When I was dating, particularly in highschool, I scorned the guys who tripped all over themselves to tell me I was beautiful. I laughed at those earnest boyfriends who attempted to make me feel like a princess by opening doors and gazing longingly into my eyes. I held at arms length the men who told me they loved me. For whatever reason, I felt uncomfortable discussing or displaying any emotional attachments. I even remember asking my friend Amy, "Can't guys just have fun without asking me how I really feel?"
It wasn't that I didn't like kissing or holding hands. It wasn't even that I didn't like the particular boy, or the idea of having a boyfriend. The issue was, I never really felt like I was "in love" with any of them. I loved dating, and having fun. I thought boys were cute and funny, and enjoyed spending time with them. But that was all.
Then came a series of ill-advised, unexceptional relationships in college. While my friends were all in search of their "MRS degree" in addition to their undergraduate work, I was blowing off both school and men with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. It's a wonder that I passed any of my classes. My dating relationships mirrored my school efforts, in that they were meaningless and effortless, a sad testiment to my lack of convictions at the time. The truth is, I was scared.
I knew I was supposed to be growing up, and the thought of being a responsible adult was quite frankly beyond me. I think I intentionally self-destructed for the sheer terror of the reality that awaited me on the other side of academia. The fact that I had any friends after my apparent melt down is a testiment to their grace and friendship.
And just when I had given up all hope of any future, I met my Romeo. He is, incidentally, a man who has never tripped all over himself to tell me I'm beautiful. He doesn't tend to open doors for me unless my hands are full. He almost never gazes longingly into my eyes, and seems quite incapable of asking me what I really feel. He does tell me he loves me every day, but not always in words. He tells me by heating up my car on a cold day before I have to go to work, or by offering to help with dinner when I'm tired. He tells me by spending time with me, whether I'm walking the dog or watching Pride and Prejudice for the 500th time. He tells me by staying with me through nearly 14 years of marriage and counting.
Do I sometimes wish for the romance I once scorned? I'm ashamed to admit that the answer is yes.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
My first Blog/ About me
An old college buddy encouraged me to start this blog. Seeing her entries and online insights was the inspiration for what follows. All inaccuracies, inefficiencies, and inexplicable references are to be directly attributed to her overconfidence in a fellow procrastinator and professional slacker. Here goes.
The challenge of a blank page. Let's start off with the fact that I've never particularly felt I had anything valuable to say. When given completely open parameters, I stumble along blindly looking for some sort of guidelines. I am paralyzed by the sheer vastness of possibility. Which leads me to another inherent self-truth: I like structure. In its absence, what little creativity resides in my mind is stifled. Within a structure, my mind loves plotting and planning, sorting and organizing, and even surprising those who think they may know what I will say or do. Generally speaking, I believe I am much better at editing and revising others' original thoughts than I am at writing my own.
Beyond those aforementioned disclaimers, it is imperative that I mention I love coffee. Coffee doesn't always love me. In fact, it leaves me with blinding headaches if I allow myself to consume as much as my palate desires. Despite this risk, the wonderful, rich, brown, creamy, sweet liquid has such a pleasant effect on my overall sense of well-being. I feel loved when I have a cup of coffee in my hand. It is a strange sort of self-love. My husband cannot stand the taste or even the smell of coffee. For this reason, I usually drink my coffee in solitude, and in a house with two children, solitude is seldom over-rated.
I love my two daughters. Blond and sunny, smart and lively, ever-changing and developing before my eyes, they have my heart. They were once a part of me, are still like me, and yet grow more and more independent of me each day. It is a challenging and consuming passion to know and parent them well. Katie is trying on identities like fashions, eager, yet tentative about about what it means to be in middle school for the first time next year. She is lovely and sensitive, intelligent and athletic, artistic, silly and insecure. Beth is raging at the incomprehensible joke God has played by making her the younger sister. Adventurous, daring, competitive, and sparkling, she is pretty and insightful, quick to understand, and quicker to judge. What amazing people they are, and how fascinating to play a role in their lives.
