Career Success

In a thank you card I received today from a recently married couple whose wedding I attended this summer:

"You are a dancing beast"

I think I can retire now.

Not from dancing. That would be ridiculous.

Let the minimum be the maximum

Hi, friends. Me again.

I did something in my life and I thought I’d share it with you.

a)Because I talk about my life even when people don’t ask.
b)Because I thought you might benefit from learning about this particular instance of something I did in my life.
c)Because sometimes I talk about my life here in a way that has some sort of helping tool attached. 

Sometimes I just talk about cats or slyly talk about boys I have crushes on.

Anyway.

So last night before bed I felt a liiiiittle bit like I was about to exit my relaxing and enjoyable weekend by doing some good old worrying.

So I did that thing that therapists and Oprah and other people tell you to do sometimes: I wrote down the things I was thinking about; in this case, some things I have to do.

Oftentimes I ignore this advice – psh, write things down? People, as if that’s going to get rid of my longstanding history with insomnia. Please. And as for writing? It’s extremely cathartic and, it's like, my thing, but making a list at my bedside is a little different than writing an essay midday as my vocation.

But.

Recently I’ve done some late night scribbling and it’s kind of sort of worked.

Last night, not so much, because I had a headache that was trying to be my best bud and so sleep came more in response to ibuprofen, me thinks, than to my scribbling.

Yeah yeah, you don’t care about the details. What did I write, you ask?

Well.

As we are just around the corner from Thanksgiving, and for some, Chanukah, and for some, Christmas, and for most who use the most popular of calendars these days, New Years – we’re busy, is my point – there is a lot to squeeze in before January 1^st. So I made a list. I'll tell you what kind in a sec. But first:

You know what’s going to happen on January 1^st? We’re all going to wake up and we’re gonna get that racing feeling in our bods and we’re gonna reflexively start thinking about what we have to do next, what is the most pressing on our huge to do list and thus needs to happen first. And we’re gonna think, “Quick. Shower. Coffee. In the car. To work!”

Then we’ll realize it’s January 1^st and that we have the day off.

Some of us will be popping aspirin, too, let’s be honest. I don’t plan to be a part of that crowd, but we’ll see.

And let me just take this opportunity to say

DON’T DRINK AND DRIVE!!

Taxi taxi taxi. Taxi it home, people. Be safe. Your life is precious and so are those of the other people on the road. Let’s give ourselves some respect by protecting ourselves and those around us. Thank you. Also even if you’re not driving, please be careful if you are imbibing, period. Surround yourself with trusted friends and watch out for each other.

I don’t care if I sound like a mom, I will be your mom any day and by the way moms are great.

So after we realize it’s January 1^st and either take our aspirin or make coffee or, like some of you weirdos will do – do something actually productive and responsible like gardening or balancing your checkbook – we will soon realize that we really don’t have that much to do. At least not RIGHT NOW.

But until then we have a lot of RIGHT NOW in our lives. You know I'm right.

Because here’s the thing about this time of year that we're presently in. Everything just, like, gets in your face and smashes around you and everyone’s like, “Christmas presents now! We have to buy them now!” and “We must have egg nog and have ourselves some cliché moment of discussing the holidays and how much we love egg nog and cocoa.”

Etc.

Also, somehow, work becomes more frantic. It just does, have you noticed this? For crying out loud, it's not like we're working for Santa Claus so what is the big rush about??

But I haven’t yet made the point that I set out to make here, so let’s get there shall we?

OK so this list I made last night.

It wasn’t just a “what I need to do, in general” list or a “this is what I’m worried about right this second” list.

It was a list of things that I need or “need” to do before the year is up.

Work is on that list, but I don’t know if I wrote it down, because it’s a given. Get to work by 8, do your thing there, leave at 5. Cool? Cool.

The other stuff is stuff I’ve already signed up for, can’t skip out on, and some things that I want to make happen in the next 45-ish days.

Here’s the key to this list: it’s pretty short, considering all the things I could heap on there.

I could, for example, write on my list: "make adorable cross stitched reindeer stockings for eight of my close personal friends. Write personal note for each stocking and place inside. Hand deliver while singing a Christmas carol. Elf outfit would be cute - might need to go shopping."

a)I would so not have the time for that, even if I took work off my list.
b)Just no. I love to cross stitch, but it is not my ambition to make the cover of Cross Stitch Living this year.

Although that would be great.

Also,

a)Not sure there is a publication called Cross Stitch Living.

