#168: On race-running and (not) being the best.

I have a hard time with being a cheesy Christian. With the idea of being cheesy while being a Christian. With being cheesy. With cheese. Basically I eat too much cheese and I decided to write about it. No. Just kidding. Well sort of.

And you wonder, dear Brenda, how can you eat so much cheese and not get a little chub chub? Oh, friends, you ask all the right questions. You see, I wear forgiving clothes and then sometimes I run. I run a lot.

Then I get thoughts in my head about proving to people that I run, and I act on those thoughts and sign up for races.

Races.

Reaching the high peak of losing my running buddy.

Like, with people that run fast.

And this is where cheesy Christian Brenda inserts Hebrews 12:1 which talks about running with endurance the race with is set before us. I know you’re just dying to know a secret: I hate/love races. I actually hate/love running (see: cheese consumption).

So where is this going, besides the Velveeta factory? I’m trying to find a nice balance between letting the Lord be a part of everything I do (“Lord, flossing sucks, but I know you can clear out all the gunk in my being, so I’ll let you, ready set go”) and not going off the deep end with the verse references, start thumping the Bible so hard that no one can hear what I’m saying.  How do I floss with God (question: Does God floss?) and stay normal? (What’s normal?)

I’m digressing. So I run these dumb races (with good friends because misery loves company) and I also want to be the best at everything. Just absolutely everything. I don’t care if you’re an Olympic gold medalist, I eat cheese better than you. So there.

My hips don’t lie: that was a long 6.2 miles.

The truth is we should run the race of the Christian life with endurance (that means when the going gets tough, keep pushing through, take His all-fitting life, don’t get all pouty and write on the internet about it) and we should settle with not being the best at everything. This is sad talk.

But you know what? Jesus is a Person. (capital P for emphasis and because I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be capitalized or not, I’m not the best at the science of capitalization, see what I’m sayin?) He’s got the “endurance” thing down pat. I know because He’s been the Enduring One in me. I know because I’m not the best at anything, really.

I know because I’ve run and fallen and run some more (with a cramp and a limp and a runny nose), and a lot of times I just  can’t take it with all this literal and spiritual running so I sit and eat cheese. So sue me already.

And maybe that doesn’t define the Christian life, but the “best” isn’t here, I told you.

Finish lines, who needs ‘em?

#167: On being two lines closer to a useful day.

I recently had this conversation with a friend.
B – “Today was such a waste. No Bible reading got done and I didn’t go to the mall.”
D – “Those are the only things that would constitute a useful day.”

Right?

Mall leads to food court leads to nuggets leads to happiness.

 

 

#166: On the grips of mercy and why I haven’t written in 7 months.

Before I digress: I don’t actually know why I haven’t written in 7 months (exactly, to this date, since June 11, 2011, nothing had been posted on my dear blogarooni). I graduated college (!), got my nursing license (!!), and then I suppose I left the country, hopped around in South America, almost fell in love (but time ran out), just plain fell a couple of times then ended up in California. That’s my reasoning. I don’t expect you to understand.

Living easy.

What’s important is that I have a new skin. I don’t mean Botox, I just mean the skin of a 22-year old girl, I’m slowly easing into the delights of twenty-something-hood. I followed the peace in my spirit, I ran away to California (not so subtly), said – Amen Lord, I’m willing to let you work on me – and it’s been spiritual surgical bliss since then!

Ha.

I can’t and won’t say much about my 20 weeks of “Bible school” (I put quotes because it’s so, so so much moooore) so far because words couldn’t really wrap themselves around my heart. I can only say that there is more God in me, that sometimes I find that quite fascinating and other times I just want a skinny vanilla latte and a book to distract me.

I don’t typically read the Message version of the Bible, but recently I’ve been digging through Hebrews 12 and I read it in many different versions and the Message stuck out:

12:1-3 “…it means we’d better get on with it. Strip down, start running – and never quit! No extra spiritual fat, no parasitic sins. Keep your eyes on Jesus, who both began and finished this race we’re in. Study how he did it. Because He never lost sight of where He was headed – that exhilarating finish in and with God.”

