Minor Dilemma

Yesterday Chris and I led worship at church. Well, Chris led, and I followed him in leading. He and our friend Dave played guitars/ piano (they both played both... switching here and there) leaving me feeling totally inadequate only being able to offer my vocal ability. I can't even do the egg- shaker thing... too much responsibility! So, it was really great, all except that I had a small break down during the rehearsal before the first service. And, it really wasn't a break down, but for all practical purposes, we'll call it that on the blog. It was just this song, it's so... me. Like I can totally relate, I think this song was written just for me. (You know what I'm saying?) So, it wasn't that I was fearful of singing a solo, or the notes, or the accompanist or anything like that- I can always press on- plow through with a vengeance, it was just the words.

Jesus, Lover of My Soul (this video is kinda lame- like poor screen-saver images that didn't make the final cut.... but it's the song, nonetheless)

"It's all about You, Jesus
and all this is for you
for Your glory and Your fame
It's not about me,
as if You should do things my way
You alone are God and I surrender, to Your way.

Jesus, Lover of My Soul
All consuming fire, is in Your gaze
Jesus, I want You to know
I will follow You, all my days
For no one else in history is like You,
History itself belongs to You
Alpha and Omega, You have loved me
And I will spend eternity with You."

To me, the "all this" in the "all this is for You" meant: this service, the church I'm in, this song, this coming together with other Christians, this sacrifice of praise that is a sweet sound in Your Ear. All this day in and day out. Family, tears, struggles, gardening, writing, dancing, quiet moments laying on a quilt with my husband outside on the grass- It's all for You. Not for me. All this. All this hoop-la Sunday in and Sunday out; if it's not for God, then what are we doing?

I stopped singing, bowed my head to the floor and put the microphone against my forehead and started crying. Chris freaked out a bit. Dave kept playing and singing harmony. The sound guy and producer lady are like, "What the heck... What's going on...?" (Again, during pre-service warm-up.) So, I tell Chris, "It's not the song, it's not the notes or my lack of ability here, it's just the words... It's something in me. I'll be okay. And if I cry, ya'll keep on trucking through.. God doesn't care. And neither should anyone else." He got it. Chris knows how to handle me by now. And I know, if I take a deep breathe and pray about it, I'll be okay. God can use me, even if I start to choke up. (FYI, I made it through both services just fine, to tears- Yay.)

Like the time when I was seventeen and sang, "How Great Thou Art" at my Nana's funeral. I just had to do it. I had to do it for my Grandaddy and I just couldn't think about it right then. I just had to get the song out and think later. So, that is what I did yesterday, I thought about how I just had to get the message out. Anyway, all this to say, I've been thinking about the "all this" alot. And how it's "not about me" like I usually live everyday. I want to live an outward life, a life that gives and doesn't receive so much. This summer I've learned the importance of humility and simpleness- they're not so bad. But, this whole living outward- it requires giving & also being around people, which isn't so bad either.

All this: autumn air, giggles over coffee, shoulder rubs, fall foliage, taking a friend to dinner, phone calls to family, digging in the soil, inviting someone to come sit on your couch with you, eat pizza, and watch a movie, sponsoring kids in far away places, creating scripts and websites and songs and recipes, forgiving and listening and loving and outstretched arms- It's all for You. Not Me.

Choices

Ambivalence is a state of having simultaneous, conflicting feelings toward a person or thing. Stated another way, ambivalence is the experience of having thoughts and emotions of both positive and negative valence toward someone or something. (wikipedia)

Today during my writing class I submitted an essay I'm in the process of writing called I Don't Do Kids. A classmate felt that the overarching theme of my paper was ambivalence, and I concur. Children vs. Freedom, Superficial Stef vs. Soulful Stef, The life/ lifestyle of my best friend vs. my current life/ lifestyle

Someone else told me that my writing was earthy, direct and poignant. This made me smile- earthy, Earthy- my momma would be proud. It made me happy that someone thought my writing was lyrical- alive; sustaining life, soul, pets and plants. I'm frank, real, vulnerable and write as a seeker. At least that's what they said.... But, I like to think that I write while I am seeking. Without writing it down, I don't feel like I'd ever arrive. I don't think that my writing will answer the questions, but perhaps help make sense of the crap I deal with.

