Chuck Norris Won’t Let Me Write

I’m preparing to write a masterful blog post.

It’s a daunting endeavor. First of all, I must think of a gripping subject matter. This task is often the hardest. Thoughts are fleeting. Focus is fickle. Therefore, food is required to get the little gray cells firing.

This stomach-feeding process is also daunting. Frozen pizza is chilling in the freezer, and leftover pasta waits hopefully in the fridge, banking on the fact that this time I’ll seek its solace before mold, the Grim Reaper of Forgotten Concoctions, claims another victim. Somehow, though food is abundantly available, my brain suddenly realizes: “There’s nothing to eat in this house.” This is a conundrum, and one that seems to puzzle the entire family at times. Since  there is nothing to eat, I mournfully shut the fridge and grab a handful of pretzels, a strawberry breakfast bar, and a sandwich before sauntering off to write brilliant content.

When I plop down on my bed, the little gray cells have another epiphany: “We have nothing about which to write.” This is upsetting. When one is in the mood to create brilliance, one expects to have thoughts and ideas readily available.

Google, as always, is happy to help. It lists top ten things about which to blog and pontificates about how to entice a captive audience. However, Google is also a gaping worm hole. My feeble brain suddenly awakens to the fact that I’ve been circumnavigating many planets for many minutes and have landed in the alien world of Youtube, which boasts the main attraction, “If Google Was a Guy: Part 1, 2, 3, ad infinitum”.

I am upset by this discovery. Youtube, who so blatantly masquerades as Google, has misdirected masterful thoughts yet again. Google sends a rescue party, bearing the hopeful banner of “time management” and “efficient time usage”. Unfortunately, the first rescue team burdens its victims with a comprehensive list of tips, totaling sixty-five in number. Disheartened, the little gray cells realize that they don’t have the time to read 65 tips on time management. There is writing to be done.

The brain is wracked for any interesting conversations that day. That tack is abandoned, when the brain realizes that the most interesting conversation was one that was accidentally eavesdropped upon and cannot be repeated, however interesting it may be. This is disappointing, but cannot be helped. This leads to a stream of consciousness regarding the sin of eavesdropping, and whether that sin can truly to be laid to the charge of writers. Unanimously, the little gray cells agree that the guilt of eavesdropping should be charged to the main culprits: obnoxiously loud speakers.

I glance at the clock, who drones: 10:33 PM. I don’t care for its lackadaisical attitude and say so. The clock does not care about my fleeting moments and does not bother to say so. Its judgmental face speaks volumes, however.

My phone lights up. Chuck Norris is attacking my village.

 

The Conqueror

He, of course, lays it to waste. A level ten town hall is no match for Chuck; he is the unspoken High Master of Clash of Clans. Out of the goodness of his heart, he does leave my village with enough elixir to start constructing another Tesla tower. He does not, however, leave my village with a shield. My phone lights up again, this time bearing the chilling inscription: “Your mom is attacking your village.” Heartsick and weary, I remove the dagger from my back and return to writing.

Pandora streams through my earbuds. The song has words. I sing along and accidentally type the song lyrics onto my laptop’s blinking, white screen. Though Adele is a word master, typing   “Hello, can you hear me?” seems ill-suited to the digital space. The station is switched to Solo Piano. The piano is loud and contrarily bang-y, a combination which is protested. Pandora takes the abrupt skip as an affront and dares further protestations with a decisive slap to the face, in the form of “The Entertainer”.

The white flag is flown. Pandora and Youtube and Google and Chuck Norris and your Mom win. Decisively.

The little gray cells wonder: “Can a post be constructed out of these trials?“. However, they are distracted by the siren lure of sleep and fluffy comforters.

“Nah,” they decide, yawning largely,

Writing is hard work. Especially masterful writing. And tomorrow is a new day.

Brainy Quotes, associated with Google, said so.

 

 

 

 

Gigi’s Story

“It’s my daddy’s birthday soon.”

She pauses, giggling, and stares into the distance. Nappy hair springs enthusiastically into intricate tendrils around her face, and a chubby hand pushes rounded glasses further onto a snub nose. She looks at me, eager. Confiding.

“Thirty days from yesterday. Comin’ up quick.”