And maybe it’s a little short (like me), but that’s how 7 months has been. Life is good God.

And since this post was borderline serious, I have to add a dash of silly. I’m not that different after all

high on discounts

#165: On getting a grip on the situation.

 

——This post was written in July of 2011 and never published, but I sort of liked it so decided to just throw it in. Why not?—–

I apologize for the strange use of prepositions in my title, I’m living in a Spanish-speaking world now and so I have every excuse to speak bad English. Don’t you question that!

Speaking of questions, guess where I am? Argentina, son! That’s right, I’m sipping some hot tea and letting my hair air-dry while I wait for my 9:30 pm bus to Cordoba, the city where I’ll be (and have been before) for 5 weeks. Seriously, why is my life so glamorous!? Air-drying my hair? So fetch.

The last time I was here I wrote over at Love Me Argentina , and I recently re-read a lot of my old posts and had a grand ol’ time sinking into of all the things I thought, and how everything was new to me, and I was 19 and generally clueless about everything, but very smart to find the best food.

So, somehow my life just took a drastic change from “hanging out/studying/serving in Austin” to “hanging out/eating everything good/working a bit in Argentina.”

It’s all great until I realize the magnitude of impending life changes, and how soon I’ll be living in California.

#164: On life being too short to live it by slogans

I just visited my crazy uncle next door and I asked him what he was watching

and I love him more because of what he said,

“who the hell knows?”

This week has been, on top of an emotional wreck that no GEICO policy could cover, a “who the hell knows” kind of week.

I mean, really y’all, what does a girl have to do to get a little peace around here?

I’m struggling with my life decisions.

Every.

day.

And struggling with my body, like I’ve done since the land before time, or at least before I can remember.

Every.

hour.

Struggling with family drama, family sickness, family wanting me to be 10 years old again, needing needing needing me to regress, just a little bit, if possible, at all?

And all I can do is tell Jesus, hey buddy? Let’s talk.

Let’s talk about “everything happens for  a reason” (obviously)

and “dance like no one is watching” (that’s stupid, I dance so people will watch),

and “live laugh love hope faith love” (I find single words very, very annoying),

and “all in due time” (NO, I want it noooow!)

and “all’s fair in love and war” (oh, REALLY? because my ex defriending me on Facebook – not that I care, I don’t! get off me! – kinda seems a little not fair, especially because he also happened to go to war, and I’m totally not bitter about any of that, like I said, get off me!

So maybe I’m just on a wittle bitty speed bump of life, you know?

I’m not really doubting, I’m about 98% on my decisions – both to go to Argentina and to go to California after that, and to not get a job for a while.

I’m just spontaneously bursting into tears in front of my co-workers. Perfectly normal.

Whatever, who the hell knows, and “all in due time”….”the acorn doesn’t fall too far from the tree.”

Something like that.

 

 

 

#163: On my brain, my heart, and the gooey parts in between.

I am so tired of writing about this abstract organ inside of me, my so-called “heart,” that the only thing that would make me happy is if you are equally tired of reading about it. Amen.

Also, I put on some glue-on nails earlier and typing is harder than rocket science right now. I do it for the people, that’s what I always say.

You don't get this classy overnight, ladies.

But, like usual, that’s not the point at all. My fingers are pudgy. Oink.

I’ve been studying for FOUR WHOLE DAYS* because I take my nursing board exam in exactly 20 days, and it’s not that I’m like totally freaking out about it, because I’m NOT! AHEM. But really, I’m not. I’m kind of an egomaniac that way – I secretly think I’m super smart, and it works. Miracles happen when you believe, that’s what Moses’ sister said in the Prince of Egypt and until recently I thought that movie was 100% accurate. (It was sad to find out the contrary. I don’t want to talk about it).

*not really, only about 3-4 hours each day.

During one of my marathon study sessions (one of all 5), I fell into the hopeless pits of hopeless pitdom and the following thoughts zipped through my head:

“Why didn’t I just study liberal arts and become an aspiring novelist/funny book writer for the rest of my life? If anyone can take ‘aspiring’ to a professional level, it’s me. I’ve been aspiring to be 20 lbs lighter since 2007. I can do this. Tina Fey got a book deal! I am so much funnier than her! AND I’m a minority. Obama would forward my book. Oh my GOD, I made a huge mistake, I shouldn’t have done nursing! I hate people! Doh!”

