I have had way too many humbling experiences in my life that have proven to me just how big an idiot I am. Humility is my middle name. Unfortunately, Pride is my first name. Let the internal duel begin.
Here we are in a new town and we have an ominous task before us: finding a new church. Oh, the dreaded church search. How I hate thee. “Shopping” for a new church is like shopping for that one piece of clothing you have in your head – for example, a pair of tan corduroy pants with wide legs and a snug top. Chances are, you will never find just what you are looking for, no matter how many stores you search, and you will inevitably end up settling for something vaguely similar, like off white corduroys with a bootleg cut and a too-stretchy top that will irritate you every time you wear them. I know from experience. I have yet to find my corduroys.
I went for a jog this morning. Oh, let me rephrase that. My mind and my determination went for a jog this morning, but my jiggly belly and my pickle-sized lungs went for a gasping, wheezing limp around the neighborhood. I had my course set for the beach. I didn’t make it. And it’s a good thing too, because if I had, then the lifeguards would have discovered my collapsed body somewhere along the shore and heaved me “back” into the ocean.
Over the past couple of years, I have been suffering a revelation. Yes, that’s right, suffering. Not all revelations are wonderful experiences, you know. My revelation has been, in short, the fact that I am not nearly as awesome as I always thought I was. When once I thought of myself as quite a catch, I now know that I am merely pond scum in the Great Ocean of Life.
The first half of 2011 was momentous for me. For the first time ever I stuck to my New Year’s resolution of “Thou shalt change thy unhealthy lifestyle.” I know, annoying right? I don’t blame you if you never want to talk to me again. I mean, who does that? Well, I had a few motivating factors. For one thing, my stomach was just way too grab-able. And when I would sit in the car, the seatbelt created a most unbecoming second stomach, which at first I thought was just my pants poofing up, but when I went to smoosh it down it didn’t smoosh. I always joked about having a second stomach; it’s how I manage to be absolutely stuffed after dinner and still have room for dessert. I didn’t actually foresee it coming true.
Is there anything more disgusting than throw up? I’ve had poop splattered, smeared, and smudged on most of my body since having children, including a squirt in my mouth while changing 2 week-old Gabriel, the world’s most explosive baby pooper. But vomit is in a league of its own.
Is it just me or does it seem like nowadays everybody has some sort of emotional disorder? It’s the new craze…oooh, poor word choice…I mean, fad. “I’m OCD”, “I suffer from MDD”. All these acronyms have me confused. “You have ADHD? Yeah, I don’t really like classic rock.” I think what our country is suffering from is what I’m going to call Emotional Disorder Disorder, or EDD for short.
I went to the mall this weekend. It was, how you say, horrifying? I’m officially too old to enjoy the mall any more. Yes, at the ancient age of 28, the shop-till-you-drop , mall-is-a-social-experience excitement is gone, replaced with the look-at-all-these-people-how-am-I-supposed-to-find-a-parking-space-I-should-have-just-shopped-online anxiety of mall-dom.
I just peeled all the stickers off my wood floors. They had been building up for about a year now. It had gotten to the point where my floors looked like a giant game board with various cartoon figures marking the path. And for some reason, I just pulled them all off! Just like that! What have I done?!! I’ll tell you what I’ve done! I have officially raised the standard of cleanliness for my home. Oh dear, I think I’m going to be sick.
Two weeks ago I lay on the couch sobbing in defeat. I told God, “I can’t do it anymore! Why do You want me to be a mom, I’m not cut out to be a mom, this isn’t working!” The ultimate concession of a frazzled mother. I had had “words” (very loud, very angry words) with my 4 year-old, Gabriel, as I put him to bed because he was being disobedient and now he lay in his bed crying (shrieking, rather) and I lay curled up on the couch crying, but wanting to be shrieking too.