I smile. It’s a patient smile, and one that comes easily. Besides, Gigi doesn’t need verbal encouragement. A listening ear is enough.

She leans back and wiggles a small boot. “I don’t know where he is though.”

My co-worker and I exchange an amused, long-suffering look. Gigi is prone to ambiguous statements, which often lead to commonplace explanations. My titian-haired co-worker finally takes the bait.

“What do you mean, you don’t know where he is? Like where he lives now, or what?”

Gigi looked at us mildly, shaking her head. When she speaks, her voice lilts upwards, as though sharing a child-like secret. “My daddy’s dead, you guys.” She continues to shake her head, seemingly pondering her own words. When Gigi speaks again, it’s with a slight bewildered wonderment. “Isn’t that sad?”

My co-worker disengages. With Gigi, that’s the easiest thing to do. It’s hard to know how seriously to take her. Everything she says is accompanied by either dramatic hand gestures, threats to punch some blank punk in the face, or manic outbursts of contagious giggles. However, today seems different.

I look at her vague, smiling face. Something in mine must have prompted her to continue.

“I was his favorite. His lil soljer.” Pride seeps from her very pores.

“He always taking me places, callin’ me miha.”

I nod. She giggles. “I never got to say goodbye, you know?” Fingers splay for emphasis, wide green eyes meet mine. “His mother and sister, they wouldn’t let me see him. When I got to the hospital, he was already dead.”

Chubby fingers play with a frayed thread on her coat. “My theo Raul held me back from the nurse. She wouldn’t let me see my daddy – he held me back, or oooo she would’ve gotten a beating, Lor’ knows.”

She laughs at my widened eyes. “I’m just playin’.” She looks down at the thread, now completely twisted around her forefinger, which had morphed into a violent shade of purple. “I’m just playin’.”

The tone turns conversational. “I blame myself, you know.”

“For what?”

“For my daddy dying.”

My hasty rebuttal is interrupted. “I do though. Before he left, he punched me in the face. My daddy always told me, never let a man raise a hand to you, no matter who he is. So I looked him in the eye and punched back. I had only asked him why I couldn’t go see my cousins, when my brother was with his friends. I guess he didn’t like that, thought I was talkin’ back.”

Petite thigh jiggles as she speaks. “After I punched him, he just shut down. Like his face went blank. Scared me. He said, ‘I never wanted you. Should’ve made your mom get an abortion before you were born, saved myself all this trouble’.”

A laugh catches in her throat, and tears shimmer in the wide, green eyes. “I called him horrible things back. Said I would laugh if he died in front of me.”

She looks up, eyes blinking rapidly. “What kind of daughter says that to her father?”

I am speechless. She breaks the silence with a giggle, while furtively wiping teak-leaking eyes. “Ooo, I am a mess, ain’t I?

There is another awkward pause. Gigi collects herself with a businesslike sniff and quick swipe to her traitorously leaking nose. “So, like I was saying…it’s my daddy’s birthday soon.

“I miss him.”

“I had a daddy, didn’t I? He wasn’t perfect and he certainly wasn’t the one I’d dreamed he would have been, but I had one all the same. And I’d loved him as much as I’d hated him, hadn’t I?” ~ Melodie Ramon, After Forever Ends

I’m a Baptist, and I Believe that Gays were “Born that Way”

I am a Christian. And I think gay individuals were “born that way”.

On second thought, let me qualify that statement. I have been raised a Baptist, indoctrinated that homosexuality is a horrendous sin, and further informed that being gay is a choice, and one that every gay person makes individually.

I still believe that they were born that way.

Of late, homosexuality has been a hotly discussed topic, and one that brings violent reactions from two opposite views of the rainbow spectrum: that of gay supporters and that of Christians.

Gay supporters protest, “Love is love! How can you possibly deny us the right to love?”

Christians retaliate with, “Your love is twisted. How can you possibly define this perverted form of intimacy as true, committed love?”

FB wars rage, with both sides raining vitriolic slurs on the other. Expletives explode, and tempers flare. I’ve read posts by enraged gay supporters, spewing out the vilest names for Christians that I’ve ever encountered. Contrariwise, I’ve encountered hate-filled posts by Christians which label homosexuals as “fags”, “filth”, and “scum.”

