Four Randos and a Robot

"You can buy what you want.  You don't have anyone to answer to."  She said.  I was telling her I needed a pair of black booties because the cute brown shoes she commented on were the only pair of cute shoes I owned.  You don't need black.  Brown goes with everything.  She said.  I disagreed with her.  And her response is the topic of my now blog.

"You can buy what you want.  You don't have anyone to answer to."

I paused to let this sink in.  And it sunk.  Into the space where you need an oxygen tank to swim.  It's somewhere in the abyss of darkness where odd things live because no human has ever entered its habitat.  But I'm venturing there.

I have no one to answer to.

The enormity of this off-the-cuff comment is still being processed in my brain.  And this blank page on my blog is the lucky winner for part of the processing.  You're welcome.

I often thought when I was married that perhaps I wasn't cut out for marriage.  I really like my own space.  I like my own money.  I don't like picking up after someone else ... that is an adult.  It's not my favorite to go to bed with a spotless house and wake up to find it destroyed the next morning by a man who is hurrying to get to work.  I don't like having to share my closet space.  Or my drawer space.  Or my cabinet space.  Or shelves in the shower.  (I put my boys' shower things away when they're not with me.  But this is more because I tire of hurting every time I see something of theirs.)

I'm a pretty selfish person.

These things are probably not unique to me, though.  I would suspect that a majority of people feel this way.

What makes me suspect that I'm cut out to be single is that I thrive more when I'm alone.  I have not mastered the art of caring for someone while simultaneously taking care of myself.  I have to work on boundaries incessantly.  I lose myself when I have a partner.

I don't love this about myself.  I know it's happening, but I haven't yet fully grasped the skills of prevention.

My parents suggested meeting one of my dates yesterday.  "Um....no.  It is far too soon and I'm tired of introducing you to random men."  They have met four since my divorce. Some on accident. But still.  Four relationships that I lost myself in.  Temporarily.  Four failures.

I'm not far enough along in the divorce process.

I'm too good for him.

I want more than he does.

We just aren't a good fit.

All of which were probably halfway true.  But my guess is that the girl they were initially attracted to disappeared at some point and was replaced with a robot that was obeying orders from someone else not even remotely related to me.  And none of them knew me well enough to know this, or had the tolerance to dig.

I came home last night to a house that was just as I had left it.  It was tidy and smelled good.  My bed was made.  My things put away.  Everything was in its place.  I got myself a glass of water and just sat in the quiet and enjoyed my space.  I found my nighttime products exactly where I had put them.  My book was still in the same place next to my bed.  My Plexus products hadn't moved.  My bed was just as neat.  I adjusted the thermostat to whatever I wanted and went to bed with my very loud box fan next to my head after reading for an hour in the quiet.

And I have never slept so good.

I woke up at 6 a.m. enthusiastic about my day to myself.  I made my Plexus, took my Accelerator and Vitalbiome, made a glass of water, put the tea kettle on for my French Pressed coffee, opened the blinds, put the Pandora channel on Hillsong United, and sat down to write.  Still in my pjs.  With no one demanding anything from me.

I have no one to answer to.  So today I'm carrying my unattached self to the mall to buy some black booties.

Successful Party Girl?

Successful: having attained wealth, position, honors or the like

I had someone recently ask me if I was a party girl.  He asked this in response to my statement that I was unfit to teach Sunday School.  I chuckled as I hit the Send button.  It was a logical assumption on his part.  But incorrect nonetheless.

I enjoy being outside at my favorite bars with my good friends.  This atmosphere has been overall a place of joy and comfort to me.  I'm with my best friends.  Sharing a beverage of choice.  Relaxed, laughter flowing, the sun shining, good music playing (mostly), and worries left somewhere outside.  Banned because they aren't yet drinking age.  Worries are definitely teenagers who have no business inside a bar.  At least not at the bars I frequent.

I suppose to someone that isn't accustomed to the typical bar life, the image of drunkenness and tears and abuse and anger comes to mind.  Strangers connecting in dysfunctional and destructive ways.  Negativity overshadowing the possibility of anything positive.  And I'm sure this is the case at times.  But I've experienced that at the gym, church, the grocery store, sitting in traffic, at a kid's birthday party, at a school board meeting, at a staff meeting.  These attributes aren't expressly specific to a bar.

