10 Books that Stuck with Me

I love to read.  It is said that children are made readers on the knees of their parents.  I truly have my parents to thank for me being a reader today.  I have read hundreds (maybe thousands) of books, but, prompted by one of those Facebook things, I choose ten that "stuck" with me for some reason. 

Rain Makes Applesauce, Julian Scheer
(A children's book published in the 60s, it's just as silly as the title sounds.)

Though this children's book was published in 1964, I didn't read it until the 2000s as a teenager.  It was referenced several times in a teenage romance novel I read, so I decided to check it out.  The title is quite indicative of the book: pure silliness.  And honestly, I believe that someone who doesn't like the book is probably way too serious for their own good.  Scheer worked for NASA when he wrote the book, and according to the cover flap, "the play of a child's mind is even more marvelously far out than space-probing."
My favorite line is, "The wind blows backwards all night long and rain makes applesauce.  Oh, you're just talking silly talk."  This book is a refreshing reminder that we're all just talking silly talk in the end.

Rediscover Catholicism, Matthew Kelly
(From Amazon.com: "In this unique and timely book, [Kelly] proposes that Catholicism is not a lifeless set of rules and regulations , but a way of life designed by God to help each person reach his or her full potential. With remarkable insight, Kelly dispels dozens of myths that surround the rejection of Catholicism today and provides a profound and practical vision of what will lead the Catholic Church to thrive again in the future.)

Don't let Amazon's stupid, self-help-sounding blurp dishearten you.  This book was given to members of my parish in Louisiana, and it came to me at a crucial time.  I was at the lowest point of my decade-long battle with depression, and this book took my mind off of it.  I hated the prologue to this book (an unimaginable analogy full of flaws), but I was able to fall in love again with Catholicism via the rest of this book.  The section on the seven pillars of Catholic spirituality helped me grow in my faith, and this book reminded me why I love the Church.

Gone with the Wind, Margarett Mitchell
(Southern plantation before and during the Civil War fiction at its greatest.  Seriously, this book still ranks as one of the favorite books among Americans.  Scarlett O'Hara is too charming for her own good, and the novel portrays her growing into adult hood, breaking hearts and having her's broken, and coming to realize that she must only depend on herself.)

I don't know how many times I've read this book or seen the movie.  Without a doubt, if I catch it on television, I'll stop everything to watch it.  I read it for the first time in middle school and have been enthralled ever since.  It is far more than a story of romance (In fact, it's probably one of the most depressing romances ever.); it's a story of resilience, faith, and determination.  Definitely a better story than any romance I've read lately.

13 Reasons Why, Jay Asher
(Hannah Baker committed suicide.  According to a series of tape recordings, Clay Jensen is one of the thirteen reasons why she did it.)

This YA novel came out the year I graduated high school, and it perfectly summed up how awful high school can be.  The story is told by Clay Jensen about the thirteen reasons why his crush, Hannah Baker, committed suicide.  He's one of the reasons, and he spends an entire night following a map and listening to recordings she left about why she killed herself.  I cried a lot while reading this.  I've reread it a few times and cried then, too. 
I would love to be able to teach this book to a class of high school students.

The House of Dies Drear, VIrginia Hamilton
(Thomas Small and his family move into a house that once served as a stop on the Underground Railroad.  The caretaker, Mr. Pluto, is a strange man that the townsfolk call a devil, which Thomas begins to believe when strange and scary things begin to happen in the house.)

I actually got to teach this novel to a group of middle schoolers, but my first time reading it was in the fifth grade.  It touches on a lot of sticky topics: racism, classism, being an outsider.  But I didn't pick up on those until I taught it to my middle school kids.  I learned just as much as they did.  It moves quickly and offers a lot of mystery and suspense.  I love it, and I really enjoyed teaching it.  But I'm not sure why it stuck with me so much.