Each side is consumed by one thought: “These haters have a choice. And by disagreeing with us, they are choosing incorrectly.”

I’ve read articles written by previously closeted homosexuals. Some are guilt-ridden, some are jubilant, some contain more questions than answers, but every single one claims that “I always knew I was different. I’m a boy that likes boys, I’m a girl that likes girls. I’ve known since I was four year old, I struggled with it in high school, I finally discovered my true self in college…”

I was born this way.

With all my heart, I believe that statement. But I’d like to add one caveat:

We were all born that way.

I was born with a tendency to envy, and a weakness for selfishness. A judgmental attitude often mars my perception, and I war with jealousy constantly. My tongue is prone to quick, snappy remarks, and though undeserving, my family is sometimes the recipients of a silent moodiness.

I was born that way.

But every day, I’m given the choice: will I act on these natural, flesh-driven desires? Or will I choose to be the person that God intended?

As Christians, I think it’s easy to overlook the fact that others have different sinful tendencies than ourselves. Alcoholics look down on child molesters, hypocrites chastise immodest dressers, homosexuals deride hate-mongers, but in the eyes of God, we are all sinners.

Gay individuals were “born that way,” with a sin nature and a lust for unnatural love. But they still have a choice whether to act on their sinful desires, a responsibility before God not to stay that way.

God never created homosexuals. Sin did. Free will did. We all have a choice.

What is yours’?

Christians are Hypocrites – I Have Proof

4:25.

The bold black numbers shifted slowly, rhythmically, ever upwards.

4:37…4:44…4:53.

I watched the numbers metamorphosis, mesmerized by their clock-like precision.

5:25.

Sighing, I glanced to my left at the large, modern clock, then back at the caller ID screen, which still displayed the numerical proof of my torture.

5:47.

I shifted the phone to my other shoulder, wearily rolled my aching neck, and continued my vigil.

6:13.

The angry voice on the other end had been at it for 6 min, 42 seconds, and counting. My participation in the monologue had consisted solely of sympathetic “mhms,” and empathetic “I understand you’re frustrated’s”.

The voice had responded with bitter accusations, vague threats, and fervent asides to Jesus, whom she begged to give her strength.

Finally, when both I and the voice were beyond frustrated, I said through gritted teeth, “Ma’am, we’re doing our best. Your check will be here soon, but until then, please know that we’re doing everything we can to make sure you get paid in a timely fashion.”

The voice exploded.

“OH, REALLY? THEN HOW COME I AIN’T PAID YET?”

I pondered the question. It seemed rhetorical, so I stayed silent.

This was a mistake.

“OH, SO NOW YOU QUIET! HOW COME EVERY TIME I TALK ABOUT MY CHECK, YOU GO ALL QUIET ON ME?”

Again, I pondered the question, which didn’t seem have a obvious answer.

“IF THIS WAS YOUR CHECK, YOU WOULD ALREADY HAVE IT NOW, WOULDN’T YOU?”

The questions seemed to have take a philosophical turn. Heaving a sigh, I gazed at the ceiling for inspiration.

“I’M GOING TO KEEP CALLING UNTIL I HAVE A CHECK IN MY HAND.”

This being the fourth irate call, I knew this was not an empty threat.

“Ma’am, I will personally call you when your check gets here.”

The voice halted, and an awkward silence reigned.

“YOU KNOW WHAT…”

Before I could ask what, an angry buzz assaulted my eardrums.

The voice had hung up. Hard.

Twenty minutes later, the checks came. They looked innocent enough, lying on my desk, white and pristine, naive of the anguish they’d inadvertently caused.

Biting my lip, I scanned the caller ID for the now ominously familiar number.

The phone rang, once, twice, thrice.

I breathed a sigh of relief and waited for the beep.

Then the voice answered, “Finally.”

My breath whooshed out. “Ma’am, I am truly sorry..”

The voice persisted.

“Finally….brethren.”

Eyebrows arched, I bit my lip.

“Whatsoever things are honest…”

I bit my lip harder.

“Whatsoever things are just…”

My lip protested fervently.

“Whatsoever things are pure…”

Desperately, I switched to biting the inside of my cheeks.