So, yeah, it's a gray area for me; growing up- deciding where to embrace being 29 and where to say, "You know I'm sort of too old for Hello Kitty spirals." There are three choice

A: The conventional life,

B: The unconventional life, or

C: The life I make for myself.

But ultimately won't I choose A or B? There really is no C, I'm slowly learning. I only think there's a C; a way to live an unconventional life in a conventional world, taking a dab from here and a smear from there and making a recipe all unto myself. I'm afraid it won't work.

This is a random excerpt from that essay: (pre-editing....)

I don't have a problem getting to sleep. I slumber hard and heavy, curled up in the fetal position, my knees in Chris’s back.

However, as a child stomach cramps inflicted me after the house got quiet and still and everything was dark. I would tiptoe into my parent’s bedroom late at night and barely whisper, “Momma, my tummy hurts.”

“Do you need to use the bathroom?” she would ask.

“No.”

“Are you gonna throw-up?”

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?” This was a half-asleep, half-hearted response to what seemed like a very real problem to me.

“I don’t know, my tummy just doesn’t feel good,” I’d say.

“Go back to bed Stefani.” Sometimes she’d give me charcoal capsules just to appease me.

At night, I would let my mind run away with me, yank me firmly by the wrist and drag me through the most horrific episodes my eleven-year-old mind could imagine; most of them having to do with loosing my parents, or our house burning down, or robbers wearing full ski masks entering my bedroom. I’d worry whether or not the garage door was locked, if my sisters were still breathing, or if my dad was going to fall off the tractor and run over himself. (I’m pretty sure this had to do with the movie Man in the Moon.)

I would think of that verse in the Bible that says “the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night,” which scared the crap out of me. Lying there in my Miss Piggy sleep shirt I’d be so deeply bothered; troubled by something I couldn’t even verbalize.

This is where I found myself one night this month.

Winter Reserves

The long, lazy days of summer are drawing to a close and I have been storing up my Vitamin D on the sundeck. In no time at all I will be depleted again, longing for sunshine. I do love the Fall, it is my favorite time of year, but the summer has been exceptionally enjoyable this year. And lets, be honest, NY Fall's are much cooler than Texas Fall's. Today it is 68 degrees and it's still August.

I've been sweating out my impurities and stresses up on the sundeck most of the summer. This summer has been a time of reflection and I think I may have finally learned to chill-out a little. I look forward to routine again, but I am sort of dreading the routine as well. I don't want my life to be routine. To be full of "no surprises" and boring. Yes, even in NYC you can choose to live unto yourself, shelled up in a little cave of an apartment: one room, a mattress, a bookshelf, some canned corn, dirty clothes and a 2 liter of Diet Coke gone flat.

I think one thing I have learned this summer is that I need people, even when and maybe especially when, I don't think I do. I need my friend who is the Asst. Beauty Editor for a nationally recognized magazine. She takes me to movies and brunch and makes me get out. And sometimes she hooks me up with free beauty products. She's the kind of friend you don't have to have plans with. Sometimes we just go to Bed, Bath and Beyond together, or return stuff to Dwayne Reade. I need my foodie friends to introduce me to things like chocolate covered strawberry cupcakes, toasted marshmallow milkshakes and Frickles; my southern friends who miss Sonic and Hobby Lobby just as much as I do. People who know what Bluebell is and can clap on the "boom-chuck" correctly during Victory in Jesus. (People who know Victory in Jesus for that matter.)

I need my church girlfriends who, like me, may be childless and/or jobless. Girls with passion, who love this city some days and hate it on some days too. People who understand what it means to be called to a city- a place, even if it is for a season of their lives. Women who are nurses or actresses or writers or social workers or dancers or employees at The Container Store. Women from Texas and California and Connecticut and Massachusetts and North Carolina and Canada who are here now.

The girl who told me that my job does not define me. The girls who taught me that it's fine raking in a ton of dough as a receptionist, when you get your true enjoyment out of life from something else: producing, singing, acting, writing... whatever it may be. I love my ladies because they know the real me and love me nonetheless. They know I have weight issues and self-esteem debacles and sometimes loath the fact that my family lives far, far away. They know I don't want pets or kids (not in this 500 square foot studio anyway). They know I sometimes lose myself in being too much of a Wifey Wife. They know how badly I just want to be myself and feel comfortable there.

