Delightful Barry

There is nothing in this world that makes me more uncomfortable than pulling up beside a homeless man standing at an intersection with a cardboard sign. Not because I'm nervous about what he'll do, but because I simply feel awkward and...helpless. Helpless because as much as I want to help this man, I know that my handful of odd change truly won't make a difference in his life.

So I tend to get flustered. Do I busy myself with my cell phone in an attempt to ignore him and therefore feel like a bitch? Or do I stare out at him from the comfort of my car like he's an intriguing museum exhibit? Neither option feels right.

This constant dilemma causes 90 seconds of red light to feel like eternity.

But as trite as it may be, to every rule there is an exception, and my exception is Barry.

Barry is an older black man who roams a three-block area near my office building. With a single glance, it's apparent that he's suffering from some kind of mental illness. All day long, he lopes up and down the sidewalk and grins like he hasn't a care in the world. But he doesn't just stop there.

I haven't figured out how he does it, but every few days, Barry has a new prop. One day he'll be dancing on the corner wearing a motocross helmet, the next he'll be happily sqweeging people's windshields while they're stopped at red lights. I've seen him wear a cut-open rubber chicken, an old-fashioned bowler hat and rubber gloves with a surgeon's cap. (I'm still waiting to see a lampshade...)

Because I pass his intersection several times in a day, Barry now recognizes me. Most of the time, if I'm stopped at the light, he'll tap on my window and wave enthusiastically to me. His genuine, smiling face can truly make my day.

Barry delights me. Despite his hard circumstances, his upbeat attitude never seems to waiver. To Barry, the world is a party and he obviously sees himself as the life of it.

Barry makes me feel both blessed...and ungrateful for my blessings. No matter what petty worry is on my mind—credit card bills, work stuff, relationship problems—it takes a single smile from Barry to snap me back to reality. Strange to say, but I honestly wish I was more like him.

Minus the rubber chicken hat.

Pops Rocks

Last night, I called my dad to vent about adult responsibilities (read: car maintenance) when we somehow got on the topic of youthful tomfoolery. And he started telling stories.

When my dad was my age, he played in a popular local band with none other than Dennis Haskins of Mr. Belding fame. (It's true. I've seen the pictures of Mr. Belding sporting bellbottoms and hair.)

Their band apparently had quite the cult following and they therefore "had an easy time with the ladies" (I didn't ask for specifics). Since the band members lived together, the party usually moved to their place after the shows ended and the bars closed.

Sometimes they'd legitimately be tired and want the groupie roadwhores to just go home. So instead of being upfront and simply asking the ladies to leave, they came up with hilarious schemes to discourage any more partying. My personal favorites are 1) drooling beer out of their mouths and then pretending to seize, 2) dumping buckets of water into the toilet while making horrible vomiting noises and 3) setting off the fire alarm.

No wonder I've been a troublemaker since day one. It's in my blood.

Balancing Act

The thing I’ve struggled most with in my twenties is faith.

There. It’s been said.

I realize that while religion isn’t exactly the coolest thing to blog about, it’s probably the most controversial. Honestly, I respect whatever your feelings and opinions are on the topic. Maybe you have the fire of the Lord in your soul and want to tell the world. Or maybe you think the Bible is an out-of-date book that fits better in a library than your lifestyle.

I personally fall somewhere in between.

Since as far back as I can remember, I’ve balked at religion. I was the "bad girl" with skinned knees who talked too much and laughed too loud during boring Sunday School lessons. I snuck random things (hair clips, artistic doodles, etc.) into the offering plate and made faces at friends when we were supposed to be praying. I loved asking teachers impossible questions I knew would make them flustered. (How do we know the Bible really is the word of God? And if God really created the world in seven days like it says, why do we have dinosaur bones?)

Truthfully, despite growing older, I haven't gotten a lot better. (See: perfect example.)

In it's simplest form, most religion spouts that in order to achieve an idyllic afterlife, our worldly lives must be lived piously and according to specific guidelines. Yet youth tends to laugh in the face of authority, whether from worldly parents or a heavenly God. When you’re young, life is intoxicating. It fills you up so completely that you can barely fathom a future where excitement isn’t enough. Your life revolves around new experiences and instant gratification. Life isn’t meant to be lived by rules; it’s meant to be explored—boundaries pushed, limits tested, self discoveries made.