“Whatsoever things are lovely…”

Eyes watering, I held my breath.

“Whatsoever things are of good report…”

I pinched myself. Hard.

“If there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think, I said think, upon these things.” The voice trailed off into a reverent silence.

Mouth forming a disbelieving O, I waited for the clincher.

The voice did not disappoint.

“Have a blessed day.”

I couldn’t help it. I snorted. Loudly.

Then, I thought about it. This woman was understandably frustrated. The situation was, frankly, highly avoidable. We should have had her check ready. My company was liable, irresponsible, and guilty.

Still…

She was a hypocrite.

Her voice was talkin’ the talk (thank you, Jesus), but forget walkin’ the walk. The vitriolic tirade and the sanctimonious voice message warred for credibility.

Guess which one won in my mind?

Sadly, I had to question: how many times have I done the exact same thing? Looked good in church, yet harbored bitterness towards another? Quoted scripture, but completely ignored the implications? Done something correct for entirely incorrect reasons?

More times than I care to count.

As a result, I looked up the definition of a hypocrite. Wanna hear it?

hypocrite

/ˈhɪpəkrɪt/

noun

1. A person who pretends to be what he is not.

What a dead-on description of Christians. We aim to be Christ-like.

We are not.

We aim to be holy.

We fall short.

We strive to be honest, and just, and pure, and lovely, but underneath all of our clean exteriors, every Christian knows the truth: we are hypocrites.

I am a hypocrite.

But, “Jesus, give me strength,” I will be a genuine hypocrite.

“Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”

To My Teen Brother: I’m Sorry. Your Christmas Gift Involves My Little Pony

For a big family, Christmas presents are an interesting proposition. Should every family member give every other family member a gift? For us, a family of ten, the answer has been a resounding, “I’d be broke if I gave all you jokers a present.” As a compromise, we kids generally pool our money, brainpower, and driving licences to give our parents a gift.

But not this year.

This year, I foolishly suggested, “Hey, you know what would be fun? Putting each kid’s name in a hat. That way, we can all get involved.”

The idea met with resounding accolades. I was deemed “brilliant”, “awesome”, and “the best sister ever” in the space of two minutes. A Cubs hat appeared in front of me, while raggedy strips of notebook paper fluttered into its sweaty interior. I held it out, like a harbinger of goodwill, and watched as everyone clenched their eyes shut, slowly drawing out a strip of paper.

Immediately, faces fell. A low murmuring started, with hurtful phrases like, “You’ve got to be kidding me”, “Whose idea was this anyways”, and “No. Just no,” liberally peppered throughout. Apparently…

A four year old girl is now buying for an eighteen year old guy.

The four year old was ecstatic.  Face ablaze with Christmas joy, the small redhead whispered in my ear, “I know ezackly what to give Jacob.”

“What?” I say, perhaps a shade too brightly, because she shushes me.

“Quiet! I doesn’t want him to know.”

I apologize. She accepts and moves on.

“He wants…” her entire body leans forward in anticipation, waiting to drop the perfect gift bomb.

“A fishing pole.”

Nonplussed, I stare at her, while her tiny head bobs excitedly. The eighteen year old has never mentioned fishing in her presence, nor does he regularly fish; plus, sticking a worm on a hook elicits disgust.

“Ummm,” I manage.

Taking my hesitation for elation, she beams. “It will be his favorite.”

I smile too, but for an entirely different reason. “Oh, I know it will be.”

The eighteen year old clears his throat. An arched eyebrow signals that he has heard the entire dialogue, heartily disapproves, and favors a re-drawing of names.

Hurriedly, I say, “Ems, do you have any other ideas? Like sports stuff, or something?”

Emitting a gusty sigh, she plops down at the table, head propped on hands. “I sink the fishing pole is the best…”

I commiserate. “I know. But he won’t really use it. ‘Member how you have favorite things? Jake does too, so let’s think of those.”

Ems misunderstands.

“My Little Pony?” she squeals in surprise.

I try to intervene, but the planning has begun.

“Pinky Pie is my favorite, so maybe he will like dat. She’s pink. And pretty. She likes to have fun.” Em giggles at the lovely thought.

I look around guiltily for Jake, but he has already left the room. Expectantly, Em waits for my feedback.