The underlying question that he wanted to ask was "are you successful?"  or "do you have your shit together?" because of course the ability to be fit to teach Sunday School is a mark of success.

And the answer would have been...

"It depends on your definition of successful."

To most people, success is determined by the house we live in, the cars we drive, the amount of money we are paid for our worth, the title we are given.  It is summed up in an unspoken word when we walk into a fancy restaurant.  Do we look important?  Is our hair neatly styled?  Do our clothes fit well? Are we in shape?  Is our jewelry appropriately paired? Are our shoes modern?  Are they good quality?  Do we have our nails done?  Lipstick on?  The newest iPhone?  Do we carry ourselves like we know our worth?  Is our bag a name brand?  Do we know anyone in the place?  Do they know us?  Can we afford to be in a place like this?

And if we're a parent, the list of criteria extends to our children.

This isn't the definition to only most people....I would almost say that it is a universal definition.  Whether we like to admit it or not.  If we have somehow escaped this paradigm, we are one of the lucky chosen.

I have been a boss for most of my life.  I have typically been in some position of management.  Whether that place be a classroom, business, restaurant, home; I have taken positions that required me to manage other people.  Because that to me, meant that I was successful to some degree.

When I left the business world to pursue cleaning houses, it was a bit of a shock to my high-heel wearing, perfume smelling self.  Instead, I donned tennis shoes and yoga pants and didn't shower before I went to work.

And I had never been happier.

I remember my dad saying to me that I could make this thing HUGE!  I could buy vans and hire teams of people and have a huge operation.  And we had a great time dreaming.  It excited me.  So being drunk with the idea of success, I kept taking on more clients.  More than I could handle alone.  Which made me hire my first employee.  And another.  And another.  And acquire insurance.  And a bookkeeper. And scheduling software.  And a marketing director.   And a receptionist.  And a manager.  And an office.  And multiple desks.  And a telephone system.  And multiple cell phones.  And networking meetings.  And TV commercials. And payroll.  And taxes.  And fancy restaurants.  And expensive drinks.  And vendors.  And bills.  And business accounts.  And financial statements.

And with all of this came my high heels.  And perfume.

And somewhere along the way my happiness found somewhere else to live because he was abandoned in my tennis shoes in my closet and collected dust.  Along with my yoga pants. (Ok, well maybe not those...they are my most favoritest piece of clothing. Til death do us part.)

By most definitions, I was successful.

But happiness alluded me.

The life I had built slowly eroded.  My marriage started falling part.  My anxieties soared to an all-time high.  My consumption of alcohol increased.  My visits to the doctor were more frequent.

I spent a good three years searching for what I once had.

I found it in a small apartment without a husband, in my dusty tennis shoes and of course my faithful yoga pants.  I love those damn things.

I combated the damaging feeling that I was a failure.  I wept about it in therapy.  I wrote about it in my journals.  It invaded every thought I had...I. Had. Failed.

Despite the evidence of my happiness, failure seemed to permeate my thoughts about myself.  One of my dear friends told me I needed to change the title of my blog because there was so much more to me than failed marriages.  My parents agreed.  It was this revelation that made me question my definition of success.

So today, my definition of successful is something like this:

Successful:  having attained joy, perseverance, integrity, contentment, genuine relationships, mind/body/emotional health, or the like.

And the answer to the aforementioned man who asked if I was a party girl would have been.

Why yes, yes I am.

Sweaty Triumph

I looked a mess.  I was sweaty.  I'm sure I smelled.  My clothes didn't hide much.  But despite my appearance and smell, I was perhaps the most triumphant feeling person in the weight room.

I have been terrified of that room for as long as I've been going to a gym.  There are mirrors everywhere, fit people, good looking people, fitness savvy people.  If I did go, I would sneak in quietly and leave as quietly and hope no one had seen me on the machines or by the dumbbells.  It has been a place of extreme discomfort.  It holds all of my insecurities in one place.  The mats haunt me with their slick blue facade and their dingy surfaces.  The overhead lights zoom in on every flaw on my imperfect body.  Other people's sweat taunts me with their high profitability potential.  I. Hate. That. Place.

But for the first time, I worked out without my amazing friend and partner who has been my security blanket, and I didn't feel in the slightest uncomfortable.