But the truth is that I’m not funnier than Tina Fey (I read her book, it’s probably like an 8.13 on a scale of funny) and that I love people, people and their annoying needs and their boo-boos and their occasional cardiac arrest. I love saying,

“yes lady, your vital signs are normal. What does that mean? I can’t tell you. That’s a secret I paid $40,000 to know. I’m sorry. Get over it.”

Like I said, I totes love people.

Takin' it waaay back, hollaaa

^^ That picture is from April 2009, when I was in Argentina and starting a nursing internship there. In a few weeks I’ll be going back 2 years older and infinitely wiser (obviously) and I read this post about how I felt back then, wearing those scrubs – I was SO official! I mean, you gotta throw a girl a bone! It was one of the most exciting days of my life. It’s a funny story, if you have time to read it.

So whatever, dude. I’m studying a lot, having a spell of cynicism every 13 (or so) minutes, and taking it all in – letting my brain catch up with my heart and hoping it doesn’t get stuck somewhere along the way.

The best part? You can’t wear fake nails (much less the glue-on kind! heaven forbid!) in a hospital.

The face of a person with a band-aid up her sleeve.

#162: On family, awkard moments, and walking that stage.

I don’t suppose your family has ever embarrassed you. I don’t suppose everyone has ever been so scattered and frazzled that you can’t keep faces and arms and hugs in place. I don’t suppose they speak English, Spanish, Spanglish, and then occasionally just laugh hysterically because…because nothing. Because they laugh big and wide, and this is who they are, this is who you are.

Almost the whole clan, somewhat organized.

I love my family to the core of my being, to the deepest parts of my deep and old soul, but sometimes I simply cannot stand them. The corporate them. The voices always trying to be louder than the one below it, the clash of everyone trying to make a point (and usually the same one), and the constant need for my undivided, most loving attention. And I mean all of this in the nicest, sweetest baby-daughter-spoiled-brat way. I would never trade them in for a civilized group of people that always eat with utensils. Never.

My graduation was this weekend, and everything was just fine and dandy until it wasn’t. I must admit, I have a lot to do with that. Since choosing to go to a Bible school (let me clarify, a school in which I will study the Bible but not pursue a degree/certificate/master’s of divinity/any other piece of paper that will make me eligible to “preach” to people) and serve as a nurse there, I’ve gotten quite a bit of…of, how do you say? Crap. Yes. Crap.

And the struggle is that every time my parents’ friends or anyone else who is distantly acquainted with me asks, “so, what’s next, Brenda? Where will you work [full-time, 'til your death, until you rot in the workplace]” (Okay, maybe I added that last part). I simply have to say, I’ve chosen to attend a Bible school, study the Word, serve as a nurse, and enjoy God in that way for a while before getting a full-time job. And I get plenty of blank stares, but mostly I get passive jokes about “working for a non-profit” (that makes no sense, because it’s not true) or “not really using your degree” (I find that very insulting) or “working for free” or “be a nun” (also makes no sense).

So I have to sigh heavily, nod and smile, and pretend that these comments aren’t like nails on a chalkboard to my heart.

Because when you choose to go against the grain, to actively pursue something that most people never considered (primarily, God, the Creator of the Universe, you know - that guy), people are…bothered. I dared to (and will continue to) go slightly against the norm and that puts peoples’ panties in a tight little bunch.

But frankly, my dears, your panties are really not my business (or my problem).

So I will go boldly into my non-profit Jesus-loving life of no money and no status. Because like Mary and her alabaster flask, I am willing to waste myself on Him – not because I’m super holy or because I’ve reached spiritual evolution, but because I see nothing more precious, no one more worthy.

But anywho, I graduated! I’m a nurse. A real live one with a stethoscope.

Crest Whitestrips would be proud.

The last 4 years were of such growth, such fun, such discovery – I traveled, I loved, I felt heartbreak and joy, I pushed through the early mornings and the long reports. I did it all, I didn’t ask permission.