And my dear friend still in Texas who has both a dog (in the house) and a kid. I need her too. My friend who said, "You never have to apologize for being yourself" when I wondered if the e-mail I had sent her came across insensitive and inappropriate. I was being a little too snarky. Her comment made me cry. Only a best friend could say something like that. And my sisters, so far away. They are truly God's gift to me; a connection I cannot explain- and I could never image my life without them. Even though I'm the eldest, they've taught me volumes about growing up. And they love on our momma for me when I'm not there. My mom- the ultimate heroine in the women who have poured life into me. My far away encouragement: I feel their support possibly more than ever before.

Tomorrow is my first writing class of the season. I am looking forward to seeing everyone again. Somehow, after being in two writing classes together (20 weeks) you feel like you really know folks. Honestly, they know stuff about me even my momma don't know! It's therapeutic. Monday Chris heads back to school; kids don't start until Sept. 9th, so at least he has some buffer time with the other principal. I'm ready to fall into Fall, to go buy some Fine Point Sharpies, post-it-notes, and mail some more submissions.

"For none of us lives to himself, and no one dies to himself." Romans 14:7-8 (vs. 8)

And just when I thought I'd seen it all...

I saw a woman wearing one of these today. I hope I am not the only person who finds this terribly, terribly disturbing.

If you don't know, or if I haven't stated this in a recent post- I don't do pets. Or kids. But, I'll be nice to yours. I will I really will. I even cat sit from time to time. I like outside dogs. Just don't ask me to wear one of these. EVER. Okay?

Getting Out of This Place

I have 100% confidence in Chris's motorcycle driving abilities. I do. I wouldn't even consider getting on the back of a motorcycle if I didn't think he knew what he was doing. He's careful, aware, responsible and all of this is heightened when I am with him. Having stated this, riding in and out of New York City is a nightmare. Even on a random Thursday afternoon, getting out of Manhattan took a FOR-EV-ER. I trust my husband, it's everyone else that I don't like being on the road with.

There is the illegal immigrant without a drivers license in the POS beside us that is about to loose it's bumper. I've never noticed so many vans with ladders strapped to the top- and what if one of these decided to come off? A "black car" (you know, one of those car services people with money use instead of taxis) rode our bumper the last mile or so in the Bronx. Chris yelled at him. I flinched.

"He has passengers with him," Chris reassured me.

"Good," I yelled back "At least that way he won't shoot at me. Witnesses."

Stopping and going, stopping and going. It's awful. Want to "get out and hit the open road?" Yeah, it's not going to happen until you are about seventy miles outside of the city. After we got upstate we got on Highway One, which was scenic and homey. We continued on this way into Greenwich, Connecticut and ate a late lunch (3:00 or so) in Norwalk. We had gone 45 miles in 4 hours. Granted we stopped at a gorgeous city park and took the less traveled road instead of Interstate 95, but still.

It's frightening out there. I mean, when we had to stop in the Bronx and refer to the iPhone for directions to get the heck out of this city, there was nothing between me and Mr. Scary Man. At least in a car I have a wanna-be metal door. A lock. Something. On a motorcycle it's just me and him. Okay, and my 6'5" husband, which doesn't hurt. I turned the diamond on my engagement ring toward my palm. I tried to look nonchalant. Like, "Oh yeah, I'm not a pretty white girl from the Upper East Side. I live in Harlem, as a matter of fact, and I can kick your ass." I don't think anyone would ever buy that, but I tired.

What if someone's hubcap came flying off- hitting my arm at 70+ miles per hour, or worse decapitating me. I realize these things could happen while riding a motorcycle anywhere, but in Texas is was so much easier to get away. To find space. To not sit in traffic for two hours. A van merged a little to quickly to my liking at what point I yelled out, "Cuss words" at the top of my lungs. Literally. I just yelled, "Cuss words. Cuss you, you stupid van."

Then, there was the lady smoking pot. While driving. In the car beside us. And this was in the quaint and wealthy community of Rye, New York. This was your mom smoking pot while driving her 2008 Toyota Camry. I'm serious. Chris is all, "Do you smell that?" And I'm like, "Yeah." And he's like, "Someone is smoking pot." So, I start scanning the sidewalks for someone smoking. This went on for a minute or so. "Where is that coming from?" Then, we see the nice looking lady in a business suit who is DRIVING HER CAR, take one last hit and roll up her window. Are you freaking kidding me!?

