Guys. Fall starts next week. That’s right. Time to put away the bikinis and put on the boots.
The past year or so has been a new kind of struggle for me. My relationship with my family has been changing. In the sense that I’ve been growing into a more independent individual. I’m more private about my affairs. I don’t solicit opinions for every major life decision. This all probably should have happened long before my 27th year, but some of us are slow learners ok? I’ve actually been making this journey for some time. Little steps here and there, but the ties of influence still remained stronger than they should for an adult child. My decisions were still colored by the opinions of my parents. Essentially if Benjamin Moore made a shade called Parental Approval, my walls would have been covered with it.
So for the most part we (we being crazy Christians) understand that whole “wives submit to your husbands” bit in the Bible is actually imploring spouses to submit to one another, because although the man is the “head of the household” (that term is ick) the passage goes on to say the husband must love his wife as Christ loved us. You know, in a get-tortured-and-die-on-the-cross-for-your-sake kind of way. That man has to do what’s best for you at all costs because Jesus says. Oh and because he kind of digs you too. That means even though the term “submission” seems antiquated and distasteful the actual practice of the instruction can be a part of a really beautiful and mutually respectful relationship. (P.S. It even says submit to one another right there at the beginning of the passage there, did you see that?)
Ok I’m back from my unintentional holiday hiatus. I’m sure I was missed terribly. And in keeping with the obligatory themed posts this one is going to be about resolutions, kids. Well part of it’s due to the New Year’s resolution shtick and part of it’s because a friend of mine made some quip the other day about how I wanted a man more than the average sow (that’s a female bear). I took great offense to this statement despite the fact that he didn’t believe he was being offensive. To me he was saying, “you are desperate and in need of a boyfriend because you’re obviously no good without one.” To him he was saying, well, I’m still not clear on what he thinks he was saying.
With the holiday season comes all those warm fuzzy feelings that often lead to the more single of us to wish Santa would bring us someone with whom we can share a series of eggnog-soaked activities. I can’t lie (obviously since I’ve over-confessed much to you fine people for the past two years), I’ve had my “All I want for Christmas is you, whoever you may be, because I have only a very generic idea of you in my mind” moments. I get doubly nailed with single awareness events given the fact that my birthday is this month as well. Which means I’m just one year closer to throwing myself a wedding-themed birthday party. (Not really. That’s just frightening.)
As you may have noticed, I’ve been experiencing a bit of writer’s block as of late. Though that writer’s block may be attributed more to a dry spell that leads to two posts about the same scenario in which I get stood up. Wow. The more I write the more pitiful I sound, maybe that’s why I’ve lacked the motivation to post as of late.
Sometimes it feels damn good to have that mushy, connected-deeply-to-another-soul crap in our lives doesn’t it? So much so that you’ll go to strange (though maybe not great) lengths to get it from places and people you maybe shouldn’t. Most likely from some guy (or girl) who is there to fill in for just long enough to make you feel loveable and capable of real human emotions on occasion. Because sometimes you forget how to feel feelings when you aren’t constantly bickering with the one you love. And that’s no good, right? So what better way to deal with it than some truly unhealthy and delusional fauxmance? (See what I did there? That’s a portmanteaux kids. Pretend like nobody’s ever used that blend before.)
Sometimes I get the impression that love is like musical chairs. You switch loverkinses until the point when you are ready to settle down and once you reach that age or life-change, that chair better be available or you’re going home without any wedding cake.
More Sunday mornings than I would like, I wake up and a feeling of guilt sets in as I remember the series of mistakes I’ve made the night before. Most of these errors in judgment are considered standard behavior for a 26-year-old single on a Saturday evening: one drink too many, dancing in a manner that wouldn’t exactly make my mama proud, associating with men who are not the righteous type (and not in an '80s catch phrase kinda way—sorry bad joke in an effort to break the tension of an altogether too serious post), etc. But these seemingly mild-mannered mistakes set my floundering Christian heart reeling with guilt. There have been times when I’ve purposefully slept through church to avoid driving the self-loathing stake deeper as I’m surrounded by fellow church goers who I’m convinced have it all figured out.
For the past two weeks I’ve come across a barrage of survival guides designed to help singletons make it through the ever-so-challenging holiday that is Valentine’s Day. This is the day that is supposed to make you feel miserable because you lack that special pooh bear to send loverly flowers to your work (because it doesn’t count if others don’t see it, sort of an if a bear poops in the woods kind of thing) and recreate the perfect Zales moment just for you. Alas, whatever shall I do to make it through with no one to love?