In Cold Blood, Truman Capote
(A non-fiction, true crime "novel" that details the 1959 quadruple murder of the Clutter family of Kansas.  After reading about the murders, Capote and his good friend, Haper Lee (To Kill a Mockingbird) traveled to Holcomb, Kansas to interview the townspeople.)
 
I hate horror stories, but I really enjoy true crime.  A lot of the time true crime stories cross the line with the gruesome as a way to hook readers.  In True Blood is perfection, though.  I've read it several times, and I never cease to be enthralled from the very beginning. 

The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
(Young, new-money Jay Gatsby is obsessed with old-money Daisy Buchanan (who you'll probably quickly hate).)

I think the fact that I want to have a labra-doodle named Fitzgerald (Fitzie for short) says a lot about how I feel about F. Scott.  Another book I've read time and time again, Gatsby is so relateable.  I don't know the number of times I've tried way too hard to impress people I shouldn't be impressing, only to have it all come crashing down. 

Postcards from No Man's Land, Aidan Chambers
(Two stories are told at once, one of Jacob Todd in Amsterdam in 1994, the second of Geertrui, a young girl who nursed Jacob's grandfather in 1944.)

This book makes me uncomfortable but in the best of ways.  Issues of euthanasia and sexual identity are addressed, but the most uncomfortable aspect of the book is that the protagonist, Jacob Todd, has his world totally rocked.  Jacob's idea of his grandfather is challenged when he meets the woman who nursed his wounded grandfather during World War II.  Bridging the past and present with two stories told simultaneously, Chambers manages to write the feelings we all have when we realize that our parents or grandparents are not always who we think they are.

A Separate Peace, John Knowles
(Gene and Finny live and study at a New England Prep School in the early 1940s.  Polar opposites, they become fast friends.  Ultimately, Finny helps Gene to find himself.  The story is told when Gene returns to the school twenty years later to visit two sites: a flight of marble stairs and a tree, both of which play major roles in the book.)

This is the third YA novel and second YA coming-of-age novel set (at least partially) during World War II on my list.  A Separate Peace is an American classic and for good reason.  It was published less than twenty years after WWII ended, so I feel like it's probably pretty telling of that generation.  But the best part about coming-of-age novels is that they're always relevant.  Knowles' story of one friend pushing another so far out of his comfort zone makes the reader uncomfortable at times.  But like Postcards, you're uncomfortable in the best of ways. 

The Things They Carried, Tim O'Brien
(A collection of short stories about a platoon during the Vietnam War.  Fiction, though many of the characters are semi-biographical sharing similar characteristics of men from O'Brien's memoir.)

I've only read this book, cover to cover, twice.  But I've read various parts of it a hundred times.  This book is hard for me to read; it's so damned sad a lot of the time.  Its a war story in the broadest sense; it takes place during a war in the middle of combat and several of the short stories are about combat.  But I feel so drawn to it because of the relationships within it.  In the last story, "The Lives of the Dead," O'Brien admits that he keeps his lost loved ones alive by telling their stories.  The entire book is meant, not to show the ugliness of war, but to show the beauty of friendship. 

The D-Word

The time has always been now to discuss depression.  So let's just dive right on in and get dirty and uncomfortable.

I have poly-cystic ovary syndrome, and the community of suffers throws around the phrase "invisible disease" a lot.  We suffer the consequences of our imbalanced bodies with no outward signal that we're fighting a health battle.  We inwardly cringe at our attempts to politely explain why we don't have children, attempt to muster encouragement while battling insulin resistance and weight gain, and brave a smile while having four hours of blood work done.  There's not a 5K to support PCOS research or t-shirts that read 'I'm so classy even my ovaries wear a string of pearls'.  



(But seriously, I need that shirt!)

My battle with PCOS has given me some courage to discuss my other invisible disease: depression.

My last blog post was both fueled by depression and depressing to read.  But it was absolutely reality.  So I'll give you an concise history of my depression.

Age 14, diagnosed with and medicated for severe anxiety.  Felt like a zombie on medication and constantly conveniently forgot to take it.