Me being a diva, and Melissa, playing the part of personal photographer quite well.

So, what’s next for you?

#161: On getting rejected, and the nonexistent way around it.

A big chunk of my posts lately have been drenched in cheese and feelings and whatever other girly stuff I tend to spice them up with. I’m going to try to refrain from that whole type of writing because I see it as a challenge – how to write without cheese….this, friends, I do not know.

So, as I’ve mentioned before, my hips don’t lie and I enjoy a little salsa dancing here and there. I go frequently enough to a few salsa “clubs” (the word “club” makes me feel cheap, so shall we call them salsa establishments? places of recreational dancing? batiment pour la danse? ooh! in French it sounds much nicer) that I know the people that are also regulars. Look at me, a “regular.”

Well.

This week there happened to be a tall, handsome black man. He had a little ‘tude if you know what I mean. Unfortunately I was hopelessly sucked into his orb of cool dude ‘tude and I thought, I must dance with that man.  And unfortunately this is not a story of how I captured his heart with my sick moves or how he fell in love with me at first sight (of my frizzy hair). It is…not.

Long story short, he was standing idly on the dance floor and in retrospect I see that he was switching off with another guy to dance with this ONE girl, who in retrospect also seems very greedy for getting TWO guys to herself, but I’m not here to judge, I love everyone, ya know. So I gather up all the courage in my little toolbox of self-esteem and I go up to him and say, I want to dance with you! with the loveliest smile on this side of the Mississippi. He said,

hold on a second.

More long story short, it became a billion seconds. And I stood there, like a total moron, smile still plastered on my face, AS IF he was going to notice me at some point. He didn’t. He just kept staring at the other girl who probably weighed no more than 85 pounds and had a horrible highlight job, if you ask me. But I’m sure she’s a nice girl and all. I’m totes SURE.

I had a few minutes where I was mildly devastated and then observed his every move and criticized everything he was wearing (and came to the final conclusion that he looked SO stupid and overdone, who wants to dance with that anyway! forget him! his loss! and so on with the denial).

Perhaps I wasn’t his cup of tea (I find that very annoying) or maybe he was really into this particular girl and her particular horribly highlighted hair. But the fact that he didn’t come by to our table later in the night and say, “hey lady, sorry I dissed you earlier, can I make up for it by taking you out to dance?” tells me something else.

That not everyone is going to like you all the time. That some men have not evolved to the point of common courtesy. That you’re cute, just not to everyone. Oh, DEATH. Why is that so hard to deal with? Why can’t the tall and handsome get sucked into MY orb! My orb is AWESOME.

And on and on, you know. Let me stop looking like I’m making a desperate mating call on the internet, for all the world to see.

I suppose it’s healthy to get rejected every once in a while. I’m not like, asking for it, but aren’t these the times that make the flirty dances a bit better? When you feel the lows, the highs are fluffier and sweeter.

And if you’re not going to take a few chances on the tall and handsome (or the big new job, or the move to another country, or on what you believe), then what’s the point?

#160: On exercises in vanity and insecurity, but mostly vanity.

I think I’ve been preparing my whole life, my whole entire LIFE, to write this post. But don’t get too excited and start hopping around like a bunny, Easter isn’t about bunnies anyway. (But that’s another song and dance, puh-raise the Lord).

When I was young, I was a little chub-chub. I was Never Ever one of The Pretty Girls. I was so shy I would crumble when they said something to me, and I soaked in my jealousy juice on the days when they could talk to the boys I liked, the boy I wanted to notice me, me and my overalls, my big 10-year-old ass and my thick glasses. Oh, God, I want to die just thinking about the complete awkwardness of the whole thing. And then I laugh.

Last weekend one of my old friends who happens to be very good with a fancy camera took my pictures to mark the end of my college career. I was hoping he could hide the college weight I’ve gained so that there wouldn’t be a huge difference between my high school pictures and these. He did a great job.

I do some modeling on the side...on the side of never.

My beef is that at some point in the last 12 years, through an eating disorder and out, through a 3-year relationship that ended, through high school and now through college, I became, in Anne Lamott’s words, a raging insecure narcissist. This is hard work, people.