Needless to say, I am NOT a religious person...I never have been and probably never will be. But as I've gotten older, my faith has become increasingly important to me. Yet my mid-twenties oftentimes causes my faith to be an elusive thing. Right now, life is wonderful. It's invigorating and exciting and it makes me feel invincible. As a result, my faith sometimes falls to the backburner...yet even when dim, it's always there.

Honestly, young people who are uber religious tend to scare me. (You know the ones. The kids who stay in and do Bible journals on Friday night when the rest of their peer group is playing beer pong.) I'm not saying it's wrong, just...odd.

I think there should be a healthy balance. Your twenties should be raucous and thrilling. You should be a little selfish and make a few mistakes. You should question things, including your religion.

In short, my faith serves as a guide on respecting myself and respecting others. It's always there to buoy my spirit when I stumble and lose myself. But will I still occasionally be found beer in hand, dancing on stage somewhere on Broadway? All signs point to yes.

Singleitis, Part II

Marrieds setting up non-marrieds is a never-ending cycle of awkwardness. I swear.

Last week I received a random email from a friend of my aunt (different friend, different aunt) saying that she works with a guy who she thinks would be great for me and wondered if I'd be interested in meeting him.

Sigh.

I knew she was just trying to be nice so I hesitantly told her that I wasn't completely opposed to the idea...but that if it was awful, she'd owe me.

The next thing I know, she's copied us both on an email saying, "Rachel...meet Clint. Clint...meet Rachel. Happy chatting!"

Fuck.

Luckily, we both seem to have good senses of humor because our subsequent emails to each other joked about where our situation would fall on a scale of 1-10 on the awkward meter and whether it's better to be a pro-wrestling fan or a Pacman Jones fan. (Thoughts?)

The most recent email I received was a request to actually meet in person. Which is a whole different ballgame...possibly a whole different sport. All I know about this Clint person is that he's tall, blonde, does triathlons and (based on his emails alone) is intelligent and quite witty.

But he could be a train wreck in person...

I'm leaning towards meeting him. Maybe for drinks after work (strategically planned because if it goes well, we can stay for dinner...but if it's horrible, I can beg off early to do laundry or some such mess).

And looking on the bright side, if it is a train wreck, I'll have a fantastically awkward story for the history books.

The Early Bird Gets Firm

Let me start off by saying that I am not a morning person. At all. My alarm is often proceeded by cursing and thumping of pillows. If there were such a thing as sleep competitions, I'd be a world champion.

But (woe is me) my evenings have gotten so chock full o’ social activity that my options have been whittled down to 1) work out early or 2) get fat. And considering that I lean more towards "vain" than "lazy" on the personality barometer, option #2 really isn't an option at all. Therefore, I’m revving the treadmill before the sun is up at least three days a week.

The first two weeks of my lofty early morning exercise regime were hell. My alarm would go off and I’d honestly decide I’d rather be dead than dragging myself out of bed. The drive to the gym and the first few minutes spent there weren’t much better.

But now that I’ve surpassed a month of sweating my ass off pre-sunrise, I’m actually starting to enjoy it. Especially the peaceful drive to the gym on silent, deserted roads.

The morning gym is a completely different place than the evening gym. The people who work out in the morning gym are no-nonsense, get in, get your shit done and get out types of people. They don’t wear cutesy matching spandex outfits and parade around the weight room like it’s a runway. They don’t spend half their time flexing in the mirror and talking to their buddies about supplements. They don’t force me to overhear their inane cryptic letterspeak conversations (OMG! WTF?!) as their grossly exaggerated implants heave in indignation.

Every once in awhile, the early morning non-gym-bullshitters are infiltrated by what I like to refer to as the “The Vains” (who stick out like Dennis Rodman at the Alabama State Fair).

This morning, the presence of a platinum-haired lady in FULL makeup caused me to snicker. There she was, amongst the serious exercisers, wearing lip liner. Lip liner! I mean, come on lady. The gig is up. We KNOW that you must’ve gotten up even earlier than necessary to apply a layer of thick makeup that’s just going to run down your face and cause stains on the public towels that we’re all forced to use.