Ages 15/16, lose best friend to stupid boy (yeah, I know.) and grandfather dies, dip into severe low phase and am officially diagnosed with the d-word.  Prescription dosage upped, constantly reminded to take meds.  Begin seeing a therapist weekly.

Age 17, break a boy's heart and my own, go on a roller coaster of high and low phases, still forgetting to take medication.  Still seeing a therapist weekly.

Ages 18/19/20, enter college, decide my life is awesome, completely stop taking medication and attending therapy, probably convince people I'm certifiable with my mood swings.  

Ages 21/22, senior year of college, stress over future, experience death of a dear friend, two grandfathers, and an uncle.  Fail at getting grown up job after graduation.  Get totally heartbroken and enter the absolute worst low phase of my life.  Back in the therapist's office, back on daily medication and a hardcore pill for "really sad days."

Age 23, begin teaching middle school in a poorly performing school and anxiety skyrockets.  

Age 24, move to Texas, fiance's job takes him out of state, severe loneliness and depression creeps in.

Present, dealing with a lot of what my therapist called "situational depression."  I have more good days than bad days.  Only take a fast-acting anti-anxiety medication when needed for panic and anxiety.

I've never shared all that, even the concise version, with anyone.  It's surprisingly exhilarating to get it all out there.  I guess the reason I've never shared it is because I've never really felt like I could accurately describe depression and what it is and does to me.  But a college friend of mine recently crept into my head and hammered out exactly what happens on a fairly regular basis.  So I've shared it below.

---

Let's talk about depression, y'all.

You know that voice that sometimes pops up in your head when something goes wrong? The one that says "you fucked up" or "shouldn't have said that" or "maybe I should have handled that differently"?

Imagine that that voice doesn't just pop up when you actually mess something up.

Imagine that it is always there. Always. When you sleep and when you dream, while you wake and work, while you drink and eat and spend time with your loved ones. Imagine that you try to drown it out but it is always there, a drumbeat against the movement of your mind. Imagine that even in your happiest times, even when the music of life is at its sweetest - you hear it. Pounding pounding and drilling into the heart of you.

Sometimes it quiets for a while. Sometimes you can forget it, at least for a time, because life is lovely and in this moment with these people you are happy. But then the party ends, and we all go home; but the drumbeat stays. You know it will always be there. You know you'll wake up the next morning and it will thrum in your mind. You know that it will be there with you until the end. It is closer to you than a wife, a husband, a friend. It knows your weaknesses, it feeds on them. It chips away at your strengths until you can't tell that they're worth anything anymore. Imagine that the first voice you hear in the morning and the last voice you hear before you sleep are not the sweet tones of your loved ones, but the ruthless voice of an inquisitor. Questioning, judging, hating everything you've done, everything you are. And you've heard it for so long that, even though you know that YOU don't think these things, something inside you does. And it is strong and loud and implacable, and it will never, ever, leave you in peace.

Now imagine that there are times when that voice gets even stronger. You can't control it, you can't predict it. It is a storm out of a cloudless sky. But all of a sudden, your food tastes like ash and your friends speak all and say nothing, and always, ever, you hear that drumbeat. Thudding against your skull, pounding you until you have to drink or smoke or sleep to silence it. And even when it's quieted, you know it will return.

It will ALWAYS return. You will bear that hateful weight until the day you die. Something broke inside you long ago, and this is the price you pay. And you'll plead and cajole and pray to God or gods or devils, but the drumbeat is stronger than them all.

You'll blame others, or blame yourself. Neither will do you any good. Neither will it silence the demon that sings you into destruction. In all likelihood, it will only make it stronger.

Now imagine that this is your life. Every day. Every hour. At your highest points and your lowest - even if you sing another tune, you will still answer to the drums. And their song is Doom Doom Death and Ruin.

And imagine that you know there is no cure. Nothing will fix this. No medicine, no doctor, no therapy, no God, can fix what has been broken deep deep inside. So deep you don't even know what the wound was to begin with.

