A Recovering Pessimist

Once upon a time, there was a girl who believed that the best way to have a happy life was to expect for everything to go horribly awry whenever that something got the chance.  Every test she took, she expected to be marked as an F, though she cried if it received anything under an A-.  Every friend she made, she expected to disappoint her. Every achievement she earned, she expected to be forgotten.  Every boy she dated… wait, that never happened.  Every boy she wanted to date, she imagine that he saw her as a fat blob.

Then one day, that boy she expected to date wanted to date her.

Then things got worse.  Every word he spoke was a comparison, and she failed.  Every place he went was a memory of someone else.  Every plan they made had been done before.  Every feeling she felt, he didn’t feel.

Then things got worse in a different way.  She pined

and pined some more

and pined a pathetic amount of pine-age.

Then, things got better.  She decided to finally play the part of Abraham in the story for which he’s most famous.  He had to kill the thing that had become his life, but she did things a little differently. She decided to, in effect, run away (thus ending her current life).  She applied to a very exclusive program–a 2 year commitment during which time participants couldn’t date or wear fashionable clothes or attend the church of their choice.  Well, perhaps it was assumed that participants would want to attend the required church, but I think that was hardly the case.

Then, things got complicated.  She failed a class.  She didn’t have experience.  She wasn’t Baptist.  She was too thin, which she found hysterical.  She had a bipolar grandfather.  She couldn’t control every aspect of her surroundings.

Then… she saw the ram.

Then, she smiled.

In high school such phenomena were considered almost sacred.  Zach used to sit in front of her–turned around in his desk–and stare/joke/humiliate her into grinning.  At dance, she was always told to relax her forehead and stop scowling.  At home, her parents told her that boys would date her if she would just stop scaring them.

Here at the cross-roads of pessimist and not-quite-so-pessimistic-ist, I find that this girl is me.

It may seem like the strangest thing.  I used to believe that always-smiling people were completely fake and must have an underlying mental or emotional condition that kept them from facing reality.  If people faced reality, they would smile as seldom as I did.

I am not Joel Osteen.  I do not have a smile plastered to my face.  My natural face falls into a expressionless, straight mouthed emoticon, but… Zach no longer has to tell inappropriate jokes to turn up the sides of my mouth.  In fact, I haven’t seen Zach in over 6 years, and I can still smile.

I would call myself a “recovering pessimist” because I am hardly an optimist.  Realism is a seldom praised worldview, but I would claim it over romanticism  any day.  See, realism does not expect the worst; it expects what would or could happen in my world.

In my world, marriage works.  My husband has hurt me, and I have hurt him, BUT neither of us desires to hurt the other person.  Daniel loves me.  Even when he asks me the same question about finances or my choice of clothes for the umpteenth time, he loves me.  He likes me.  He wants the best for me.  He doesn’t cheat.  He doesn’t abuse me.  He seeks God. I am not naive.  I’m honest.  In my world, it would be completely against his character for him to negate those truths.  It’d be like my deciding to love cats or roaches or driving slowly.  Things like that just could not happen.  It’s not realistic.

In my world, God is.  He’s proven His presence.  I have been hurt.  I have hurt myself by living life as an open wound, but even in the hurt and the decay of my life, God is.  He’s been my only friend, my Daddy, my confidant, my sanity, my healer, my assurance, my guidance counselor, my agent, my banker, and my attorney.  Even in the times I let the consequences of sin–mine and others–hurt me, He protected me from becoming the druggy or whore or invalid I could have been.

In my world, life is not rose-colored.  People die.  Things are stolen.  Children are hurt in unspeakable ways.  Tests are failed.  Speeding tickets are issued.  Alarm clocks break.  PMS sucks.  I am alive.  Daniel is beside me.  God is.

“To My Dear and Loving Husband”

As I write a test on poetry for my high school students, I find this poem for my husband, who cleaned the kitchen for me last night when I went to bed early with a sinus infection. He then woke me up at 4am, so I could finish my prep-work for school.