I may be vain in the sense that I’ll sacrifice precious sleep for a toned body, but thank GOD I’m not insecure to the point of caring what I look like in a state of extreme sweat. The world already has one Workout Barbie. It doesn’t need another.

Sooie!

Sunday night I braved the Wilson County Fair. (I use the term “braved” very loosely because who am I kidding? I live for the kind of kitschy redneck experiences county fairs offer...)

I sadly grew up in a city that didn’t have fairs so they are a relative novelty. Despite my mature(ish) age, I relate to the bevy of sticky 8-year-olds whose faces light up as they skip through the colorful gates.

The entire fair experience is almost seizure inducing. The sights and smells are garish, yet awe-inspiring all the same.

Within the four-hour time span we spent strolling the fairgrounds, I watched people make fools of themselves under “hypnosis”, cheered for the 4-H kids showing their prize pigs, bought a foot-long corn dog from a midget, counted 17 pairs of jorts (jean shorts…“jorts”), rode two very intense rides and got headbutted by a camel at the petting zoo.

But the most classic fair moment of all happened during the pig race at the “Hogway Speedway”. As they were all coming around the second turn, two of the pigs stopped mid-race and started humping. They were honest to God going at it hardcore with a hundred plus kids watching in complete shock. To the point that the track operator had to step in and pull the frisky lovebirds apart for the race to continue.

I swear I laughed for ten solid minutes.

I know, I know…8th grade called. It wants it’s sense of humor back.

Pervy Purvis

A friend recently sent me a link to an online sexual predator database that magically generates every registered offender who lives in your area.

With a little trepidation, I typed in my address and held my breath as the page loaded. I half expected a little red flag to appear on top of MY house as the friendly, animated representation of my creepo landlord/neighbor. Thankfully, my house was clear (I guess the hiring of hookers and attendance at swingers parties doesn't quite qualify you for this particular website's elite).

With my immediate worries relieved, I commenced clicking on the colorful flags surrounding my neighborhood.

Now, I realize that sexual abuse is no laughing matter, but the sexual abusers' mugshots are pure comedic fodder. Seriously. These men are the singularly most strange-looking group of individuals I've ever laid eyes on.

I was happily clicking and snickering away when the mugshot of the man directly south of me stopped me dead in my tracks:


HOLY HELL. This guy is the ultimate poster child for sexual predators.

1) His god-given name is actually (and quite fittingly) Larry Purvis.
2) Did he intentionally make that face or is it what he looks like all of the time?
3) Why the fuck does he have a surgical mask dangling from one ear?

Although definitely disturbing, I have NEVER laughed so hard in my ENTIRE LIFE.

C-C-Changes

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Day Brightner

This email was waiting for me in my inbox this morning:

File under "random": I found your blog about Stella Mae. I've thought about being a big brother for a few weeks, but was worried it might quickly turn into a commitment rather than something I looked forward to doing. I just want you to know that your honesty and openness sealed the deal, and now I feel guilty for not getting on the ball sooner. So thanks.

It's kind of nice to feel like a positive influence.

Rocked

Yesterday a very lucky friend won tickets on the radio for the Augustana/O.A.R. concert at the Ryman. Because he's awesome (or maybe because I am...wink, wink), he invited me to go with him.

All in all, the show was fantastic. Both bands are amazing live and put on great performances. But I came away from the evening with a few observations...

1) Three out of the five Augustana band members wore ridiculously skinny jeans and severely v-necked (women's?) shirts:

I'm sorry, this isn't a good look for ANY man, but especially not for an under-developed "rocker" who spent his formative years playing guitar in a dark basement.

Dude, please keep your bird chest to yourself and your groupies. Oh, and if your pants cause me to wonder if you have to tuck your junk behind you to zip them, you should probably go up a size. Just a suggestion.

2) With that being said, there really is something about a man rocking out on a musical instrument, standing in a pool of stage lights. Generally I gravitate towards the All-American kind of guy and am probably the last person to sleep with someone simply because they're famous...but when Jerry of O.A.R. played that sax with his rippling muscles... Whew.