And imagine that you know there is no way out.

That is depression.

He goes on to respond to some comments left by readers:

Thanks guys. It's weird to see people talking about in public. Kinda heartening though.

I do want to make one postscript to the thing. My ending came off pessimistic, and to a certain extent that's fine, because there isn't a cure

But counseling, therapy, medications, give you tools to MANAGE depression. Won't cure you, won't fix you. But you will learn how to recognize when you're in a depressive phase, and you will get tools to manage it.

I know it's some silly ass GI Joe advice, but knowing is half the battle.

So if you even have a suspicion that you're dealing with depression, go talk to somebody and figure that shit out. If you're fighting a trench war against your own mind, it's not weak to call for reinforcements. It's the SMART thing to do.

And if you're suffering from depression, then I say don't you dare give up.

Don't you fucking DARE. 

(Thanks, Brendan Carrell, for being a part of the conversation.)

I've learned in my decade of dealing with my depression that really all you can do is deal with it.  I've been medicated and head-shrunk and prayed for.  And I'm sure that each of those has helped at one point of another.  But there is no cure.  Depression is an invisible disease, and unfortunately, it is often a silent one.    

When a tragedy occurs, like school shootings, mental illness is quickly blamed, and possibly rightfully so.  We recognize the problem.  But we don't talk about it.  We blame it for evil acts, but we don't contemplate what our society can do to remedy the mental illness epidemic sweeping across our country.  An estimated one in five American suffers from some mental illness.  Twenty percent of our country is in pain and we're shaming them for it!  We're sneering at them and blaming them for horrible tragedies instead of extending a hand and asking what we can do to help.

With the recent suicide of Robin Williams, I've seen lots of people calling for the depression discussion.  We need to start talking about it.  We need to normalize depression, discuss it, support the sufferers, encourage treatment, and most importantly, make treatment readily available.  

I shouldn't have to pay exuberant fees for therapy sessions because they're considered elective.     Veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder shouldn't have to wait years for government assistance with therapy costs.  Mental health screenings should be part of basic health care.  Therapy should be considered basic health care.  PTSD suffers shouldn't be near the bottom of a list of patients to treat.  

Most importantly, those suffering with mental illness shouldn't be shamed.  It shouldn't take the tragic suicide of one of the most beloved men in America for us to reach out to the vast community of mental illness sufferers.  Let's start talking. 

MWF Seeking Friends

According to various sources on the Internet, Ernest Hemingway once said, "Write drunk, edit sober."

I don't really know what he'd say about writing sad, but I think being drunk and being sad typically end with the same result: truth.  (And honestly, after these two fingers of whiskey, I may be closer to drunk than sad at the end of this blog post.  I also have little plan to edit it, so there ya go.)

At the beginning of May, I wrote about being a stayer who was not where she wanted to stay.  I'm sad to report that not a whole lot has changed since then.

No middle school teaching job.  No new friends.

Matt and I did move into a fairly nice apartment.  And I did find a job teaching preschool.  And I turned twenty five.

Being twenty five has been kind of depressing, though.  Mainly because in the movies, twenty five years olds have it all figured out.  They're either raising adorable babies in beautifully decorated houses or they're wildly successful in a job they love.

I did all the right things, ya know.  I got married, but Matt and I aren't raising an adorable baby.  (That's a huge, emotional post for another time.)  And I went to college, wrote a thesis, graduated in four years, and did it all with really minimal student debt.  So where's my dream job?

I know there are lots of people who are twenty five and in the exact same boat.  I don't need the "you're not alone" pep talk.  I just need to not be alone in feeling this.  I need someone who also feels like they're sucking at being a grown up to be here in Austin with me. 

It would also be really super if someone could give me lessons on how to make friends.  Because really, what do married without children people (one who is a introvert, one who is an extrovert) do to make friends in a new city?  Are going to a bar or a really awkward Meet Up group the only options?