After we decided to head home, I kept asking Chris if I could just get on the Metro North Rail and take it back to Penn Station. I'm pretty sure I said, "I am so done with this" no less than ten times. He would not allow me board the train, but he did say riding with me hanging on the back of the motorcycle added stress to his trip.

"If I lay this bike over, I can just roll out of it, or you know..."

"Or die," I pipe in.

"Yeah, or die. But you're with me. And I can't let you die. I have to take care of you."

It was a Dark and Stormy Night...

And that it was. Tuesday night the rains came down. For about twenty minutes we had a real downpour. Chris was adamant about getting the camera out the capture the lightening we were seeing all around the city. So, we paused The Godfather and he got some great shots.

As it turns out the movie wasn't nearly as bad as I anticipated, except that it is a little on the lengthy side for my personal movie viewing taste.

So, we ate junk food and watched our movie, after the brief storm rolled through. We were discussing how many Combos were in a 1/3 of a cup- because that is how the nutritional information is stated. I mean come on, just say "10 Combo's have 170 calories..." But no, it is 1/3 of a cup. I said only 5 or 6 would be a 1/3 of a cup, but my brainy, ex-math teacher now principal husband can fit many more Combos in a 1/3 of a cup than I can. (These are the things married people do. Fun stuff I know.) Combos, I mean I don't think I've had those since I was a fifteen-year-old girl at youth camp. Combos, Bugles, Hot Fries, Corn-nuts, and that spray, canned cheese- these were the snacks that filled our cabin. Oh, processed, non-nutrient containing, junk food. I think my mom sent me with fruit leather.

Today we did go on a motorcycle ride into Connecticut, but I will save that story for tomorrow. A little more exciting than a bag of Combos and some lightening.

story

Tonight Chris and I went to a literary event. A small venue where authors read excerpts from their work. My memoir instructor is the co-curator for the event. The Mixer is held at a venue in the Lower East Side known as Cake Shop. Upstairs a sweet, eclectic, vegan friendly cafe, downstairs a bar and semi-stage-type area. Only large enough for about 50-60 people.

So I sat on my bar stool and drank my $6.00 Yellow Tail Pinot Noir. So what, there there wasn't cover. And the way I see it $6.00 isn't a bad price to pay for inspiration and mingling with other writer-type-people for a couple hours.

I love free events like this; events that leave me loving my city and feeling that I DO have something to give.

(Yes, this is a picture of me sitting in B&N yesterday with my jug-o-water on one side and coffee on the other. And yes, I was looking at tattoo books. Big, oversized coffee-table books with images of tattoos. I'll leave it at that.)

it's time

it's time for me to be in bed, but I couldn't resist posting this darling, sweet picture of Baby Tessa. (sigh...)

I watched The Godfather tonight. For the FIRST TIME. Last night we watched the the first movie and tonight, the second, which Chris told me, "is the BEST one of the three" and is in his top ten best movies of all time. Tessa's mom LOVES the Godfather movies too. Me personally, I don't even have a top five. I can't even name five movies I love. Sue me.

Today was spent snooping around the new Barnes and Noble in our neighborhood. I just love bookstores, even if they are conglomerates or chains that charge way to much. Books, books everywhere. And journals and pens and bookends shaped like dolphins. I bought "Searching For God Knows What" by Donald Miller with my $25 gift card. I even had enough left over to get Chris and me some coffee. I loved "Blue Like Jazz" and have been told that I must read this book as well. Today, I was reminded of countless hours spent in the B&N in Tyler, Texas when it was the nearest city I could drive to (45 minutes away) with the biggest population (80,000+). This was the coolest place a seventeen-year-old could go. This afternoon, after getting home from the bookstore with my "list" I put in my requests to the local NY Public Library. I will pick them up from the Hold counter tomorrow. I read too much to buy, buy, buy- even though I'd love to. I LOVE BOOKS!

I have been lax in my writing and submitting since Chris has been home and I guess that is okay. August 30th is another literary deadline, but more importantly MOST literary magazines BEGIN receiving submissions again Sept. 1st. And sometime in the coming month I will plan my trip back to Texas to meet Tessa. I am also looking forward to my writing class starting up again in a couple weeks and I can't wait to get back in the groove; to be held accountable once more. Writing is often very lonely and I like being around people who "get me" who "get it" when it comes to the writing thing.