Though there are other cross stitch publications that sometimes come with cute little stitch projects and I would love it if I got a subscription for a holiday gift (making it easy here, people, just straight up telling you what I want. Also: boyfriend and cat.)

The list I made last night does not have cross stitching on it at all, because cross stitching will still be there on January 1^st. Needlework is not off limits until January 1^st, mind you, but it’s not required.

One of the things on my list is a half marathon.

I’ve signed up and paid for the half marathon, and I’ve trained. So I’m gonna do it, if my foot holds out.

So on the list I wrote last night I included things like:

• Running outfit [something obnoxious with a lot of green and red and tinsel, if available]
• Get new running shoes
• Get a massage before the race
• Get foot worked on before the race

Honestly, all of these things don’t even need to happen. I could be totally lazy until race day and just show up, without an obnoxious running tutu, in my old shoes, with my injured foot and knots in the muscles of my upper back.

But.

It would be more fun and more comfortable and less debilitating if I do these things pre-race.

But.

I don’t have to do them.

But the run itself is on the list because it’s already on the calendar and it’s going to stay there. Hopefully, if my foot holds out.

I have thought about gifts for friends and family. Last night, as I drove, I imagined and started composing a charming little Christmas letter I could write to friends (because I always drive and rarely write on paper, so I write in my head). I thought of getting Christmas cards in which to place each letter. I thought of printing on green paper and skipping the cards.

It was a charming little Christmas letter. Or the start of one, anyway.

But I didn’t put “Christmas letter” on my list last night.

Because it doesn’t need to happen.

For some of you, it might need to happen. You might have the time. You might be the best and most reliable Christmas letter writer in your neighborhood, or ZIP code even. For you, this might be the thing that needs to stay on your list. Maybe baking gingerbread cookies will be taken off the list in exchange.

I’m here, first, to tell you that you don’t need to write that letter or bake those cookies (or you can bake them and skip the icing) in order to be a validated human being. I mean it. So skip it if you want to, even if people protest. Because I know what it feels like to do things because you’re afraid of what the response will be if you don’t.

The response might be annoying, or at worst, well, worse than annoying. But you can survive the response and stand your ground and come out as a validated human being who maybe enjoyed an extra glass of egg nog this year and felt like you actually got to see the holiday lights instead of experiencing them as a blur.

As the weeks move forward for me, things will very likely start to fall off my list, like ornaments falling from a heaping wheelbarrow hitting bumps. (Why I have ornaments in a wheelbarrow, I don't know). Once they meet the ground, they will smash, won’t be that pretty anymore, and I won’t really give a gingerbread cookie about their fate at that point.

If I don’t buy a running tutu for my race, whooooooo carrrrrrrres?

I signed up to do the race, not wear a tutu.

It occurred to me today:

I made a list of the minimum that needs to happen.

Yet my minimum is really what I am allowing to be my maximum.

Obviously I will eat and sleep and things, though I didn’t write those down (sometimes I do, no joke. “Lunch” has been written on many a list in my life).

So I am here to suggest to you, though you do not have to take my advice, to:

Let the minimum be the maximum.

Figure out what you really care about in the next six weeks. Do you really, really want to get a plane ticket to see your family? Do it. Figure out the details, and do it. Put it on your list.

Thinking about a 5K but haven't signed up and you're already feeling run down? Don't sign up. 

The rules are simple.

Don’t list too many things.

Why? Because work and just showing up for Thanksgiving – with the candied yams you’ve already signed up to bring – and just showing up for the company holiday party, and...all that tinseled jazz is gonna get in the way of all these other things you're trying to do in addition.

And you’re gonna be really tired.

Your friends, if they’re loving friends who love you more than the gifts you give, aren’t going to care if you give them a gift on January 2^nd, or March 9^th.

Just let it go.

Let the minimum be the maximum.

Pick your deal breakers, get excited that those are going to be a part of the end of your year, and for crying out loud pour yourself a glass of egg nog. Even if you hate egg nog. Because it’s symbolic of the season.

Now go! Make your (teeny, tiny) list. And walk away from it. Because there should only be like three things on it, if you're following the rules. You know what’s on your list, so you don’t need it for reference.

Today I went to work and scheduled a massage. I went to the grocery store and ate some foodstuffs. And then I came home and wrote this instead of a charming Christmas letter.

Although this is kind of a charming Christmas letter in its own right. 