Clearing my throat, I say softly, “He doesn’t like pink.”

Ems face falls.

“But Rainbow Dash is blue…”

Judgemental Love – Oxymoronic?

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.

(Charisma pales in comparison to sincere words, spoken in love).

² And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.

(Wow)

³ And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.

(What is martyrdom without an object of love? Is it not vain show?)

⁴ Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up,

(Love is patient and understanding, free of jealousy, and self-effacing)

⁵ Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;

(Love is appropriate, yet naive; innocent and pure.)

⁶ Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;

(Regardless of popular belief, love is not the lack of judgement; rather, love is the ability to judge wrong, while embracing the wrong-doer.)

⁷ Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

(Yes, yes, and yes)

⁸ Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.

(Love is eternal, because its Creator is eternal)

⁹ For we know in part, and we prophesy in part.

¹⁰ But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.

¹¹ When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

¹² For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

¹³ And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.

(The ability to love is sublime, God-given, and uniquely superior to all other powers. Any Christian lacking love, compassion, and empathy fails to truly follow Christ’s example – a convicting, heart-gripping thought.)

 

Herbert Loves Me, and Other Weird Things Librarians Hear

Librarians are not known for their lovability.

Lost in reminiscing, my grandpa once reflected, “I was scared of the library ladies.” When pressed for details, he paused, and his left eyelid twitched. Finally, he muttered, “They shushed people.”

Indeed.

Generally, the public views librarians thusly:

I cannot deny the existence of such librarians; however, the point must be made:

We are not all monsters. Sure, your childhood memories may consist of thin, pointy-elbowed, sharp-tongued, spinsterly book guardians, but the uprising generation of librarians is conscientiously breaking this stereotype.

For instance, I am a librarian. I do not shush people. (Except for that one teenager, but he was asking for it). I do not wear glasses. (I used to, but they made me look like an owl, so I have since graduated to contacts). Admittedly, I once tried to peer down my nose at a rude patron, but since my appearance resembles that of a sixteen year old, the overall effect was probably underwhelming.

Although I attempt to be a non-scary type of librarian, my patrons generally treat the position with respect, cringing as I call them on overdue books, fines, and pencil-marred margins. However, yesterday broke that mold….

Yesterday, a patron said he loved me.

Allow me to set the scene. I was calling overdues, a lovely task which consists of passive-agressive reminders about late materials, thinly veiled threats about looming bills, and/or effusive apologies for materials I called about, but failed to realize that said materials were already returned.

Typically, a call goes like this:

Me: “Hi, this is the library. I was calling to let you know that your book, Captain Underpants and the Tyrannical Retaliation of the Turbo Toilet, is overdue.

Embarrassed parent: “My seven year old checked that out. I don’t read those. Really. Never have, never will.”

Me: “Not here to judge, sir. Just stating the facts.”

Parent: “Ok, I’m…he’s…on chapter 7. We’ll get it back to you ASAP.”

Me: “No rush. Great literature must be given its due.”

End of scene.

Yesterday, however, the call went like this:

Me: “Hi, this is the library, calling about overdue materials. May I speak to a parent of Herbert?” (Name changed. Just in case a lawyer is sneaking around, waiting to slap me with a libel suit).

Rapid breathing on the other line.

Bemused, I try again. “Hi,  may I…”

A panicked whine ensues, broken by a tentative click.

Listening to the dial tone, I grin, redial the number, and wait. Patrons have hung up on me before, and the resulting story is always memorable. Therefore, I wait with relish for the punchline.

“Hello?” whispers a tiny voice.

“Hi,” I repeat blithely, “this is the library. May I speak to a parent of Herbert?”

The unseen person considers the question. “No, you may not,” he finally answers, conviction steadying the trembly voice.

Choking on laughter, I say, “Oh. Ok, then. Will you let her know that her son has an overdue book?”

Quietly, the disembodied voice admitted, “He knows. He’s done with it.”

Taking a wild guess, I say, “Return it when you can, okay Herbert?”

A horrified pause stretches for eons, then a flustered voice blathers, “Ok, thank you, love you, bye.”

Herbert loves me. Score one for modern librarians.