Movers, Stayers, and Lonely Hearts

I recently read an editorial on the concept of movers and stayers.  Stayers are the people who, for the most part, are satisfied with living in one region for very long stretches of time, be it their hometown, county, or state.  Stayers like the idea of a permanent residence to call home.  Movers never stay in one place too long.  A few months or years in a place and they're ready to move on.  They're travelers,  be it world or country or throughout their state.  Movers are a romanticized bunch.  I think all of us, whether mover or stayer, likes the idea of a new place, of adventures and new things.  But stayers like that idea as long as they come home after a little while.  Stayers like knowing where home is.

I know many movers.  A dear friend of mine left home at seventeen, spent a few years across the country, spent summers in Europe, did a short stint in Tennessee, and is headed to Dresden, Germany now.  She has always been brave.  Others in my life are similar.  They seem so carefree when it comes to their next home.  Home is whatever and wherever they want it to be.

As much as I would love to be a mover, someone who thrives on making new places home for a little while before moving on, I am a stayer.  I love traveling, but I love returning to the one place that feels like home even more.  I often feel jealous of movers, of how exciting their lives must be, of how easily they make friends in foreign places where they know no one.  I don't know how they do those things.  

I made my first big move far away from home last summer.  (I'd moved fifty miles away for college, but even then, I never quite felt like Natchitoches was home.). I've lived in Austin for nine months now.  For some movers, that's enough time to move somewhere, make friends, and move away again.  But I'm not a mover, remember, and in these nine months, I've not yet make Austin home.  I don't think I really know how to do that.

I hope that maybe Austin would feel like home when my husband and I were in our own apartment with all of our things.  (We're moving in a week.)  And it hope that finding a teaching job and being back in a middle school classroom will make this home.  And I'm hoping that making some friends will make this feel like home.

But the truth is, an apartment is just a box, just like the one we live in now.  And a job is just something to occupy my time.  And honestly, I'm not very good at making friends, I've discovered.  I don't know how to connect with people when we don't already have some commonality, like classes together or mutual friends.

When it boils down to it, Austin doesn't feel like home because I'm painfully lonely here.

A few years ago, after a nasty breakup, I decided that as long as you like yourself, you're never lonely.  I thought that, while you may be alone, enjoying your own company means you're never lonely.  I decided that, though, when I was surrounded by people who loved me. I lived with my parents and brother and spent most of my nights with my best friend, the man to whom I'm now married.

 I realize now that even if you love yourself, you are not enough company.  Extroverted people like myself thrive on the energy of others.  And I don't get that energy here.  I have a loving husbands who works an opposite schedule than me.  And I have two or three friends here.  But I'm missing my best friends and my family.  I'm missing the people whose presence alone energized me and made me feel good.  I am missing what made home in Louisiana feel like home.

Everyone in Alexandria wants to get out of there.  Every person there has a gripe to make or an opinion about why CenLa sucks.  I get that there aren't a whole lot of draws for young adults.  I understand that there is one bar that has a monopoly on decent places to drink.  I agree that there is one coffee shop worth frequenting even if you have to see someone you dislike there.  I fully agree that Alexandria is so small that your past constantly finds you.

But I don't feel like CenLa is home because of bars and coffee shops; if a choice of places for good beer and dark coffee was what comprised home, I would love Austin.  CenLa is home because I can drive it with my eyes closed, because I know where I'm going to lunch every Friday of Lent, because going to that one decent bar on a given night guarantees that I'll see a friend who has a seat for me, because I know the exact meal I'll order from Oriental Wok, because I can visit my old job and still feel welcome there, because someone will tell me how much I look like my mom or act like my dad and remind me that I come from strong roots deeply bedded in rich Louisiana soil.

I'm not a mover, but I have moved.  I'm a stayer who doesn't love the place she's staying.