Here’s a poem (that even rhymes!) for you, my love.

“To My Dear and Loving Husband” by Anne Bradstreet
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold.
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor aught but love from thee give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay;
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persever,
That when we live, no more we may live ever.

Daniel and me at West Side Story… which he lovingly endured with enthusiasm, eventhough it was my kind of musical–sad ending and lots of dancing!

Will they never end?

June/July/August 2009

Dear uninvited guest around whom my dad once mentioned my wedding,

Thank you for the pricey gift that, though thoughtful, we returned for new curtains.  I know you’re an acquaintance of my parents, but I’m quite sure that I’ve never met you, so finding filler to make this note longer is quite difficult.  We use the gift we swapped for the gift you bought us every day, and we love them.  It’s pretty much just like we’re using your gift daily.

Sincerely,
The Staff of Professional Thank You Note Writers
(ie. Mrs. Newlywed)

My Heart

It tics and echoes
It rises, makes the bed, showers, goes to work
It calls, writes, texts,
It drinks black coffee and beer
It loves lasagna and cream cheese brownies
It sings along to “The Big Five” 90’s rock
It shakes its head to the beat of rap
It has a name and drives a car
It makes me cry
It makes me cry “pause!” in a giggling match
It brushes my hair
It wraps around me
It tics and echoes
And breathes,
“I love you”

What Shall We Grow Today?

“Alright, my little ballerinas, arms en haut!”

10 leather soles press their share of 4-year-old weight into the wooden floor.  Each dancer holds her arms en haut–arms up and rounded, some more than technique allows. Then, as soon as those 5 sets of feet reach their favorite color dots on the floor, little bottoms jump down to replace their feet.  A quick prayer time begins class.  I pray, “Dear Jesus, thank you for the cold weather outside and the leaves falling.  We pray that you would keep us warm so we can dance for you.  I thank you so much for Megan and Emily and Kaitlyn and Abi and Sophia, Jesus.  I know you love them very much. Amen.”

In my head, I add, “please let Emily talk, let Abi not cry, let Sophia skip well, let Megan listen, let Kaitlyn get 3rd position, and let me find gas on the way home.”

The pink leotards sit quietly, feet pressed together, knees out while I start the music. Lisa Harris’ rendition of “I Dreamed a Dream” floats through the classroom, while my girls describe their butterflies to me.  Our knees beat the air–up and down–as we list all the colors and stickers that decorate our leg-butterflies.  Everyone’s butterfly is pink.  Sophia’s has sparkles.  Kaitlyn’s has glitter.  Megan’s has hearts.  Abi’s has purple along with the pink, and Emily’s has sparkles, glitter, hearts, Christmas trees, flowers, a rainbow, and bows.  One prayer answered, maybe a little too well.

We tell our butterflies, “hello.”  The butterflies love the cold weather and at least our bug creations are ready for ballet class today.  Now, no one can have butterflies without also planting a garden.  So we stretch our hamstrings while planting a lovely garden of…

This is the most controversial part of class.  Will we plant carrots and apples or roses and daisies?  Pale pink tights stretch toward the mirror, peachy-leather toes and pink nails point at me.  We will dig between our ankles and make a hole, plant a pretend seed, let our fingers sprinkle rain as they reach from heaven to our pretend dirt ankles.  The wind will blow as our backs twist from side to side.  Then, we’ll find our arms in that perfect en haut position as the sun shines so our plants will grow.  But first, we have the most important question of class.  Butterfly colors are important, for sure, but we always know that our butterflies will be some variation of pink.  This decision requires team-work and careful thought.  For this moment, my empty gas tank, my sister’s new boyfriend, my mad-dash to get home in time for trivia night, those don’t matter.  For now, the only decision that has to be made isn’t even mine to make.  For now I just offer, “what shall we grow today?”