Smooches,
Bailz

P.S. I also realized this letter makes me sound kind of anti-holidays. I spent my lunch break today eating McDonald's food in my car, listening to Julie Andrews' Christmas CD. I'm not anti-fun in November and December, and I am oh so grateful for the birth of a Savior.

The point of this letter is to tell you that I want you to be able to inhale, exhale right now, not pant. And thus not miss the Julie Andrews and the Savior birth celebrating.

I've selected an amazing Thanksgiving buddy for 2013

I think I am finally coming out of my cranky, sensitive, dramatic funk. Praise the good Lord above. I'm still tired and needing lots of vitamins, but otherwise I feel I am on the upswing. And man, things were getting ridiculous there for a while. I could not snap out of it. 

One thing that helps a lot is cracking up with my hilarious friends. 

A conversation with my dear and precious friend Jeff on the phone this evening: 

Me: “I really want to try wassail [pronounced Wuh-SIGH]”

Jeff: “Wassail? [pronounced correctly]”

Me: “Yeah. I don’t know why I have so much trouble pronouncing it because it’s pronounced differently in the song.”

Jeff: “Yeah, I think you should probably take a cue from the song.”

Both of us laugh hysterically.

…

20 minutes later in the conversation:

Jeff: “Could you remind me how you used to pronounce ‘wassail’?”

Both of us laugh hysterically, and I have to wait to stop laughing in order to meet his request:

Me: “Wuh-SIGH.”

More laughing.

Jeff: “Oh, boy. That’s good.”

Open letter (btw, I'm feeling more than a little whiny lately)

Dear family, friends, and people I may meet in the next several weeks (because I will meet you and I will want to be best friends and hang out):

In (more than) a word: I’m stressed.

I have been here before: over strung, over tired, feeling guilty when I can’t give time to people yet needing those people to let me talk out all my feelings of being over strung and over tired.

But this time I think I’ll do something different, by addressing it with this letter. I’m not calling this being proactive, because I’m already in the thick of it, stress wise, and who are we kidding – I will never be a planner-aheader. We’ll call this ground control (I don't think I'm using that term correctly; I'm trying to creatively say "get my life under control/get me grounded").

I will (try to) make this brief, and just say a few things about what I need from you and what you can expect from me for the next several weeks. Probably until 2014, to be honest, because there are holidays occurring over the next several weeks.

I need:

1. You. Please don’t forget that. I need you. I really do.
2. That said, I need to be able to say “no” to you (although please note I probably won’t say the word “no.” I will say, “Welllllllll…” followed by a big long apology/explanation about why I can’t spend time with you. And I will feel badly about it).
3. Rest.
4. To work on my self control.

I believe, during my many years of uninhibited extroversion and many interests in many arts and many things, that I have recognized before this teeny tiny issue I have with self control, and my lacking it.

I have realized more than once – say, oh, a million times – that I need to cool it and just focus. That I need to currrrb the action. Currrrrb the activity. Tennnnd to the basics. Fermé the bouche (shut the mouth).

But when it comes to that term “self control,” while I know it is Biblical and thus I should care, it also sounds very hall monitorish and seems like a smaller thing on the list of things to do, so I usually write “N/A” in my mind and run away, hoping the hall monitor doesn’t see me skipping out on this detail again.

But really, I need self control.

One of our pastors at church recently quoted another of our pastors who said: “Insight is never healing.”

I have become aware that I need self control. I know that I need to say “no.” (Or at least to say, “Wellllllll…”). But I don’t do a damn thing about it. Here’s part of the reason why:

It boils down, really, to the fact that I just want people to like me. I don’t want anyone mad at me, ever. I really don’t want to hurt your feelings, ever. And, in case we’ve forgotten: I want you to like me.

So with that in mind, I have what some might term an irrational fear that in sending a message like this one here that says, “I’ll be in touch when I’m in touch,” that the reaction of some, or many, or all, will be: “Forget that broad. She doesn’t have time for me.”

Did I mention I really don’t ever want to make anyone mad? Yeah. You’re basically just not allowed to be mad at me. That should just be a rule. Although I’m not bossy enough to enforce it. Because bossiness usually comes with the responsibility of having people get mad at you sometimes.

So I am torn in bringing this up, because I so desperately need to just come to you on my own terms right now, but I so desperately, desperately, need you all in my life. And I don’t need you just for my own sense of self worth. I also really like you people.

Let me pause for a moment and say also that I don’t feel like y’all are banging my door down for my attention. So if you’re reading this and fearing that you are coming across as the needy one, fear not. You’re not.