Hearses Don't Have Luggage Racks

I married a man who is a self-proclaimed minimalist.  Packing Matt’s things takes no time.  He likes simple clothing and owns as little of it as I will allow.  He doesn’t like a lot of decoration, and the majority of what he owns is books.  Everything else just falls in the ‘have to have’ category.  If you take a quick look around our house, though, you’d never believe any of that.  That’s because Matt married me, a self-proclaimed maximalist.  I like things!  I like decorations and pretties and knickknacks.  And I love clothes and shoes.  And I own hundreds upon hundreds of books.  This week, I started to ask myself, “Why?”

I’ve spent the past few days trying to rationalize my habits, trying to, at least, understand why I like things and buying them so much so that, hopefully, I can break those habits.  Two years ago, I gave up shopping for excess goods for Lent.  I made a few exceptions; I would allow myself to purchase new work pants and a new comforter for my bed.  But guess what?  I went the whole forty days, feast days included, without buying anything frivolous.  No new work pants or comforter, even!

My motivation that year was a simple one found in the book of Matthew, chapter six.  “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal.  But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in our steal, for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

Lent 2012 showed me that yes, I could break that habit.  But when Lent ended, I slowly picked it back up.  Shopping, even just walking around a store and looking (But lets be honest, it was a rare day when I left without purchasing something.), has always comforted me.  I know now that it was, of course, only a temporary mood lifter.  I think my consumerism came to a head last fall.  Matthew and I had just moved to Austin, and within a month, he was working in Tulsa, which left me home alone in Austin with no job, no friends, and a fixed income.  Also, I had a new home with my soon-to-be husband that I really wanted to decorate and an embarrassment that all of my Louisiana clothes didn’t allow me to fit in to the hip Austin scene.  (I know, am I in junior high again?)  Despite my fixed income (I had saved a lot over the past year living with my parents), I managed to do a good bit of shopping.  And by a good bit, I mean way too much.

So money got tighter the closer we got to the wedding and Christmas, and for a while, I was genuinely worried about making ends meet.  Fast forward a few months, I’m in a long-term sub position that ends in a few weeks and looking for a full-time teaching position next fall and something to pay the bills this summer.  I keep looking around our house, full of all the things that I’ve amassed (some I love, most I just sort of like), and I want to kick myself for all the money I feel like I wasted on all the stuff that we could have easily done without.

Enter Jules at Pancakes and French Fries.  Via a serious of links that started as a search for kitchen organization on Pinterest, I stumbled upon Jules’ blog post from September 2011, Unstyled Life, in which she discusses the sobering effect of going through the belongings of a recently deceased loved one, analyzing the life of people we love based on all the things they left behind.  Immediately, I began to ask myself, what would my life look like based on the boxes of things I leave behind when I die?  What will my husband or family think when I am not there to explain why I have four pairs of Converse tennis shoes that I haven’t worn in months or years?  What does my accumulation of things say about my life on earth?  “Old tubes of mascara.  Eyeshadows.   Almost empty bottles of aspirin.  Expired lotions.  Moth eaten sweaters.  Uncomfortable sofas.  Bills, paid and unpaid.  Unread book.  Shirts that don’t fit, are no longer in style, or you never really liked.  Someone will one day run their hands over your possessions and make an assumption you won’t be there to refute.”  It was like Jules had looked into my life.

I want my accumulation of things to speak the truth of me.  I want it to proclaim my love of God, my husband, my family, and my friends.  I want my boxed life to reflect my desire to help others and lesson their burdens.  I want my boxed life to reflect a life I was proud to have lived.

My boxed life, right now, doesn’t reflect that.  And when that incredibly humbling statement dawned on me, I knew I needed a change.

Jules seems to have made a similar assertion of her life.  And she did something about it.  She started the William Morris Project, named for Mr. Morris’ thought on design, “Do not have anything in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.”  She collected a list of things about her home that did not fall into Mr. Morris’ philosophy, and she began a thirty-one day challenge to do something about those things.