My goal is just to sit and write. Until the story tells itself. I have been told if I will just sit and write the story that needs to come out will find it's way onto the page. And I guess that is true.

Here's to inspiration.

(and ya'll I know this post is poo-poo, but it's 1:04AM and I can't edit so, Goodnight. I'll be more literary and inspiring tomorrow.)

Not as Good as it Looks

When I was about four years-old I went to the supermarket with my mother- a regularly uneventful event. On this particular shopping trip I was given the opportunity to pick a treat for myself. And I chose a pink Snowball. I chose it because it was pink. My mother told me that I would not like it, but I didn't care; it was pretty. She tried to warn me that it would not as taste as good as it looked, but I insisted. I remember returning home and getting a huge mouthful of marshmallowy, pink, stringy-ness. I was devastated. I also have a very vivid memory of my dad taking a small bite and saying, "Ah Stef, this is so great. Yummy." This was his effort to rescue me from my tantrum; his dad way of saying, "Listen kid, it really tastes like crap, but it's not the end of the world, as you are acting like it is." I'm sure he tried to divert my attention to my Fisher Price farmhouse or a board game. But, I had none of it. I'd heard this tone before. Like the time he told me, "Mmmmmm, just put more ketchup on the meat-loaf. It tastes great." I didn't subscribe to this drama simply to appease my mother. (I must say I am not a picky eater, and my mother, God bless her, only made meat-loaf for us once. After no one ate it, she never made it again. I think my dad actually enjoyed the stuff, but none of us girls would touch it.)

My experience with the pink snowball made me mad. How could something so pretty taste so disgusting? However, this is why I was not as surprised when I chose the sprinkled donut. Again, I selected the most visually stimulating of my choices. Donuts were something Memaw bought for us- even if they remained uneaten. Whether she was visiting us, or we were visiting her, a box of donuts was always within reach.

Donuts and sugary treats were not an everyday thing in our home, but were reserved for special occasions- and later Friday afternoons. Fridays after school my sisters and I got to choose a candy bar and a soda from the gas station on our way home. I consistently chose a Milky Way and a Dr. Pepper. My youngest sister always chose Sprite and some sugary candy like Skittles or Starburst or Sour Patch Kids. I never understood why she didn't choose chocolate. It seemed like an obvious choice to me.

This is a little treat called an eti puf that I found downstairs at what I refer to as "The Turkish Market" but it's real name is "Straight from the Market." They offer the freshest produce and dairy products at reasonable prices. But, my favorite are the rare finds - fresh dates, halava, Tahini butter, and Greek yogurt. And now the edi puf. This is a Turkish dessert that is similar to a graham cracker with a marshmallow top. It reminded me of the snowball in appearance but tastes so much less offensive. They sell them 4/ $1.00 at the register and I am a sucker for the "add ons." Pop it in the microwave for about 8 seconds and you have a lazy persons S'Mores.

I am a sugar addict in my old age. I like things now that I never considered in my youth: Twizzlers, Sugar Daddy, Charleston Chews and (my new favorite) LICORICE. Specifically, Good-N-Plenty. Now, I know that this is not "real" licorice, but there is just something about that hard, candy shell! And..... IT'S PINK!!!!

Return

photo by Casey Jay Benson

I found this poem I wrote over ten years ago - about Chris. I thought it was appropriate for his recent homecoming.

SOMETHING TANGIBLE

I’m very aware

that in a moment

you will be here,

have me and hold me in your arms;

accepting my body as it is.

This life will boom with flavor

when you meet me here,

on this pathway,

transforming our world

into a realm of star visions.

Colors flashing before us

unknown to the human eye.

Without ties and bonds

I know we would still hold.

Moving in the patterns of prestigious persons,

dangling our legs with the grace

of free flying dancers.

Should you not come,

meeting me across these

towering pillars of anticipation,

I will collapse.

For love is not easy

when all you have to hold onto

is a collection of tattered treasures

in a shoebox.

Feb. 1998 /

I guess I've always had it really bad for him. But I am grateful for the multiple break-ups, time apart, mistakes, other boyfriends (mistakes that were other boyfriends....) and all the growing up we did before we getting married in 2006. I wouldn't change a thing.

Relationships Trump Vision

There is a lady at our church who smokes on the front steps. Didn't someone tell her that this is wrong? Doesn't she know what she's doing?