That said, I try to make my policy with people in my life very clear and that is this: you can always call me, even at 3 a.m., if you need to talk. I don’t care if your “crisis” is just being really unhappy and uncomfortable with how you are feeling at 3 a.m., whether it makes sense or not. I’ve been there, thus I qualify that as a crisis, and Lord knows I’ve called people at 3 a.m. with that particular kind of crisis. And sometimes you just need distraction and need to talk about bubble gum or TV or wallpaper – something – to get your mind off your crisis-like feelings. I’ve made those phone calls, too, and you can call me and we can talk about wallpaper and bubble gum and I won’t ask you the hard questions except maybe “Are you OK?” before we hang up.

So that rule still stands. I’m not shutting you out. I am here for you. Just to be clear.

And so while you can and should still call me – or whomever it is in your life who you trust with your crises – I need you to meanwhile not be offended when I:

1. Don’t reply to your (non-crisis) emails. Or:
2. Non-crisis Facebook messages.
3. Or non-crisis phone messages.

And I guess I’m asking for the same in return to my messages. If I call you in crisis, please call me back. If your latest email from me is one regarding bubble gum, you need not rush in your response. Or respond at all.

In the next several weeks, you might invite me to dinner or a party or whatever, and I may have space on the calendar for it. My body may be able to get in the car and get there. I may even be able to be charming while I’m there – though I’m not guaranteeing that these days.

What I’m severely lacking, I am finding, is the time and stamina needed to recover from these things.

I say, “OK, yeah, of course. I can do that, and that, and that, because look right here: space on the calendar!”

But then later I think, “My car and my living space are a huge mess, I’m eating Spaghettios for dinner at 10 p.m., I can’t sleep, I’M SO STRESSED OUT!!!!”

That part is afterthought.

Because at the time when asked to do something, I think:

A)     “Ooh, yay! People still like me! They want to spend time with me! I am validated once again!”

(and)

B)      “I CANNOT SAY NO TO THIS BECAUSE WHAT IF THIS IS THE LAST CHANCE I HAVE TO BE OFFERED AN INVITATION TO SPEND TIME TOGETHER???!!!”

I’m not always this dramatic. A lot of times I’m able to say, “Meh. I’m happy watching a Disney flick tonight. Those friends will be there another weekend.” It doesn’t mean I love the Disney flick more than the friends, but it does mean I’m OK with not driving to see those friends and instead hang out with Simba for the evening.

But lately? I’m feeling a little dramatic. Actually I’m feeling very needy, because I am very needy, because I’m very stressed and very tired and need a lot of reassurance.

I’m going to wrap this up because I said I would keep it brief and clearly I haven’t done that.

It might sound like I’m being funny in what I’m saying above, but I am rather serious, and the writing of this was fueled by a pulsating blob of stress and worry that is very serious.

If you have a crisis, please email or call with a “may day” type message. If it’s very urgent, call twice.

If it’s anything else, bear with me. Love me. Don’t quit offering your time and listening ears, *please*, but if I say I can’t join you for an activity, just accept it. (Again, not that I’ve had a lot of push back from y’all, because I never really say “no” to invitations to activity).

And again, don’t quit offering your time and listening ears. Please don’t wait for me to pass this season of stress before you continue communicating with me. You don’t need to halt communication. That would be sad. I still want to hear you. I will read your emails and listen to your voice mails, and they will make me smile. And sometimes I will respond, and sometimes I will even be funny or charming.

Please assure me that your offer for a sushi date, or a phone date, or a non-date (if you just want to be friends or you’re married or something) is not the last offer you will ever extend to me.

Because I may have an irrational fear about this. And I am needy in my need to have it discredited more than once.

I love you. Please love me. I’m here for you. Please keep being there for me. Also: I’m cranky (that last point is just fair warning). 

A morning. (Or, a semi-weekend recap)

Well I’ve been at Starbucks for about two hours now without being able to connect to the WiFi, so I guess I’ll write something, huh?

First, let’s talk about this: I am sitting at a table at the front of the store, right next to a window. There is a table directly outside the window from where I’m sitting, and the two people sitting at that table have chosen to sit facing the glass, so I feel like I’m being stared at. I don’t think they are staring at me, I think they’re just having a conversation while avoiding the glare of the sun in their eyes, but seriously, dudes. Let’s not.