I carried a book around like a dork.  I was in typical gym clothes that were faded from multiple washes.  I was doing squats and walking with that weird jump rope thing that makes you walk like you are about to birth a baby.   My hair was matted to my head.  My muscles timidly peeked out from under my layers of fat.  My mascara had abandoned my eyelashes.  And yet, I beamed with confidence.

I can only attribute this sudden reversal of esteem to what is usually a temporary burst of tenacity.   During these stints, I feel content with who I am.  Comfortable in my people clothes.  I feel satisfied with being a single momma.  Happy with my choice of career.  Enthusiastically progressing in my business and spirituality.  Contented with how I look.  At ease with my personality.

When I was younger these moments of good self esteem were few and far between.  I have found that lately, however,  they take up the majority of my existence.  And the terrorized, insecure Rebekah is the temporary person.

I wish I hadn't wasted my youth on insecurity.  But perhaps the sweaty, gym induced triumph now wouldn't be so sweet.

Goodbye Amateur

Goodbye: farewell (a conventional expression used at parting)
synonyms: parting; so long; leave-taking

I'm not great at goodbyes.  I've moved many times during my life so you would think I would be better at it.  But nope.

Maybe it's because I'm a Baptist in New Orleans.  Baptist church goers that  I've met over the years were only here for a short time for whatever reason.  I didn't expect to make this my home, either.  But it got under my skin and into my soul so here I am....21 years later.  After Katrina, this phenomenon of people exiting the city became an even greater concern.  I said goodbye to many friends as a result of that storm.  It destroyed more than just our city.  I started asking people immediately if they were from here when I met someone I bonded with.  If they weren't from here, I did not invest in them because  it was likely they wouldn't be here long term.  It was a matter of keeping my heart from being in a state of continual breaking.  I'm sure I've missed out on some great friendships because of this.  But survival demanded it.

My tender hearted Graham unfortunately got this trait from his momma.  He would cry and cry when he was younger if he had to leave or if someone was leaving him.  If he did have to say goodbye, it was a long affair of kisses and high fives and booms until he was completely satisfied with the way the goodbye was administered.  I think God needed to teach me patience because he put a damper on any kind of hurry I was in.  Poor little guy still struggles with goodbyes but has toned it down.  At least externally.  I'm sure his little heart feels the same way, but as with most things, aging has taught him to internalize his feelings.  And going back and forth between his parents I'm sure is exceptionally difficult.  I hate this.

Romantic entanglements are not great for someone who has a hard time with exits.  Nor is it great for someone who is not great at deciphering between a good fit and one who is not.  Because I find people curious, I usually let the relationship linger longer than it should have because I'm just not done getting to know them.  I end up focusing on them instead of what I need/deserve/want.  This conundrum of curiosity and goodbye procrastination is not awesome for my tender heart.

I loathe finishing a movie or book when I love the character.

I'm a goodbye amateur when I should be an aficionado.

My Grandpa's Legacy

We were all singing the familiar song that I've been singing my whole life.  My cousins...many of which I have never met...young and old all singing "Come and Dine."  My aunts and uncles beaming with peace to have their family together.

I will never forget years ago when my Grandpa said to the whole family as tears fell that it was his desire for us all to love Jesus.  Above anything, that was his wish for us.  This strong, very masculine man, the patriarch of a very large family, weeping.  It was almost too much for me.

My family has flaws like anyone else.  But at the very center of everything is Jesus.  My grandparents loved Jesus.  And that permeated through every fiber in our family.  We were a family of Jesus people who just loved.  And loved well.

I have thought many times that it is almost unfair to come from such an amazing family.  It doesn't quite prepare you for the world.  It's deceitful in its presentation of what people are like.  When you come from a family where malice, deceit, betrayal, just pure ugliness doesn't have much room, it's difficult to comprehend that many others have these as a resounding trait.

I was naive.

I remember the first time I met these traits.  In myself.  I hid in my parents' bedroom, ashamed that such traits were inside of me.  But I was up close and familiar with the Man who remedies that.  And I chose to hide in my parents' room.  They love Jesus. I didn't recognize it at the time, but their room was a safe haven where I could sort out the ugliness.   After all, they were the ones who introduced me to the Man who remedies ugliness.

Perhaps that is the difference.  It's not that these attributes don't reside within my family.  It's just that we know what to do with them when they poke their ugly heads....leave it at the feet of Jesus.

My Grandpa left us a beautiful legacy...and now he gets to dine with the Master.

I miss him.