Then there's my dog Sam, the border collie/spaniel with the heart of a chicken and the innate desire to round up anything and anyone near him. He has an uncanny ability to sense the exact place I am heading and cut me off, turning me toward some unseen destination only he knows. Perhaps in his muddled doggie mind, I am the proverbial black sheep that must be separated from the herd. Whatever his purpose, he is frighteningly good at achieving it. When the girls were younger, he would run circles around them, barking and nipping until they cooperated and remained in the middle of the yard. Just one heading for the edge would send him around the outside, playfully, yet earnestly urging her back to the "pen." Now that he's older, with white hairs creeping into the once all-black mask around his eyes, Sam mostly sleeps where I must trip over him. Although he rarely runs any more, when ambling or occasionally moseying, he still prefers to place himself in the direct path of an oncoming person and then nudge him to one side or the other. He is my maddening joy.
I was going to write about my marriage, but I think that's another blog all by itself. I was going to write about teaching and coaching, but I need more time to properly sort through those things too. Then there's the guilt which seems to be the underlying motivator for nearly everything I do. Clearly, for me, counselling is in order, but not necessarily another paragraph. No, today, I will end with the satisfying feeling of having more to say, but knowing that what has been said will suffice. For now.
The challenge of a blank page. Let's start off with the fact that I've never particularly felt I had anything valuable to say. When given completely open parameters, I stumble along blindly looking for some sort of guidelines. I am paralyzed by the sheer vastness of possibility. Which leads me to another inherent self-truth: I like structure. In its absence, what little creativity resides in my mind is stifled. Within a structure, my mind loves plotting and planning, sorting and organizing, and even surprising those who think they may know what I will say or do. Generally speaking, I believe I am much better at editing and revising others' original thoughts than I am at writing my own.
Beyond those aforementioned disclaimers, it is imperative that I mention I love coffee. Coffee doesn't always love me. In fact, it leaves me with blinding headaches if I allow myself to consume as much as my palate desires. Despite this risk, the wonderful, rich, brown, creamy, sweet liquid has such a pleasant effect on my overall sense of well-being. I feel loved when I have a cup of coffee in my hand. It is a strange sort of self-love. My husband cannot stand the taste or even the smell of coffee. For this reason, I usually drink my coffee in solitude, and in a house with two children, solitude is seldom over-rated.
I love my two daughters. Blond and sunny, smart and lively, ever-changing and developing before my eyes, they have my heart. They were once a part of me, are still like me, and yet grow more and more independent of me each day. It is a challenging and consuming passion to know and parent them well. Katie is trying on identities like fashions, eager, yet tentative about about what it means to be in middle school for the first time next year. She is lovely and sensitive, intelligent and athletic, artistic, silly and insecure. Beth is raging at the incomprehensible joke God has played by making her the younger sister. Adventurous, daring, competitive, and sparkling, she is pretty and insightful, quick to understand, and quicker to judge. What amazing people they are, and how fascinating to play a role in their lives.
Then there's my dog Sam, the border collie/spaniel with the heart of a chicken and the innate desire to round up anything and anyone near him. He has an uncanny ability to sense the exact place I am heading and cut me off, turning me toward some unseen destination only he knows. Perhaps in his muddled doggie mind, I am the proverbial black sheep that must be separated from the herd. Whatever his purpose, he is frighteningly good at achieving it. When the girls were younger, he would run circles around them, barking and nipping until they cooperated and remained in the middle of the yard. Just one heading for the edge would send him around the outside, playfully, yet earnestly urging her back to the "pen." Now that he's older, with white hairs creeping into the once all-black mask around his eyes, Sam mostly sleeps where I must trip over him. Although he rarely runs any more, when ambling or occasionally moseying, he still prefers to place himself in the direct path of an oncoming person and then nudge him to one side or the other. He is my maddening joy.
I was going to write about my marriage, but I think that's another blog all by itself. I was going to write about teaching and coaching, but I need more time to properly sort through those things too. Then there's the guilt which seems to be the underlying motivator for nearly everything I do. Clearly, for me, counselling is in order, but not necessarily another paragraph. No, today, I will end with the satisfying feeling of having more to say, but knowing that what has been said will suffice. For now.
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