OK what else can I tell you? I’m having lunch with my friend Rosie in about an hour. We will be dining at my current place of culinary obsession: FIVE GUYS. So incredibly delicious, and In ‘N Out burgers are like rice cakes comparatively. You can fight me on this. I stand my delicious beefy ground. With my complimentary peanuts, thank you very much. Where are my free peanuts, In ‘N Out?

Wow that got mean spirited really quickly. I was actually planning to talk about something more positive, which is the joy and peace of calling a friend last minute – as I just did with Rosie – and having them be available to do something spontaneous and at the last minute.

I began my morning at Starbucks, and I had finished one cup of coffee and a donut. I was feeling the jitteriness set in, the clock was approaching twelve. I thought, “I should eat. Maybe I should buy a newspaper. I want to keep sitting here, but I should eat. I want to get on the Internet but I can’t get my computer to connect. So maybe I should get a paper. Or write. Maybe I should eat.”

Then I thought I’d call Rosie – one of my only friends in L.A. who actually lives somewhat close to me – Valley residents, represent! – and I did call her and asked if she had lunch plans and Voila! She did not! Five Guys here we come!

Anyway, point being, this spontaneity thing doesn’t always work out. So many times I have been aggravated, tense, depressed, felt forgotten, simply because I found myself alone and wanting company and no one was around or available or answering their phones.

But sometimes you call Rosie and she picks up and she, too, would be happy to get a burger with you.

Grateful.

Also grateful for this weekend as a whole, which has been pretty stellar and unexpectedly productive as well as restful. Yesterday I managed to write – and today, too; this really is rare as of late – and I ran nine miles for the first time in life (and experienced waves of nausea for the rest of the evening, but ya know, whatevs) and I put the finishing touches on a video and finally posted it to YouTube (I filmed it in May).

Last night I talked to Mom and Dad on the phone, and by talked to them I mean that they narrated the last quarter of the Iowa State game to me. I thought about saying, “Talk later, Guys,” but then I got invested and stayed on the line. All I was doing was trying not to throw up, anyway, so why hang up? Sometimes it’s a good idea to just stay on the line with people you love because they’re there and you love them and both of those things are pretty great.

I also slept late on Saturday and Sunday morning this weekend. I was so insanely tired last week – on Tuesday I cried those can’t-stop tears simply because I was so, so tired – so I totally needed the rest.

I’ve also managed to not become lonely this weekend, though I’ve only had face time with cashiers and other strangers in public places.

OK now I feel like these people outside are looking at me and incorporating me into their conversation (I’m sure they’re not, but I’m uncomfortable nonetheless). Please turn around, friends. Face the parking lot, or put your noses in books. Start making out with each other, something.

I ask you, how can they not feel uncomfortable with this arrangement?? If there were no glass between us they would never arrange themselves this way. Because we're basically sitting right next to each other. And they're facing me. And we don't know each other. And we're not in conversation together. 

If you do one thing this week, beloved readers, make sure to position yourself at a table outside of a coffee shop with your back to the coffee shop. Thank you.

OK, I’m going to try the WiFi connection again. I think that goal is shot, so I’ll probably buy a paper. Which, as a journalism degree holder, I should probably do once in a while, ya think?  

Latas.

Oh my goodness, now the guy outside is giving a shoulder massage to the woman, and they are still facing me.

OK, woman protested, he’s sitting down again.

Still facing me.

I should be paid professionally for all the Starbucks spying I do. 

Taking my hands off the keyboard of life

I am always writing.

Let me qualify* that statement. *(GRE word)

I am never writing these days, in the pen to paper, fingers on keyboard traditional sense.

Technicalities. I will always lose when it comes to technicalities.

But in my head, you must understand, I am always writing. My brain makes statements, creates sentences, crafts essays. All the time. I can be driving for 30 minutes and “write” a whole essay on jealousy, celebrity, mental health (one of my favorite topics, as we all know), a memory of my mother, by the time my car gets me to where I’m going.

Sadly, and so very aggravatingly, only my car gets me where I’m going in these situations and my essay never hits the page.

I am sometimes good at the self talk that says, “It’s OK if this thought, sentence, idea, whatever, never hits the page. What needs to hit the page will hit the page.” I know that it’s good to practice writing, even if it’s only in my head.

It breaks my heart and makes me crazy and makes me feel like my writer’s life is slipping between my fingers, too. It does that too. But on a good day, or in a good moment, I’m OK with breathing, getting out of the car and walking into whatever activity I have signed up for that is further delaying my writer’s life.