3) I am old. Seriously OLD. I swear out of the 4,000 people there, my friend and I were one of maybe 25 adults who didn't need a fake ID to stand in the beer line.

The minute we walked into the place, I felt like I'd accidentally stumbled my way into a high school field trip. Little pubescent people ran through the auditorium, shouting to their friends about their summer vacation plans. You could almost smell the mixture of false self-importance and zit cream.

My old age truly hit home while standing in line for the bathroom and overhearing a peppy cheerleader type tell a slouchy rocker type, "I'm 15 and a HALF."

It took everything I had not to belly laugh. Mainly because I so clearly remember those long-ago days of enhancing your age in an effort to appear more mature. Like those extra six months make any real difference.

I suddenly realized that from here on out, I'll probably want to do just the opposite. Someday, I'll be one of those 56-year-old women who are "39 and holding" or other such bullshit. Never again will I pump up my age to impress a boy.

Although, the thought is actually quite funny. I think the next time someone asks my age, I'll smile sweetly and reply, "24 and three-quarters" just to see what happens.

Confession

I've been so busy this summer that my involvement in the Big Brothers/Big Sisters program started to become an afterthought. As horrible as it sounds, instead of actually looking forward to spending time with Stella Mae, she'd become just one more obligation to fit into my hectic schedule.

Although I love her dearly, Stella Mae can sometimes flat wear me out. She has more energy than I ever thought possible and likes to ask questions over and over and over--especially when it comes to buying her things. In the past few months, I'd begun feeling more like a glorified babysitter than a mentor actually making a difference in a child's life...

And then everything changed in an instant.

I promised Stella Mae a week ago that we'd hang out last night. Every single day leading up was met with calls and garbled text messages from her guardian's phone making sure we were still on for our "play date". (Needless to say, it became annoying.)

I picked her up promptly at 5:30 as promised (but not before she sent me three texts), and thought to myself that I'd have her home in a couple of hours and be off the hook for another few weeks (terrible, I know).

Because I didn't feel like doing much, we just headed to my house where we cooked dinner together and played with my dog in the backyard. Later that evening, while watching marathon episodes of Hannah Montana, Stella Mae asked if she could see my cell phone. I handed it to her and she promptly started snapping pictures of everything in the room.

After taking a picture of herself, she looked at it and proclaimed, "Dang! I look drunk!"

I sat stunned for a second and then asked her how she (at 9-years-old) even knew what "drunk" meant. She replied in the quietest voice possible, "My daddy gets that way a lot."

In that instant, my heart completely broke for her. I had no words to make things better so I simply scooped her into my arms. She nestled against me and we sat like that for awhile, as I mentally railed against the world's unfairness.

That night when I dropped her off, instead of bounding out of my car like she normally does, she sat quietly for a few moments before saying, "Rachel...you make my life seem good. You know?"

I cried the entire way home.

Those childlike words from a hardened 9-year-old made everything worth it. I know I'll never be able to replace an absent drunk father, but damnit if I'm not going to do my best to try.

Lucky One

On the rare occasions that I have shitty days or feel sorry for myself, writing is the only thing that truly grounds me. The simple act of recording my conscious stream of thought allows me to understand myself better than most.

Tonight was admittedly rough. I was completely disregarded by someone I cared about and the worse part was that everyone with us seemed to pick up on this, despite my attempts at cheerfulness. My smile was bright and my jokes were on target, but they somehow saw through my facade. I do realize that their insightfulness is a sign of true friendship and am grateful, but their well-meant hugs and whispered reassurances did nothing but make me feel small. So despite their protests, I received their last rounds of hugs and said my goodbyes. As I walked away, I simply felt...numb.

After unlocking my door and greeting my exuberant puppy with a mixture of love and relief, I suddenly felt drawn to my laptop. So I cued a favorite soulful artist on my iPod and sat down to a blinking cursor. I stared at the screen woodenly for a few minutes as indistinguishable thoughts and feelings poured through my mind. And then, as quickly as they arrived, everything settled and I was simply left with ME.