She's been coming to church for a couple months now. She sits on the front row during the second service. She sings with all she has, even though all the words are new to her. She claps and sways and does her best to fit in. (Sadly, enough, in churches too, many people feel like they don't fit in.) Sunday she fell asleep during the sermon. Somewhere in II Corinthians 8 she found rest. Somewhere between "sacrificial giving" and "having our identity wrapped up in the temporal" her head fell heavy against her chest.

I've only said "Good Morning" to her a couple times. I've never asked her name. I've never shook her hand. And honestly, after thinking "What does she think she's doing stomping out her cigarette on the church steps!" for about two seconds I got over it. Bring on the sin. Bring it into the church. Get a big wheelbarrow and fill it with your Playboy magazines and beer bottles. Throw in the anger you have toward your dad and the frustration you feel everyday at work. Whatever your burden, struggle, addiction... bring it in. I'll help you carry it up the steps and you can dump all that crap right next to my pile of insecurity, pride, expensive shoes and dieting books. Sinners sin. That's what we do. And lonely, seekers are coming here because it's somewhere that offers something that they can't find on Madison Avenue or at their job Monday - Friday.

It's time that the church do what it was called to do. LOVE. We must realize that some things are just going to be crummy and some people will never see things our way and all the resources may not ever be there, BUT we have to give God a chance to be God. We have to make a difference where we can. To people who smoke on the church steps and cuss in the sanctuary and take a few extra bagels for later during coffee hour. Who cares? Jesus said, "Love thy neighbor." Period. And they all don't wear Seven Jeans and Brooks Brothers suits. They all don't know John 3:16 or how to pray or that Jesus loves them.

*the title Relationships Trump Vision is from Dave Gibbons, author of The Monkey and the Fish

Love God. Love my Neighbor. Period.

My time alone has whizzed by. Chris has been gone since July 5th, and I feel like I have been careless and wasteful with all the hours that I've had between then and now. Sister, followed by sister, followed by unexpected house guest. Working and book study and summer engagements-- the days have been full of activity. Not that I am complaining about the amazing experiences or discoveries I've had this summer, I am just fearful that I didn't get done what I started out to achieve.

Then again, I think in and through it all, perhaps I did. Doing something wasn't what I wanted to do at all. I wanted to learn. I wanted to see what I could see if I'd just look. Instinctively I am thrilled at checking things off a list and getting things "taken care of." But I think this summer, God just wanted me to be still and experience Him through life and living and not in some mental or brainy way. There is a time and place for studies and retreats and binders, but I think God just wanted me to live and see Him in everything. He wanted me to know and believe that I live and breathe and exist to point directly to Him.

So now, everyone is gone, the part-time summer job is over, Wednesday is the last day of my book study and Chris will be home in the next 48 hours perhaps. I pray I was open to receive. I hope that I am willing to run with reckless abandon into the next season of my soul. What will I bring as an offering- a sacrifice- a gift? Will I lay it down and leave it there, knowing that my God is a loving God and that He longs to give me the desires of my heart?

"The main thing separating you from God is not sin if you are amiable with words. Repentance for wrongdoing is just one more thing to do. " Tim Keller. The key to renewal is not repentance for sin, but repenting where I find myself doing it good enough. Where I don't think I need God anymore. Where I think I've got leverage on God. Being right with God must become more important than being right - even if I think other peoples ways, motives, and ideas are not good or genuine or sincere. God didn't ask me for my opinion. I am just called to be a follower of Jesus Christ.

Misuderstanding

So, after my previous post, my husband is all "What do you mean your going to quit wearing sundresses- don't get rid of that purple one. And why do you want to grow up? And you don't want kids anytime soon do you? And I like you in headbands. What's gotten into you woman?!"

So, I just want to say that yes, I am still fulling embracing my youth and I'm not going to start wearing control-top underwear anytime soon. I am fine with living a cramped life in a STUDIO apartment in NYC. I am fine with eating oatmeal for dinner and wearing a bikini and I'm still considering tattoos. Just this last Sunday I was a little too short and too tight at church- God forgive me! Well, not really too short, but too tight. And I was singing on the Praise Team. "You look good, maybe a little too good," my Worship Director told me. I took her advice and wore my light sweater. (Thank God for her discernment and saving my butt from looking like a fool up there singing about God's goodness and mercy all the while shaking what my momma gave me.)