Four weeks ago this weekend I was at a church retreat. It was fantastic. I was so unused to seeing mountains, that I actually commented to my fellow Saturday afternoon football players, “Doesn’t that look like a green screen?” This comment also made me realize how LA I have become – yikes.

I got a fat lip playing football, which I loved, because as a sibling of all males I enjoy showing off an injury, and this particular injury wasn’t accompanied by a concussion so it was all good. I also got the fat lip upon colliding with a very attractive male who I am yet to relocate at church services, so if you see him please let him know I’m looking for him. And that my boo boo needs to be kissed. (Get it? ‘Cause it’s on my lip? Nailed it.)

I met some new people, including a fellow writer who I declared my soul mate basically right away, and out loud. I hope that didn’t freak her out, but it’s already out there so what are you gonna do? Our pastors preached, and taught. We sang. A cabin mate prayed for me and another cabin mate after we opened up about our struggles with anxiety and depression. The time of the prayer was around 2 a.m, and sent up from bunk beds.

The food was even good.

When I left the retreat, I drove away without the radio on. This is something I almost never do, as, like most of us, I am terrified of silence. I’m OK with relative silence, sometimes, i.e. classical music, or yoga or meditation, while someone talks you through what you’re doing ("Now move into cat pose..."). But total silence? No thanks. Because in my head things are not silent.

When I got home that day I was able to take an hour nap, and wake up not feeling depressed (a very common after effect for me; I don’t wake up groggy, I wake up legitimately depressed). Then, at bedtime, I was able to sleep again. Ever since this retreat, I’ve been able to fall asleep in ways I haven’t for years. I almost always read before bed, but I’ve been skipping that a lot lately. 

I should mention I’m in a new job, thus my brain is still using a lot of fuel to learn the ropes, and I’m training for a half marathon, so my bod is craving tons of sleep, so this has a lot to do with my resting habits. But the retreat certainly helped.

I’m not saying the retreat was some childlike experience of childhood camp that acted as a magical elixir. But I was surprised how readily and easily I was able to drop my cynicism and embrace the childhood excitement of a camplike weekend (and I do believe it was not my own volition that was able to adopt such an attitude, I think Someone else helped in this department). And I left the retreat on a high, for sure. But if memory serves, this particular high wasn’t accompanied by the usual fear of an oncoming low that I so often carry around with my highs.

Yep, that’s me: can’t even enjoy the highs in life because I fear, in the midst of the high, that tomorrow (or in an hour, or in 5 minutes) I will crash. Can you relate? Call me. I mean it, I’m here. This back and forth is one of the worst things ever, and a thing that can make you feel very alone – but you're so not alone, homies.

On the last day of the retreat, before I drove away in silence and calm and peace and happy reflection on the football and the worship and the 2 a.m. bunk bed prayer, we had a worship service during which one of our pastors preached a message that really affected me.

At the end of the message we had communion, and I was able to believe, sort of, kind of, for the first time in a long time, that I was forgiven. Usually I take communion with a strange mix of “I don’t deserve this” and “I don’t understand this” feelings and numbness.

But during that last morning of worship, something hit me. And it was this: I need to

Quit writing it.

I don’t need to quit writing. I need to quit writing it: my life, my future. I need to quit writing the lows that I think will follow the highs. I don’t have a superpower to stop the lows that may very likely continue to follow the highs, but I don’t need to write them in my always-writing head before they have a chance to decide to show up on their own.

Let me slow down for a sec and explain what I mean.

In addition to writing essays, and delicious sentences that y’all will never see because I am too busy doing other stuff, I “write” out in my head what is going to happen to me. Sometimes these happenings involve me at Barnes & Noble in several years, signing copies of my memoir and being lavished with praise. Or being interviewed on the Ellen show, just because Ellen finds me interesting.

Usually the future happenings I write ain’t that pretty. They might be more believable, but they ain't pretty.

For example, this past week, while listening to my favorite writer, Anne Lamott, speak at a church here in Pasadena, the horrible story I was writing in my head was more like: “This is never going to be you. Clearly you aren’t writing as of late, so when do you think this is ever going to happen? Plus you’ll never be as admired as her. And maybe you’re not meant to be. Which is OK, but what's the point, then?” Etc., etc.

Isn’t that lovely and uplifting?

But guys. Friends. This is my life. This is my reality. Those examples above of the stories I write - both good and bad - are like the tip of a fingernail on an entire body of stories that are written all the time. My mind churns and churns and it loves to head for a story that ends in fiery doom.