My other beef (chicken?) is that now, 12 years later, I’m friends with the pretty girls. I kid you not, all of my closest friends are adorable, not in the way you tell people because you feel sorry that they have such a big nose, but in the way you think when you see her on a night out and you think, I get to hang out with her ? And then you run to the bathroom and make sure your hair isn’t frizzy. Or is that just me?

I’ve recently started doing Bikram (hot) yoga with two friends, and if there is any place to see a lot of thin, sculpted, toned up, amazing bodies, it’s in these yoga rooms. It is also the place to watch your own self-esteem plummet to the deepest parts of the earth. (I don’t recommend this yoga unless you purposely want to sweat gallons and be miserable doing it – considering you read my blog, I’d say misery is not becoming of you). But then I remember those words I’ve posted all over my room and my heart:

militant

self

acceptance

The point is that insecurity is a decision just like when you decide what to wear. It’s knowing that you are what you are, cellulite and all, and that being pouty about it (at least in public) is not going to get you any points in the cute department. One of Maya Angelou’s poems sings to me, to me and my cellulite:

(these are bits and pieces of it)

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

You can get all Maya Angelou on everyone’s ass, put some red lipstick on and own it.

But jealousy is still my cross, it’s one of the things I have to go to Jesus and say, why, why are my eyes so small? And He says, because I said so. And I roll my eyes in my ignorant arrogance and think, that’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard, dude.

That dress makes a pooch. Embrace the pooch, I say.

#159: On the American dream, and why I don’t want it.

Perhaps on some occasions I toot the “daughter of two immigrant blue-collar workers” horn a bit much, but throw a girl a damn bone. It’s all I have to help me relate with the people (apart from being a human, just like them – the obscure, unknown them). But guess what, my parents are from Mexico, somewhere down there in the center and on the west, and they came to this country in the 70s for the better life, the opportunities to work, and probably for the free refills on fountain drinks. At least that’s why I stay.

I know that my parents have always worked hard, from the moment they crossed the border to today, I know they’ve done everything for my brother and me, for us to know how to earn a buck or two or 25 an hour, which is what I’d be making if I was interested in getting a job. (I’m not – see previous posts).

They came here to have the romanticized American dream – to get work, to work hard, have a home, have good kids, move up in society somehow, and live happily ever after (a huge SUV doesn’t hurt either). And that’s perfectly wonderful, let’s put a cherry on that. I honor them for their dream, for their courage and for their endless desire to give us the very best. (But they never let me spend the night at friends’ houses – I’m still mad about that, y’all).

I will probably get in trouble for posting this: still, too cute to not post.

But here I am, on the eve of my college graduation and I have to confess, I don’t want happily ever after. I don’t want a house in suburbia, I don’t want an SUV (gas prices alone make me want to blow my brains out), I don’t want two-point-two kids and the white picket fence (I may act like a white person but I’m really not, shocker! Breathe – it’s alright). At this point I don’t even want THE job I’ve been working for my entire life, I don’t want to move up the career ladder (I hate climbing, it makes me sore), I’m not desperate for the money or the status or the idea that I am a better human being because I drive a 2011 Mercedes-Benz.

I refuse to buy it.

Not the car, the idea. The car is nice.

I’m a first generation American, the first one in my family with a college education, and I’m screwing up the natural order of things by going to Bible school, not making any money and being quite happy about the whole thing. I also do hot yoga, run half-marathons, wear Birkenstocks, rarely eat meat and have dreams of being a midwife and moving to Europe one day. How horribly unpatriotic. Sue me.

But don’t, remember – I won’t have any money.

Wearing Birkenstocks in Marseilles, France. All I do is win!

In reality this all comes down to knowing that what other people want is not what is going to make me happy. It comes down to thinking outside the box, to not letting deputy authority tell you who you should be, what you should do, where you should invest your time, your energy, the core of your being.

My parents can have the American dream – I’ll always love them for that, for being brave enough to pursue the invisible but true better life – but me, me and my Birkenstocks (since when are Birkenstocks such a bad thing? Y’all need to grow up!)

me me me – I’ll have my own.