It is an understatement to say that I was inspired.  I began to craft my own list of things to alter.  But I got a bit discouraged.  I knew that I wouldn’t have the time to do one project a day, not when some of my projects were large and I worked and tutored.  Our upcoming move also seemed daunting.  How was I supposed to better organize my shoes when I didn’t know what my future closet would hold?  And then I realized I was just looking for an excuse.

The Butler Family William Morris Project:

-purge and organize photographs
-purge and paint picture frames to be either white, silver, or black
-purge and organize the bathroom and beauty supplies
-purge living room décor
-purge shoes and research new shoe storage for new house
-implement new shoe storage after move
-organize top short dresser drawer
-purge and organize socks (no kidding, this is one of my biggest issues)
-create and implement family file system
-create and implement mail system with ‘action’ and ‘file’ sections
-create coupon system
-purge my closet
-create receipt box
-purge kitchen utensils after move
-print, hang, and organize in albums engagement, bridal, and wedding photos

When Marriage Isn't What You Expected

A few nights ago, I dreamed that I had coffee with the members of my favorite band from high school.  And it was totally normal behavior in my dream, like it really was common for me to just casually hang out with them.  This leads me to believe that in my dream, I had a slightly more mature grasp of what it means to be "totally in love" with someone than I did when I met this band as a seventeen year old girl and planted a completely inappropriate kiss on a famous man I did not remotely know.

When I was in high school, I was "totally in love" with various members of various bands.  Most of those members were rock stars covered in tattoos who probably more than dabbled in hardcore drugs.  Not to mention they were totally out of my realm of reality.

But in high school, when I fantasized about being married to one of those musicians (It didn't matter who; they were basically interchangeable), I wasn't exactly living in reality.  Anyway, my rockstar husband planned and took me on beautiful vacations.  He brought home flowers regularly for no other reason than that he was just completely smitten with me.  He wrote me songs and letters and left really romantic voicemail for me.  He drove a really big truck or a really loud motorcycle.  He wore tight pants and eyeliner and had a haircut and color that my parents probably did not approve of.  In fact, my parents probably didn't approve of him in general.  Now, before you think I should have been committed, I did have some inkling of a clue about real life, and I expected that if I didn't marry a rockstar, I would at least marry a guy with some rock star qualities.

If you know my actual husband, you know that he is not that guy.

I didn't expect to marry a man who drove a 4-door sedan because it's economical.

I didn't expect to marry a man who has beautiful curly hair and insists on wearing it trimmed neatly because it looks professional.

I didn't expect to marry a man who agreed to my dream wedding inside of a church where he is not a member.

I didn't expect to marry a man who only buys flowers on special occasions but shows me he loves me in thousands of other ways.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would light the candles on my brother's seventh birthday cake because he loves my brother like he were his own brother.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would work seventy hours a week at a job that isn't glamorous just to give me the life he thinks I deserve.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would agree to adopting a cat when he didn't want a pet to begin with just because I get lonely when he's gone.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would change that same cat's litter without complaining about it.

I didn't expect to marry a man who has dinner and Frozen ready to eat and watch when I get home after a really hard week of work and tutoring, even though that man was equally exhausted from his week and didn't really want to see Frozen.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would give me endless back massages instead of just buying me a trip to the spa.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would attempt to bake something for the first time in his life just because I love red velvet cupcakes.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would constantly pick up my shoes that I tend to leave everywhere.

I didn't expect to marry a man who cannot pull off skinny jeans but wears a dress shirt and bow tie better than anyone I know.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would enjoy attending Mass at a church where he cannot fully participate.

I didn't expect to marry a man who only wears eyeliner when acting in plays.

I didn't expect to marry a man who had interest in theatre!

I didn't expect to marry a man who would enjoy talking politics but would refrain from antagonizing my Republican family.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would refuse to write me songs but would sing me really corny pop songs loudly while we're in the car.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would write me a love letter that would bring me to tears moments before I walked down the aisle to marry him.