It ain’t selling if you already bought it

Since this is my normal modus of operandi, I am going to leap blithely back into blogging, pretending I have never been absent.

…….

Maybe you’re the one that was MIA. Ever considered that?

(Little mind trick, there. My four year old sister uses reverse psychology on me regularly, with maddening success. Let me know if it worked).

Guys, I have exciting news: I am now a business woman.

That was me as a business woman. As you can see, business suits me quite well, which can be a pun if you like puns, but doesn’t have to be if you don’t.

It’s an awesome business called ACN, and they’ve been around for 20 years. Before you completely lose it, “She’s sold out her blog to annoying sales people,” hear me out.

I have not, will not, and will never try to sell you guys anything.  At 18, I enquired after a telemarketer’s well-being, listened to his 45 minute spiel, then politely informed him that I did not own a car, thereby negating the need for car insurance.

That experience soured my taste for sales. My business is entirely different, however, because you guys have already purchased these items.

You pay for utilities, yes? (At least, I hope you do. It’s irresponsible to wander around in the dark. Please be careful). Electric, gas, the works?

How about cell phones? Internet? TV?

I thought so.

Very simply, here’s my spiel in a nutshell – I want to help you pay for these services.

By helping you pay less money for your gas, electric, and what-have-you, ACN pays me. I win, you win, expenses lose – it’s practically a perfect scenario.

The best part is that you don’t have to change your current provider, nor do you have to worry about promotional deals. Please, check out my website, and see if I can save you money:

Website

By the by, before you get angry about this blog’s metamorphosis into a promotional platform, let me assure you – this will not be the norm. Right now, I am excited about saving money, and I wanted to share.

But while I’m on the soapbox, let me make one more proclamation, “You can own a business too.” ACN can help you one of two ways: it can simply save you money, or it can allow you to make money.

Lord willing, I plan to make money (cuz writing is my dream, but it don’t pay the bills yet).

If you have questions, feel free to speak up; if you’re angry, vent below; if you expected funny, try this – bacon.

There. Promotional push over. Til next time, folks.

So Big – A Tale of Gyms and Disillusionment

“Soooo big!”

I turned and stared scathingly.

“What did you just say?”

The jerk grinned, repeating blithely, “You’re sooo big!”

I stared daggers at my oblivious brother. “Is that a joke?”

Quirking a sardonic eyebrow, he pointed at my little sister, who had her tiny hands raised blissfully in the air. “See? Em adores being told that she’s a big girl.”

“Em,” I said between my teeth, “is a three year old child, with thighs the size of my pinky.”

He smirked, I sighed, and we joined the YMCA.

Somehow, the mere possession of a gym membership creates a magical feeling of fitness. The first day, I slipped into my sweat pants, which already felt more svelte, and preened in the mirror. The image which stared back at me erased the magical feeling.

Walking into the Y did nothing to restore the magic. Toned athletes swaggered by, all sporting muscled biceps and sculpted calves. Gazelles masquerading as humans loped around the track, while Arnold Schwarzenegger doppelgangers hoisted massive weights high overhead.

In silent agreement, my brother and I headed for the cardio centre, which boasted treadmills, stationary bikes, and a rowing machine. We paused in the doorway, horror-struck. Greyhounds were running on the treadmills, lean legs striding smoothly. A gray-haired man rowed briskly, knotted arms pumping hard and fast, knees bending in a fluid rhythm. At that moment, I became a hardened cynic.

In vain, I looked around for a slightly flabby peep. Ken and Barbie dolls stared back at me, disinterest oozing from every non-sweaty pore. Then…

I found her. Glazed eyes stared blankly at the stationary bike screen, which informed her that although her legs burned, lungs ached, and mouth parched, she had pedaled a grand 1.24 miles. A sweat-soaked t-shirt, which hid blossoming love handles, sported an encouraging workout motto. Limp, brown hair hung in her eyes, but she had ceased to blow it away. The white flag was being flown.

“There she is,” I said triumphantly to my brother, who was still gazing about mournfully.

Blankly, he stared down at me. “There’s who?”

“My new favorite person.”

As she staggered past us to the drinking fountain, my brother muttered, “Refreshingly realistic, yes?”