The freshly blank page provided nothing but clarity. Gone was the self-pity and self-doubt and in their place was simply the green-eyed girl who always sees silver linings in thunderclouds. The smart-aleck girl with the juvenile sense of humor who loves her friends to a fault. The girl with a soft spot for the neglected, but an (ironic) intolerance for the closed-minded. The girl who oftentimes speaks before she thinks, but still desires to make everyone feel included. The girl who unwaveringly knows that her respect and love are valuable and will therefore disappear the moment they are taken for granted.

So despite whatever is going on in my life, the ability to write causes me to feel blessed. It causes problems/worries/insecurities to fade into the background as I reintroduce myself to my true self. Somehow, that tiny blinking cursor manages to reach straight into my soul and reminds me that no matter what the circumstance, that green-eyed girl is going to not only prevail, but will more than likely throw her head back and laugh in the process.

Kindred Spirits

It seems that my appreciation for family grows with every year that passes.

I spent last week in the North Carolina mountains with 50 of my closest family members. This annual reunion is a tradition which has been in place since I was 8-years-old and is miraculously still going strong.

I loved the reunion as a child. My cousins and I made crafts, played hide and seek, teased each other mercilessly and basically had a bang up time. But in typical surly, pre-teen fashion, the family reunion spiraled out of my favor as soon as I hit the middle school social scene. The thought of missing a single glorious afternoon flirting with boys at the neighborhood pool to be forced to wear matching t-shirts for things like "potluck night" sent me into a prickly bitterness. My family was lame, my cousins were dorks and the world was completely and utterly unfair (of course).

But as I got older, my viewpoint shifted. The reunions slowly morphed from excruciating endeavors to tolerable obligations to enjoyable vacations.

I now look forward to my annual reunion with fervor—it's the only time all year that the people I love most in this world are gathered together in a single place.

This year was no exception. As I approached the familiar town limit sign, joy welled up to the point of almost bursting. The minute I parked my car and flew up the familiar steps, I felt completely at home. My favorite cousins were waiting and within minutes, we fell into our natural repartee as if a year’s time never separated us.

One afternoon, after laughing until gasping for breath, sprawled side-by-side across the floor of the “cousins’ house”, I looked around at the faces surrounding me and felt truly thankful. For the first time, it hit home that these amazing people were mine. I belonged to them and they to me.

They’d been there through my bout with scrunchies and bike shorts, my too-cool adolescent attitude and mean-spirited practical jokes. They’d seen me at my absolute worst and loved me anyway.

Despite our obvious differences, their faces and spirits somehow reflect my own. Within these unique individuals lies my home away from home. Within these unique individuals lies not only my identity, but absolute proof that I’m one of the luckiest girls in the world.

Despite still being made to wear matching reunion t-shirts at the age of 24.

SINtillating

This might be the most judgmental thing that has ever come out of my mouth, but I have to say it...

I've come to the conclusion that I'll automatically have nothing in common with the type of female who lists under the "Favorite Books" section of Facebook, Myspace, etc. any variation of, "I really only like magazines! Oh, and the Bible!"

Ugh. The old Cosmo/Bible combo irritates me beyond belief. It's so oxymoronic, it's almost laughable.

50 Ways to Please Your Man...and Jesus!

Get to Know His Erogenous Zones...and Eternal Salvation!

Now, don't get me wrong. I have nothing against having faith and being open about that faith. And I'm definitely not saying that you can't have a passion for both makeup and the Lord.

However, I DO have a problem with flaunting your faith in an effort to appear "good" or "deep". And that's just what those types of profile descriptions convey.

Call me crazy, I simply have a hard time believing that someone who can't bear to occasionally pick up a John Grisham or David Sedaris or even Jennifer Weiner is actually an avid reader of a monstrously thick book that was written thousands of years ago.

And I'm now done with my bitchiness. At least for the time being...

Oh, and for those gearing up to send bitter emails, I'll beat you to the punch. Matthew 7:1 has been dually noted.

Singleitis

If there's one thing worse than a blind date, it's a blind date that you're unaware you're being set up on.

One of my aunt's best friends lives in town and occasionally invites me over for dinner and cocktails with her family. Considering that a) they're amazing and b) they live down the street from Keith Urban and Nicole Kidman, their dinner invitations are rarely declined.

