Homelessness?

In two weeks, it's a very real possibility that I will be homeless. That's right. On. the. streets.

Okay, I'm exaggerating. I'm not actually afraid that I'll be tossed to the curb with all of my belongings, but I am afraid that the move I was supposed to make will not come to fruition. I'm frustrated. I want to be at home somewhere. I want to stop this game of musical apartments and settle in somewhere for a while. I'm tired of packing, loading, heaving dressers up long staircases. On the other side of my adventure-driven nature is a big fat homebody who just wants to settle somewhere and make a nice little life for myself.

I almost think it makes more sense for me to live alone, though I've been the poster advocate for roommates. I think it vitally important to be in relationship. But, as far as living goes... maybe it is time for me to stake claim of my own space for once. I could decorate just the way I fancy. I could invite friends over whenever I want. I could walk around in my underwear, mouthful with retainer. What bliss!

Sigh. I just don't know. I don't want to punk out on friends and let anyone down, but I'm ready to feel like I can stay put for awhile.

City Love

I sincerely do. I didn't buy the t-shirt, because, c'mon, that's lame. But, I do love it. After my first real visit, I can truly say that I am a fan. The last time I graced the Big Apple with my presence, I was three. I was taken into the city for the night by my grandparents who lived in New Jersey at the time. Though I don't much remember, I was told that we went to Radio City Music Hall, where I fell asleep during the Rockette kickline--something I had been anticipating all night. I've never been allowed to forget what an expensive nap that was.

This go round, I was awake alright. A friend and I went for a long weekend, though it was not near loooong enough as I would have liked. Arthur, an aged New York native kicked off our visit with a boat tour of the harbor. Arthur was convinced that we wouldn't want to take in too much historical information about the city because it was late in the evening. He said, people don't really retain history past dusk. I wish I'd had the guts to playfully take Arthur by the collar and tell him I didn't traverse hundreds of miles for a joy ride. Of course I didn't.

The next 72 hours were spent traversing the city by foot. Next time, I'm packing my moon shoes. We covered a lot of ground, saw a lot, experienced each diverse neighborhood. And with every borough, I found myself asking, "could I make a life here?"

Maybe my problem is that I'm forever unsatisfied... thinking the grass will be greener on the other side, or maybe I'd really like to entertain the idea of moving to the big city. Perhaps I'd be recharged by the life and culture of such a place. It's possible that I'd find my niche there. It is the mecca of journalism, after all. Not to mention Felicity lived and thrived there. Like her, I could become an employee of Dean and Deluca, spend my summertime evenings watching movies at Bryant Park, and riding the subways like a pro.

What if?

The Incredible Jerk

The picture above was taken of me at work today. It's become quite evident that as soon as I decide to be a more agreeable employee, to make more of an effort respect my co-workers and boss, I become that much more susceptible to losing it. Today, I took jerkiness to an all-time high. And the crazy thing is...I spent prayer time this morning concentrating on the very thing that I failed miserably to achieve. Am I a heretic to believe that I can possibly jinx my prayers? To think that in praying one thing, attention is called to my weakness, therefore increasing the chances that I will fall short. It happens again. And again. And again.

My work relationships are perpetually challenging- probably the most difficult thing on my plate at the moment. And, I know that through them, I am being taught a multitude of lessons, particularly about my sin and pride. It seems like the minute I acknowledge that I am being refined, my ugliness pokes its head out again. I just pray that I can be a gentle, even-tempered person. That I can really be "content with second place, quick to forgive and offense" (Colossians 3). These are the words that I began my day with, entering the workplace with hopes that I could and would spend less energy being against things. I read something that said the less time we spend in conflict, the more time and energy we have to invest in our creative growth.

With every fiber of my being, I know these things. I know that the Lord is removing my impurities, refining me with fire. But, I have never in my life been around people that challenge me to implement my faith in e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g the way I feel so incapable of doing now.

Closet Crisis

Power suit = bleh.

Lately, everytime I go shopping, I have a mini identity crisis. I find myself going to my favorite stores, trying on derivatives of outfits I already have. I look in the mirror and admire, only to realize that the reason I like what I see is that it's reminiscent of what I walked into the store wearing. Take for instance my magnetic obsession with stripes. Will I ever tire of them? I don't see how I possibly could.

I'm afraid that I'm soon going to become fodder for a show like What Not to Wear. Friends are going to have to stage an intervention to shake me out of my habitual wrinkly dress wearing. My family is going to have to step between me and my plaid shirts and, on national television, get me to see that I have a problem. I'm stuck in the clothes of my college years.

I can see how it happens, too. The woman who still sports 80s bangs is just in a rut. She's a creature of habit, and she sticks to what she knows, rather than branching out to keep up with the latest swoop-bang trends. I don't blame her. I feel the same way about my hairstyle.

My most recent crisis arose when I was looking for an outfit to wear to an upcoming party that we're hosting at work. While my job title sounds a lot fancier than it is, there is, nonetheless, incredible pressure to dress the part.

And so I bought a skirt that is totally not me. When I put it on, I almost didn't recognize my image. I was neither crumpled, nor faded. I looked in the mirror to find a young woman who was pressed and poised. I looked like.... an adult.

Call me a Toys R Us, kid, but the heart of the matter is that I don't want to grow up.

I think therefore I am.

I found this on Post Secret about a month ago, and it has been my desktop background ever since, not out of arrogance, but springing from a genuine hope that I will soon be content with the person that I'm turning out to be. As I've aged, I've become increasingly aware of my own sin and insecurity. Though "comparison is the one-eyed, bearded thief of joy," I have oft sized myself up against other more creative, talented, driven people. I envy them for their passion and their interesting hobbies. I covet others for their courage, their confidence, their social ease. I find myself just wishing that I had something -ANYTHING-that would give me more depth, that would guarantee that I will never be described as boring. My continual peace comes Scripture and from these words spoken by Jim Miller, one of the big daddy's of Young Life. He said, "One cannot be boring who is alive in Christ." And on this, I have to stand.

"My dear children, let's not just talk about love; let's practice real love. This is the only way we'll know we're living truly, living in God's reality. It's also the way to shut down debilitating self-criticism, even when there is something to it. For God is greater than our worried hearts and knows more about us than we do ourselves." 1 John 3:18-20 (the msg, emphasis mine)