In silent agreement, we nodded, detouring towards a small weight room. It was empty, so we had a tempting array of choice equipment. Jerm started pumping iron, while I stared, bewildered, at the complicated machines towering over me. Finally, I figured out that each one sported a step-by-step illustration.

Sitting down gingerly, I rested my back against a leather support and attempted my first rep. Later, my brother informed me that I looked like this:

I informed him that I did not care, and that he could go jump in the nearest, preferably frigid, river.

Stubbornly, I struggled with my machine, attempting to figure out whether my legs, arms, or pinky toes were supposed to be supporting the weight. Glancing up, I noticed a guy’s gaze flicking away nonchalantly. Bemused, I glanced back down, studying my tennis shoes. Subtly, I raised my eyes, only to meet his once more.

Apparently, my five minute work-out was working. However, I was not there for male attention, I told myself firmly. I was there to become fit, healthy, and toned. Furiously, I applied myself to the up-down, up-down clank of the weights.

Three minutes later, I got up, arms trembling with exhaustion. As I walked away, earnest dark eyes looked at me expectantly.  Slightly annoyed now, I ignored them, striding towards the paper towels and disinfectant. When I returned, the guy was waiting.

“Miss,” he said sweetly. “Are you done with the leg-curl machine?”

Dramatic Decisions – Move to Europe? Or Cut My Hair?

There comes a point in every woman’s life when she simply needs a change. Revamped geographical scenery is not enough, nor is a complete upheaval of her familiar quirks and habits. Even switching up her favorite restaurant never quite cuts it. Frankly, only one action can satisfy her inner longings…

A haircut.

Men, I don’t know if you can fully comprehend this inherent need. By nature, we women second guess ourselves. Does this outfit make me look fat? Am I fat? Why did you hesitate before you answered? (FYI, there is no winning that one. Tell her she looks gorgeous before she gazes into the mirror).

A haircut completely changes our negative viewpoint. Oh, you feel blubber-like, y’ say?

Haircut.

Today was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day?

Da, da, da, daaah…haircut.

However, men perspire when women in their life announce dramatic, lifestyle-changing intentions.

For example…

I was in dire need of a change. Deadlines loomed, midterms menaced, and I could not change anything but my hair.

Therefore, it had to go. I announced my intentions at supper.

“Dad. I would like to change my hair up a little.”

Carefully, my dad put down his fork. I could see mental cogwheels churning as he cautiously glanced towards my maternal parent, then at the remaining females surrounding the table, each with a determined glint in her eye. Defeated, he sighed.

“I guess that’s okay.”

We squealed, already planning our bodacious new do’s.

“But,” he added under his breath, “I hope it won’t be too…short.”

Subconsciously, my dad views each successful haircut as a bullet dodged. Though never a dictator, he does prefers our hair to look feminine, a view with which I heartily concur. Therefore, his hunted expression never fails to amuse me when I announce a dramatic hairstyle switch-up.

“Dad, I’m going shorter this time.”

Instinctively, he glances heavenward. “Ummm. Okay. Yeah, that’ll be good. Good. Good change for ya, sis.”

Before he can ask, I wave a nonchalant finger above my ear lobe, indicating the new length. Eyes widening, he nervously clears his throat.

Then I laugh, and he sighs in relief.

Yet another bullet dodged.

However, I know exactly where his mind goes, which is why I am so vastly amused. When I say “shorter”, his mind conjures this:

“Chin-length, Dad. Chin-length.”

Being an angelic daughter, I never abuse this knowledge. Ever. (Except for when I need a belly-laugh).

Finally, the day came. The stylist chopped off my hair.

I hemmed. I hawed. In the end, I decided to like it.

Now, however, came the judgment. Arriving home, Dad poked his head in cautiously, surveying the potential danger zone. No buzz-cut daughters immediately attracting his interest, he started upstairs.

Just then, I came leaping down, bob swinging freely around my jawline.

Like this, but not. His bob looks more feminine.

Reserving judgment, Dad stared blankly. Finally, he croaked, “That actually doesn’t look that different.”

I smiled blissfully. This was a high compliment indeed.

“But,” he rejoined sweetly, “do you like it?”

Self-consciously now, I patted my hair. “Well,” I murmured, “I did.”

………

“Does it make my face look fat?”