Monday night, I'd been invited for Tex-Mex and homemade margaritas and arrived promptly at 7:00. I knew that something was up when the very first thing Mary said when she answered the door was, "Oh good! You look cute!"

I arched an eyebrow and asked what she was up to, to which she responded, "Oh, nothing really. I just invited another friend for dinner. I think you'll like him!" I groaned and told her she'd owe me if I ended up having to babysit a train wreck.

My "date" for the evening arrived shortly thereafter and proved to be a 29-year-old investment banker who was cute, if not a tiny bit shy. Luckily I can talk to a fencepost so conversation flowed nicely...and I only caught him looking at my chest a total of three times.

But STILL. I'd arrived under the auspice of being fed a good meal and getting to lounge on the couch with Mary and a bottle(s) of wine to discuss work, men, books we were reading, places we wanted to travel, etc. NOT to make small talk about the house Mr. Banker Man just bought in Green Hills and what we both did for a living.

I don't know what it is about older married people, but most seem determined to "cure" everyone they know of the "singleness disease". Like we're all somehow wasting away without the presence of a significant other and they are our fairy godmothers, come to rescue us from a life of perpetual loneliness.

Christ. If I had to bet money, I'd say Mary probably gave him my phone number. Maybe (fingers crossed) he's smart enough to realize that since I didn't give it to him personally, he shouldn't call. But for the next week or so, a random number flashing across my cell phone screen might cause minor panic.

I Scream

I know this should be filed under "C" for "Crotchety", but I've just about had it with the friendly neighborhood ice cream vendor.

Firstly, why the HELL is there an ice cream truck tooting up and down Music Row in the first place? I can't imagine there are enough well-dressed professionals flying out of their offices clutching grimy dollar bills at the first sound of music to warrant it's presence. It needs to relocate to Brentwood or Belle Meade...or really anywhere other than here.

Secondly, whoever designed the damn thing must have been downright malicious. It plays the most excruciating track of carnival calliope music, punctuated by the occasional (demonic) little girl voice shouting, "HELLO!"

The first time I heard this, I thought it bizarre, yet amusing. But because it's returned every day since, I'm on the verge of doing something drastic.

Since I'm on the top floor of my office building, I have the unique advantage of a covert airborne attack. And believe me, I've thought of everything from homemade water balloons to borrowing my ten-year-old neighbor's paintball gun.

To be honest, at this point I'm not sure if I'll be able to sustain enough self-control to carry out a premeditated attack. I'm on the brink of just slamming my window open and screaming expletives at the offensive vehicle as it toots down the alley.

And just like that, the silly little childhood rhyme has a whole new meaning...

Dirty Laundry

I think the best part about growing up is recognizing change in yourself.

It's somehow both thrilling and grounding to experience random life moments that make you step back and observe just how different you've become.

I feel like I've been doing this a lot lately. It can happen during small moments such as a catch-up phone call from an old high school sweetheart or big moments like passing your two-year anniversary from college graduation.

To that end, I truly believe that a main life goal for every individual should not simply be to change, but to better oneself in the process. But it's hard. It's oftentimes much easier to adapt to your shortcomings and bad habits than it is to fix them.

A former shortcoming that I've struggled with is control. My parents divorced when I was young and all I've known is a single-parent household. My mom worked hellish hours and as a result, I had little choice but to grow up faster than my friends. I remember doing the laundry at the age of 9 and was cooking dinner by the age of 12. (But before you paint me as a poor Cinderella, I definitely played just as hard as the other kids in my neighborhood. I rarely missed marathon games of Capture the Flag and threw snowballs at cars with the best of them. I had as much fun, but simply more responsibilities than my carefree peers.) I assume that because my mom relied so heavily on me at times, it created in me a deep-seeded craving for perfectionism. For a while, I was all she had and I therefore felt I had to be The Perfect Daughter to compensate.

This perfectionist streak can at times be a positive thing. I tend to excel at whatever I put my mind to and rarely settle for less than the best in both myself and others. But when not kept in check, this need for control can, in turn, control me.

