see them and think they are awesome but don't want to touch them. Bats look like cute little diseased mice with wings. In my mind, that statement turns out positive.

This is not the bat I killed. I don't actually touch bats. This picture does show how cute and small and innocent they look to me.

People...

People.

You should read that in an exasperated voice, as in "PEO-ple...arrgh."
Tonight gave me a little reminder that people are the same everywhere and at every age. It seems that the drama that we began practicing on the playground in the 4th grade doesn't really go away. We just change the language. This isn't news to anyone who is even slightly involved in society.


Tonight's example of people being people came in the form of the good ole' who should date whom. Me being the who and the only other single person in the church being the whom.

Me: Charming offhanded joke about people not asking me out when I walk around in public dressing tacky. This was appropriate to a conversation about a man and woman who met in Wendy's when he commented on her homemade straw necklace.

Them: "We were just talking about this. I think this is taken care of. Someone is just waiting for the right time. That is what we (whoever the hell "WE" is) think. In a year, we will be looking back at this conversation and laughing."

Me: "Um, okay. I'm not going to ask."

Now I have to change how I talk about being single. I thought I was making a funny joke that related to wearing tacky clothes. They hear such jokes as a cry for help and apparently spent quality time talking about my love life (a love life I'm not interested in right now) and deciding who is in love with me.

The "who" in question is not, in fact, in love with me. They are not waiting to ask me out because they are in love with the pretty little blonde girl at work who flirts with them daily. I am excited for the "who" and give the "who" advice on asking out the little blonde girl. There is a right moment being waited for, but I am not involved.

I did not explain this. I did not call out my friend and her "people." I allowed her the mystery and hope for something that doesn't exist.

Why? Because people will be people. Adding to the conversation adds to the playground drama. I'd rather just walk away and mutter "PEO-ple...argh."

I'd like to think that such wisdom is a perk of being in my 30's. Yes, I am a fountain of wisdom and self-restraint.

p.s. To be fair, I found myself feeling just like I did in the 4th grade with playground drama. I felt important because people were talking about me and special because they thought a boy might like me...even if it wasn't true. For other girls to THINK that a boy would like a certain girl means that the said girl must be somewhat cool. Right? Right.

if I could only change...

I've recently been reflecting on turning 33 in 3 months. Dan Brown made me feel better about this by writing several paragraphs in his last book about the number 33. It is a magical, powerful number in the Bible. I feel excited and empowered! Kinda. It WAS Dan Brown, which means that most of it is bullshit.

33 seems to be a daunting age for me. This is mostly because of my lack of husband and quickly aging eggs. It is difficult to remember how young 33 is in the grand scheme of life when every six months without a date takes me a step closer to the back-up plan of being a single adoptive mom (which will, in turn, solidify my lack of marriable qualities).

These things are going on in my head while I ponder career choices and the housing market....and then yesterday Julie Roper added me on Facebook.

Julie Roper was the mean popular girl at church from the 3rd grade all the way to graduation. Julie Roper didn't actively hate me. She didn't tease me or spread rumors. She just ignored me and did the best she could to never sit near me, speak to me, be associated with me, or recognize my existence. She ignored me every week at church for 10 years. Her friends, which made up most of our Southern Baptist Sunday School class, followed suit until late in high school.

Julie started to say hello to me in the 10th grade because she learned that I would hug her in front of people if she did not recognize my presence first. It was a mean game on my part, but the only way that I could enjoy the seeming disdain that she had toward un-pretty overweight badly dressed girls with awkward social skills (aka me).

(Julie and the other popular girls were "bowheads." This is what we called pretty little preppy girls in the 80-90's who wore big bow clips. We also used the word "preppy." There was a mean song about bowheads in the same sense that you make fun of cheerleaders. Which all of those girls were. Damn them)

Time eases biases. Facebook is also a great way to see who got fat and who is a loser. That is only reason I can think for her to add me as a friend. I accepted.

Julie Roper opened a porthole to my past. She is a good Texan woman who stayed in North Texas, married in her early 20's, and is raising Texan babies with her very Texan looking husband. She is still friends with all of the other good Texan girls and boys from my Southern Baptist upbringing. Her page allowed me to spy on people that I haven't thought about in 10 years.

Spying led to memories. Spying led me to realize how different I am (being childless, single, and NOT in Texas). Spying brought back all of my awkward mixed feelings from high school. I've looked at my Facebook page and wondered what they would think about me. It is all about work and shows that I am still fat and single. What do they think about me being a youth minister? Do they think or care at all? Am I sad in their eyes? Wierd?

Now Julie Roper and Facebook have turned my normal 30-something confusion into a 30-something confused need for approval from people that I haven't seen in 10 years. People who, for the most part, barely liked me to begin with.

I wasn't in their cool club when we were teenagers and I've just been hit with the harsh reality that I will always WANT to be accepted by them. I don't want to actually reunite with them, just to know that they think I am awesome and that they are jealous of my glamorous life of youth ministry in a tiny town.

Damn it. Maybe I'll spend less time tomorrow worrying about these people who were happily faded into the background of my life story before yesterday.

Hungry

Due to an ongoing search for new birth control that doesn't make me break out OR leave me bleeding 20 days of the month, my body is a little out of wack.

I just finished the 10th (yes, TENTH) day of Aunt Flo's visit. That is over, but apparently PMS 2 weeks ago kicked my metabolism into a different drive. Is it faster or slower? Only the scale will tell.

