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.

Satisfying small

I'm about to coin a new term (which reminds me: I coined one a while back, and while my friend Tommy thinks it will not take off I would like to disagree with him. Anyway. Remind me to remind you of this term soon. Hold me accountable; I might write more often.). But for now, take notes on the one I'm actually going to tell you about now.

And don't take credit for this term. You may use it. But don't act like you came up with it. Unless you, too, came up with this same term, in which case let's be best friends right now.

OK. Term: 

Satisfying Small.

A "satisfying small" is something small that brings a bit of satisfaction.

My satisfying small for the evening? 

When my microwave ravioli meal is at the end of its first heating cycle - the part where it needs to be stirred before returning to the microwave - and I get to flip each ravioli over with my fork. 

I enjoy it. 

Satisfying small. 

What's yours? 

Antihistamine Party

Bottle of Allegra in my purse.

Lid not fully affixed.

It's like a tiny, sneezy person yelled, "Opa!" and made a run for it. Slipped out on his bum, using the purse strap as a getaway slide.