It ran rampant my very last semester of college. My entire life as I'd known it was changing and I felt lost. I felt like my big, scary grownup future was out of my hands and the only way to make myself feel better was to minutely control the comfortable (but fleeting) life I had. So I made perfect grades. And when I wasn't in class, I helped edit our alumni magazine and was a reporter for our campus TV station. I volunteered. I nannied for the cutest family ever. I headed up several campus organizations, including one that required I sometimes travel with the baseball team. I exercised religiously. I strived to be a true friend to my sorority sisters and a supportive, amazing girlfriend to an overwhelmed law student.

I tried to be everything to everybody and lost myself in the process. By the time graduation rolled around, I was exhausted. The day I walked in my cap and gown, I weighed less than 100 pounds. I had no hint of a disorder; it just proved impossible to eat enough to keep up with my hectic lifestyle.

Graduation came and went and I was left with mere shards of the "perfect" life I'd created for myself. College was over and it stung to realize that nothing I achieved there meant anything further than excellent resume material. I was jobless, homeless and directionless and for the first time in my life, I had to learn to let go and accept the unknown. It was either that, or drive myself slowly insane.

So I did. I woke up one morning and decided that life could be simpler and much more enjoyable if I adopted the attitude that everything eventually works out for the best. I won't lie, it's definitely been an uphill battle. But now that I'm finally reaching the peak, I look back and marvel on just how far I've come...on how much more I love myself now that I'm not taking her so seriously.

I still backpedal occasionally. Last night, my normal mature self slipped and I acted embarrassingly childish. I proved far less than perfect and as a result, I spent an hour and a half of my evening running at full speed on the treadmill. I didn't stop until my t-shirt dripped and my mind went blank.

The difference between now and college is that I can instantly recognize this kind of behavior for what it is before it takes over. The very moment I stepped off the treadmill, I laughed inwardly at myself. I knew in an instant that because I'd felt imperfect and lacked control, I exerted ultimate control over my body by pushing it to the limit. But in that moment, with both my heartbeat and Michael Jackson ringing in my ears, I chose to feel exhilarated rather than turbulent.

I see positive change in myself, which must mean I'm growing up. I can honestly say that I'm a better person today than I was two years ago as I fell unbelievably short of my superhuman goals. And I hope that two years from now, I can look back at this very post and recognize how much progress I've made to becoming the person I want to be.

It's taken awhile, but I've finally grasped that that person, that ideal girl, will never be perfect. She'll be warm and caring, generous and inclusive, good natured and laid back. But she'll still sometimes say the wrong things and laugh at inappropriate moments. She'll still be a messy eater and a sucker for a dare. She'll still be snarky and, at times, brutally honest.

And hell, if she just so happens to have fantastic legs due to frustrated miles logged on the treadmill as she learned to accept herself, that would be a major bonus.

Um...EW.

I'm not sure what it is about old men on vacation, but a little beach action tends to bring out the dirty in them.

Last night, the minors and I went to eat at a popular seafood restaurant right on the beach. The wait to get a table was an hour and a half so we decided to kill time at the outside bar and enjoy the sunset over illegally purchased drinks (a la me...don't tell). I politely asked the 45-year-old man sitting next to me if he could pass me a menu so we could look over the appetizer selection when he (no joke) wiggled his eyebrows and asked me how I'd repay him.

EH?! Did he actually expect I'd leap into his lap and suggest I service him in the bathroom to thank him for his immense kindness? Please.

Later on, as we were leaving the restaurant, a drunk man "bumped" full-frontal style into my cousin and looked her up and down before I elbowed him out of the way and said, "she's 18...and you're pathetic".

I realize that most of them are just having a little fun and are harmless, but it's still annoying. Especially if they have small children in tow while walking down the beach and they STILL wink at you in your bikini.

For whatever reason, it seems the go-to phrase for creepy old men is, "Hey Ladies" (with exaggerated eyebrow wiggle and/or fake "gun" cocking). But tonight, I discovered the ultimate comeback to such lechery...

While strolling through an open-air market after dinner, the minors and I (surprise, surprise) received the go-to "Hey Ladies" from a group of mafia crime boss look-a-likes. Rather than rolling my eyes and huffing off, I tossed sweetly over my shoulder, "Hey Daddies...or should I say Granddaddies?" And then I grinned.

The stunned (but slightly amused) looks on their faces were hysterical.