Now I am either ravenously hungry or feel completely full. All the time. I eat a meal of any portion or level of healthfulness and feel stuffed. The full and satisfied feeling lasts for 2-3 hours, which means that I am aware of FEELING FULL for 2-3 hours.

And then the hunger strikes. My stomach actually growls. Am I in the 7th grade again? When did my stomach last growl loud enough for other people to hear?

I physically feel hungry at least 6 hours of the day. This is because I refuse to feed a starved feeling body that told me I was full only 10 minutes ago. I also refuse to eat around the clock...unless there is a pity party involved.

Here is my nugget of wisdom from a jacked up body: Physical hunger, the feeling of an empty and growling stomach, is easier for me to ignore than emotional hunger. Anyone who has an unhealthy relationship with food knows the difference.

Is my stomach growling? Oh well. I don't need a cup of ice cream. The pain will go away.

Am I feeling lonely and depressed about something important in my life? That damned cup of ice cream won't shut up until I eat it. I MUST eat it, for it will replace the lack of comfort and love in my life.

Sad, but true. I can ignore my body, but not my emotions. Maybe that will change as I get closer to 40...that gives me 7 1/2 more years to find out.

grow some lady parts

This is my catch phrase. I taught it to teenagers a few years ago because they kept yelling "grow some balls!" during ultimate frisbee games.

Balls? That doesn't make sense. Balls are the most sensitive, vulnerable, and wimpy part of the human anatomy. If you hit a man in the balls, he is down. If you injure a man's balls, he may lose one. You even have to watch how you TOUCH a man's balls...which is not exactly a beloved national past time (at least for me).

The vagina, on the other hand, goes through a lot of tough shit. It sees blood on a regular basis. It adapts to whatever is thrown at it. It can be ripped apart while a HUMAN passes through it and still heal to see another day. Women are forced to accept pain on a regular basis because our lady parts are rearranging themselves (also known as menstruation).

Is someone being weak? Tell them to grow some lady parts. Balls will only give them another weakness.

Tonight I wanted to tell a college student to grow some lady parts. "My parents don't understand me." Waaaaa. "I don't know where home is anymore." booohooo. "My friends don't call often enough or text back when I want them." poor thing.

These are valid life experiences and are especially jarring during college when you seem to live in transition. I know this in my head because I am a well-trained minister. Emotionally, though, I just want to tell this girl to start growing some lady parts. Apparently, I am a cold hearted bitch in my 30's. Oh well.

I love this place! Oh, now I hate myself...or do I?

Today I went to a different grocery store that is 10 minutes closer to the big city. I've heard that it is a step above the local Food Lion but still smaller than the super-fancy yuppy stores that I used in Atlanta.

Hello Lowe's Food! I love you! I walked in and was reminded of all the grocery luxaries you give up living in a small town. Boar's Head deli meats? Check. Fancy bakery with pretty cakes and an entire display made just for muffins? Check. Great produce and plenty of good looking single men shopping on a Saturday afternoon? Double check!

I was immediately aware of my clothing choice when every high school bag boy looked at my chest and then smiled wide friendly smiles at me. Ego boost? Check! I love this place!


The woman at the deli counter had a different take on my cleavage showing maxi dress, loose crazy hair, and lack of make-up. When I got to the counter to order, she smiled really big and said, "Now, is this your husband?"

I turn around to glance at who she was referring to...a big, beer-bellied, white haired biker dude complete with leather vest and bandana on his head.

"Um, no. (friendly smile to hide my shock) I don't know him."

Whaaaat? Should I hate myself? Does messy hair and no make-up make me look like a biker chick? Do I look that old?

Apparently, I've lived in a farming town long enough that I've let myself go. I can no longer walk into the somewhat fancy grocery store and fit in. I belong with the biker dude.

A small part of me thinks it is kind of bad ass to be mistaken for a biker wife. The minister who is married to the bearded biker(who was actually married per the ring on his hand and well groomed under the leather vest). That is a fun thought.

Nah. That small part of me does not overshadow the shame of being the trashy girl in the still not-that-fancy store close to the big city. It is time to start exercising and putting on make-up again.

hopeful living

Beautiful weather, the return of short summer dresses, and a haitus from birth control all leave me inspired. I now want to make changes to my life that will feed hope for the future.

It is time to start working out again. A lot. I don't care about losing weight (although I should) but I need to rebuild muscle and stamina. I will go back to the pool. I downloaded music and prompts for Couch to 5K, which I know will last about a week before I give up in pain.

I shaved my legs ABOVE the knee and began the long process of transforming my feet from a calloused mess to smooth and beautiful.

Yes, people, it is time! I am ready for hopeful living! This is the beginning of a journey to prepare for great things ahead...

I decided this week that I want to spend a long stretch of time preparing for sex.

You read that correctly. Sex.

As of today, I will live as a woman who hopes to have lots and lots of sex in the future. Not just getting laid, but good sex. I am talking about love nest weekends in which you do nothing but eat, drink, sleep, and get it on. Over and over again.

If I found the man of my dreams right now and we made love, I would be mediocre at best. I am way too out of shape. The prep time for anyone to see me naked in the next couple of months would be exhausting. I'd be worn out before we even started!

Now I am going to live as a woman who hopes to have great sex far in the future. I don't have time, energy, or a desire to fall in love any time soon. I don't even want a man in my house or on my phone. I do want to have something to look forward to...to live in hope.

Hope for a lot of great, sweaty, dirty, loving, committed sex.

Lap pool, here I come!