I didn't expect to marry a man like Matt.  He isn't a rock star.  He doesn't have a lot of rock star characteristics, though he can belt some N*Sync like you wouldn't believe.  My husband is not what I expect.  He is far more than I could have ever fantasized.

There's some of those guys I thought I might marry.

And there's the guy I actually did marry.  Isn't he gorgeous?  

The Worst Compliment Ever

I’ve always been the chubby girl, and several people throughout my life have had no problem reminding me of that.  It was mainly in elementary through high school (which, in retrospect, was a long time to be reminded that you’re imperfect by world standards), and I think that at some point most people mature enough to see that, while physical appearance may still be a major aspect of their own lives, being couth is a lot more socially appreciated.  Most adults (at least the decent ones) won’t flat-out call someone ‘fat.’

Living seven hours away from most of my friends and family means that I don’t see them all that often.  But when I do, sometimes one will comment that I’ve lost weight.  Now, I probably have lost weight.  Since Matt and I are on a limited budget, I cook most of our meals, and I try to create healthy, veggie-filled dishes that give us lots of nutrients and still fill up my husband’s bottomless pit of a stomach.  But losing some weight has not been the most exciting thing that has happened to me since that person saw me last.  I’ve moved to a new state, started a new job, and gotten married.  Those are all more exciting than shedding a few pounds.  So while no one has called me fat, my own personal body weight has still been made into someone else’s business.  I am still being judged, categorized, and recognized by the size of my jeans.  I recognize that most mean ‘You’ve lost weight!’ as a compliment, but it’s probably the worst compliment ever.  Because it sets one's worth as a number.

I’ve heard, what feels like, every possible reasoning as to why someone else’s weight is anyone else’s business, from good Samaritanism to the cost of healthcare.  Rationalizing it only further identifies people by a number, the one in their pants or on their scale.  We are humans, though, not numbers.  We are not numbers in the eyes of God; He didn’t assign us a number at our creation and keep a spreadsheet of how we’re doing.  He knows us all by name, by accomplishment, by struggle, and by effort.   I firmly believe that the things I have accomplished are worth more than my rising or falling pants size.  I believe that entering into the covenant of marriage, exploring my new city, and furthering my career are far more interesting talking points than whether or not I’ve lost weight.   I believe that God is more concerned with my desire to better love Him and His creations than my weight.

J.K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series, said once, "‘Fat’ is usually the first insult a girl throws at another girl when she wants to hurt her.  I mean, is ‘fat’ really the worst thing a human being can be? Is ‘fat’ worse than ‘vindictive’, ‘jealous’, ‘shallow’, ‘vain’, ‘boring’ or ‘cruel’?... I’ve got two daughters who will have to make their way in this skinny-obsessed world, and it worries me, because I don’t want them to be empty-headed, self-obsessed, emaciated clones; I’d rather they were independent, interesting, idealistic, kind, opinionated, original, funny – a thousand things, before ‘thin’. And frankly, I’d rather they didn’t give a gust of stinking chihuahua flatulence whether the woman standing next to them has fleshier knees than they do. Let my girls be Hermiones, rather than Pansy Parkinsons."

If you’ve read the series (or seen the movies), you’ll recognize Hermione as the sharp-as-a-tack, resourceful, brilliant, caring witch who advocated for better treatment of house elves, fought in numerous battles, and saved Harry’s and Ron’s skins more than a few times. While Pansy Parkinson was an all-around bully, constantly teasing others and reveling in their sorrows.   She goes so far as to laugh at the memory of the late Cedric Diggory and to suggest handing Harry Potter over to Lord Voldemort for certain death.  It doesn’t take much thought to rationally conclude that we should all want our daughters and ourselves to be more like Hermione.

No one comments about Hermione’s weight or hair or complexion.  No one cares that she’s a bit of a frizz ball; people care that she stood up to evil.  And I seriously doubt that Hermione ever spewed the compliment, ‘You’ve lost weight!’