Funny how they spent the day at the beach and it wasn't until nightfall that they got royally burned...

Drama Mamas

For the first time in my life, I can solidly say that I wouldn’t go back to high school for anything.

Several months ago, my aunt asked if I would like to accompany my 18-year-old cousin and several of her friends for a week in Destin. Never one to turn down a beach trip, I agreed.

We arrived last night and within 10 minutes, it looked like Seventeen magazine vomited its contents all over our house—colorful swimsuit tops, makeup brushes and bottles of nail polish strung haphazardly throughout the rooms. Squeals and girlish laughter rang out as we claimed sleeping arrangements and marveled over our entire week of freedom.

After semi-unpacking, we ordered pizza and lounged on the porch for several hours, talking about boys (of course), college fears and catty cliques. When I wasn’t giving sought-after advice, I simply sat back and marveled.

The conversations ranged from “oh my god, I can’t believe he’s dating a sophomore” to “can you believe she actually wore that to prom”? They obsessed about whether they should call him if they hadn’t heard from him by Thursday and whether they’d fit in at their chosen colleges.

The main thing that struck me was their intensity…everything was either amazing or tragic, there wasn’t much in between. Looking back, I know I was the exact same way at their age—I truly felt like my world would stop if a certain boy didn’t call or if another girl wore my exact dress to a dance.

Being thrust back into such a juvenile viewpoint at the ripe old age of 24 has been eye-opening. It makes me feel silly to think I spent so much time obsessing over things that plain didn’t matter, for worrying so much about what other (less amazing) people thought of me.

Listening to their angst over trivial problems has made me incredibly grateful for my current age and wisdom. It took me awhile, but I’ve finally learned that it’s exhausting to stress about things over which you have no control. (If he doesn’t call by Thursday, fuck him…you’ll find someone who will. If another woman shows up in your dress, simply laugh and compliment her good taste.)

It’s now our second night at the beach and I’m already on drama overload. So after returning from a late dinner, I grabbed my laptop and a glass of wine and headed out in search of solitude.

I can hear their distant high-pitched chatter from my cozy lounge chair by our pool and it makes me smile. It makes me smile to think how absolutely carefree they are, to think of the amazing college adventures they each have in store, to think of their complete naivety as to how great life is after high school.

It makes me smile to think how much I once resembled them and just how much I’ve changed. It makes me smile to be able to feel completely and utterly content.

Parental Supervision Required

There's great benefit in having a nursing student for a roommate. Namely, she gives great advice on how to shorten a cold or can stitch up a gash from a veggie chopping accident while I'm passed out from the sight of my own blood.

But the best part of ALL is the fact that she works in a health clinic and has fantastic stories about the redneck patients she sees.

Most of the time, the stories are funny. Like the one about the large woman who wore jeans with two perfect-circle holes in the butt and had a boy in tow named DeWeese (bahaha). Or the one about the man who had to come in because he'd stuck one too many household objects up his poop hole.

But last night, she told me a story that's almost too horrifying to believe. I know this is going to make me sound 75, but what the hell is wrong with kids these days?!

Yesterday my roommate had to perform a pelvic exam on a 12-year-old girl because she'd been caught having both regular and anal sex in the bathroom at school.

(Yes, you read that right. When my roommate told me, I dropped my toothbrush and almost passed out and chipped my teeth on the sink.)

I know this is too much information, but when I was twelve, it was a BIG deal when the sluttiest girl in 7th grade went to second base...and that's just a little fondling.

Apparently, this sexually active preteen was both angry and scared to death of the exam. Um, hello? A little Q-tip swab is nothing in comparison to a penis in your butt. Ugh! It makes me want to shake her. In my opinion, a 12-year-old isn't mature enough to be dropped off at the mall, let alone having sex. What is she possibly thinking? And does this mean that MY kids will be having sex when they're five?

But here's the kicker. After my roommate gave her the whole spiel about abstinence, safe sex and birth control, the girl asked if birth control tablets come in CHEWABLES.

I may not be an expert, but I know that if you have a hard time swallowing a birth control pill (or want it in a fruity flavor), chances are you shouldn't be having sex. Period. End of discussion.

Now go to your room.