I also love to write – and read – stories of grace, redemption, second chances, sobriety, peace, soft purring pets that amazingly, miraculously, through their purring, resuscitate us, over and over and over again.

But those awful, shitty fiery doom stories almost always elbow their way to the front of the thinking line. It is my prayer and hope and experience (not the most often experience, but enough) that the grace stories, the purring stories, win.

But, meanwhile, I must fight the fiery doom stories. Or just let something else be written in its place. Written by Someone other than me. 

When I realized recently, Bailey, you need to quit writing it, I was able to enjoy communion. I was able to be resuscitated and drive in silence without freaking out.

Y’all might think that I am Little Miss Believer, with all my writing about faith, and it is my fear that I will be misunderstood in that regard and lead you to believe that you can’t relate to me or reach out to me with your doubts because you think that I don’t have them.

I probably doubt more than I straight up believe, I just want to say that. So again, if you can relate, call me.

But amidst my doubt, there are certain things that help me keep believing, or do what it more often looks like: keep me holding out for belief. Rooting for belief. Waiting and hoping for peace and calm and trust in that which is not my own mind and tiny life. Because this world is full of a lot of Awful, and I am not willing to believe that that is all there is. No way. Blegh. That view gives me the heebie jeebies and crushes me a million times over.

Reading certain Psalms (139, 91) makes me cry. Reading Scripture out loud makes me cry. Just thinking about praying with my family makes me cry. I’m not saying crying is proof of anything, but it’s telling. And it might be proof. I’m not really interested in the proving business as it is, anyway. I’m interested in the getting people peace and hope and love business, which I think is the business my God is in.

Some other things that keep me holding out for belief include: a kingdom that is not of this world. Because as I mentioned before, this current world, while full of beautiful things and nature and yes, love, it’s really full of Awful. So that whole, “This isn’t all there is” idea: that sits really well with me.

Also, God as our Father works for me, because I have a really wonderful human father who is just like me and thus quite possibly may understand me better than anyone else I may ever end up knowing. I realize that a lot of people don’t have great fathers, or fathers who are even in the picture of their life, and I always hate hearing about those kinds of pictures. But I am really grateful for my dad, who, in being a wonderful dad to me helps me imagine a God who loves me affectionately as my heavenly Father.

I could get more into the details of those two things I just mentioned, but for now I want to focus on the final thing that really helps me with my unbelief. And that is this: God as the Author and Perfector of our Faith (other translations: author and finisher of our faith - I also love that).

The Author.

I love that.

As a writer I love that, because I love to write and I identify with it, the same way a carpenter could love that Jesus was a carpenter, or a dancer could love and so totally get it why David decided he needed to dance that one time.

I also love it, as a writer, because it reminds me that I am not The Writer, nor do I have to be, nor am I allowed to be, nor will I ever be.

So I can, and should, quit writing it.

Just this morning I was making up in my head a whole scenario of how a handsome boy I know might ask me what I’m doing for Thanksgiving (it is almost guaranteed he will not ask me this) and I’d have to tell him, “Oh, I just bought a plane ticket to see a friend for Thanksgiving.” Then the handsome boy, having acted too slowly, would not spend Thanksgiving with me, and thus we would not and will not ever spend that quality time together that we need in order to fall in love.

…and then there will be no other handsome boy to love me, or there will be one, but before we get engaged, or after we have two lovely children or at some other inconvenient time, this handsome boy will discover that I have a crazy mind that churns and goes between high and low. He will discover that I need so much attention and that I can be so obnoxiously sensitive, something that I’m aware of and just in turn makes me more sensitive, and we will get divorced or not engaged in the first place and I will die alone.

I’m asking for a friend. I’m not the only one who writes these fiery doom stories, right?

OK, I know that we all write fiery doom stories, except for a few Pollyannas in the world whom I can only tolerate on very rare occasions for about one single minute, if that.

But I’m willing to bet that my fiery doom stories are more frequent and more fiery than those of the general public. Should I see a therapist about this? Yes, and I’m working on it.

But I can seek solace, whether I'm in a season of seeing a therapist or not, in knowing that Someone else is writing my story, and I can hope and trust as best as my cynical, grumpy, scared little heart can handle, that the story will not end in fiery doom.

And I can buy a plane ticket to see a friend for Thanksgiving and trust that if I’m meant to fall in love and get married and have kiddos and hopefully not get divorced, that all that will happen. And if it doesn’t well then it doesn’t. I don’t like to think about that, but hey, this is not my book. Some people wish to see into the future. I don’t wish that. I prefer to just write my own book – somehow, somewhere, in the time that will eventually be allotted to me for writing – and meanwhile live inside this one that God, the author and perfector of my faith, is writing.

Oh yeah, and with this kind of surrender and quitting of the writing of fiery doom stories, I can actually have a shot at enjoying Thanksgiving. Which would be so great. (And I am pretty excited - me and friend already have a pretty ambitious list of movies to watch during our holiday).

Accepting applications for a boyfriend

I'm accepting applications for a boyfriend.

Long distance need not apply.

I actually don't have time to review applications, so you might as well just go straight for the big, CLEARLY MESSAGED grand gesture. (You guys kind of suck at this, by the way, as a group. Just say, "I like you." "Let's hang out." "You're hot." Pick one and use it. I'm not asking to marry you, I just want to talk to you. You know, like our parents and grandparents did once upon a time when the world knew how to actually date).

This is actually less for romantic desires at this point and more for my own physical health and personal sanity. Let me show you how this is true. A boyfriend could:

Clean my car. Because I'm not doing that. I hate driving around with the piles and piles of sh*t (not literal, calm down) in the back seat, front seat, floorboards. HATE. But guess what, Peeps? I don't have time.

Boyfriend could also: tell me he thinks I'm pretty. But he better mean it. Otherwise don't offer me empty lip service. Speaking of, he could:

Offer smooches. We're talking very brief make out sessions, because did I mention I'm exhausted and constantly in my car, at work, on a treadmill (training for a race, not sadistically adding activity to my schedule), at the grocery store, or in bed?

[Note: I'm SO not complaining about having a job. I really like my job, feel appreciated, and love HAVING a job.]

Boy could also: hold my hand. Because I like doing that. But he'd have to do this only in the car, because holding hands while treadmilling just wouldn't work, let's be honest, and I'd feel uncomfortable hiding him under my desk at work.

But he'd have to clean my car first. Really, cleaning the car should be job number one. Followed very quickly by telling me how pretty I am.

I really had a whole list of how this would help my physical and mental health, but am forgetting....

Oh! He could go to the grocery store for me. Actually, this could be perfect. He could drop me off at the gym, take my (now clean) car, purchase groceries, pick me up, tell me how beautiful I am not to mention how my sweat smells like lilies, hand feed me (if he likes - that's optional. He could also hold my hand while I eat, because while I'm not interested in treadmill hand holding, I think I could manage eating with the one hand. I don't think this. I know this, with my very colorful resume of drive-thru-eating-while-driving history).

He could also fetch me candy whenever I want candy, which isn't too often these days, so he needn't worry about being too burdened with this task. It's in the "as assigned" category.

And lunch at work. Be really great if he could supply that. I could even put him on my checking account so he wouldn't have to ask for my debit card (though he should be buying, because, well, I want him to) all the time, but he would have to set up that joint checking account because I'm sure not doing that.

Oh, he could deposit my paychecks, too.

Now, you might be thinking, Bailey, you just want a glorified errand boy.

Well, no.

He needs to listen, too. He needs to do a LOT of that, and I wouldn't expect or ask that of an errand boy. Because that's just unethical and probably not within union guidelines.

And I could tell him that he's pretty, too, I'm charitable in that way.

I just need a listener, preferably handsome, who's very good at making sure I am always fed, my car is not disgusting, offers stories and/or lullabies at bedtime, and lets me kiss him for about 2 minutes a day.

I'm not asking for a lot. I'm convinced that millions of women everywhere have this, I just wasn't offered that particular coupon/offer/special at the boyfriend store.

OK, fine, I never made it to the boyfriend store in the first place. The directions to get there are likely buried under clothes, trash, a fresh bottle of Zyrtec, some bananas, empty coffee cups, my calendar.....in my....car.

Whoever can find directions to the boyfriend store first will be given very high standing in the boyfriend screening process!!!! Come on, boys, WHAT are you waiting for?! Don't I sound lovely and not demanding nor completely and utterly exhausted? Don't I sound like a non-emotional mess who would be just delightful to speak with?

Did I mention I'm willing to make out?

But only for two minutes. I'm busy, guys. And I really need to have my mouth free for venting and emotional processing so that you can do all that listening I'm hiring - I mean, dating - you to do.