I'll be honest, it's hard to avoid the young, hip, short tight clothes. This is the best my body has looked in my entire life. And for that I am proud.... but sometimes I get caught up in the appearance thing....and for that I am a little embarrassed. I want to buy the shorter and the tighter because I never got to when I was 21.

People always, always assume that I am younger than I really am. And for a long time it bothered me. I took it as a complete insult. Am I that insecure, immature, or irresponsible? (Sorry couldn't avoid the opportunity for alliteration.) Or is it just my chubby cheeks? Most recently, "Did you move to NYC to go to college?" WHAT? No, as a matter of fact I didn't! But, I will say most people I meet in the city look amazingly beautiful for their age. Young even. I contribute it to the lack of sunbathing and the lack of children induced stress!

Appearance aside, I just want to project a mature Stefani. I feel mature. Not boring or old or predictable just confident. I don't need a $350 handbag to fit into the crowd. I don't need the trendy shoe of the season to be accepted. And I sure as heck don't feel comfortable shopping at Strawberry, H&M or Forever 21. Are you kidding me? When I was 21 I was a wreck!

I hadn't even stepped into these stores until recently- with a gal pal of 21 years old. She can wear sparkly pink leggings and turquoise shirt dresses that barely cover her tush. I don't want to. I don't want to wear a t-shirt that says, "Little Miss. Sunshine" or "I want my MTV." The oversized peace-sign earrings and seashell necklaces- gotta go. But I am keeping my red velvet heels, my pink coach purse, and my spaghetti-strap dress I bought at Anthropologie. (I LOVE this store!!)

Last year my sisters (22 and 25 at the time) and I went out late one night in NYC. I think I was the oldest girl in the entire club. After playing Michael Jackson, Jay-Z, and the Beastie Boys the deejay put on something my 28-year-old body could not find the beat to. I became a wall-flower. I had a great night with my sisters but I quickly realized how I didn't fit into this scene and I was completely fine with that.

There is a bar in our neighborhood that makes Chris and me feel the same way. A co-worker of Chris' is a partial owner and even with the incentive of free drinks, I just really don't want to spend time in a loud, crowded bar with complete strangers. We are the oldest people there (and the only married.) I do this melancholy thing where I flaunt my ring and look totally bored. Beer pong, Yankees baseball and slimy chicken wings are not my thing. Nor are they Chris'. I've thrown in the towel on all this. I prefer the frozen yogurt place right next door to the bar- a vanilla cone with rainbow sprinkles!

Maybe it's getting comfortable with myself as much as it is growing up. Some things I value, others I don't. I will pay $45 for a Broadway show, but not $15 for a Mets game. I will spend $100 for a pre-fix dinner during restaurant week, but think $12 is too much for a movie.

Home is...

As of today, Chris has been gone for one month. That is a long time for us to be apart. Even considering my month-long, unexpected trip to Texas during February and March. This feels much longer. I know this is because I am the one left at home. I shouldn't say left, really. I don't want to be on the back of a bike, sleeping in a tent, wearing the same three pairs of pants for an entire month. That does not sound like fun at all. And I know Chris doesn't consider it fun, but an Adventure. Yes, that is what he is seeking. Adventure. Bring on the rains, the 40 degree nights, the flat tires and sunburns. Ah, my husband, the thrill seeker. Why do you think we dated for more than TEN years before we got married? We thrive on drama. Yes, yes we do.

All of that to say, he has had his share of Sturgis and the mayhem that abounds there. Last night he told me within a week to ten days he'll be back! So, as much as I want him to see whatever states are between South Dakota and here, I can't wait to see his hairy face again. (Oh, yeah, the "adventure" also includes limited shaving and bathing!)

This is the email I received from him yesterday explaining his leaving the bike rally:

"I mean, if you're a die-hard Aerosmith fan, $120 is not a bad price for a concert and you get to camp for free.

But I'm not.

And I'm not even a HUGE motorcycle fan, just a Big Fan and Enjoyerer.

I'm more of a traveling fan. Seeing the country. State by state.

I think that's why I'm ready to move on.

I AM a huge fan of boobs; but, I like yours the best.

They're like home for me. Home is wherever my wife's boobs are."

For the sheltered and clueless who don't know what Sturgis is: naked women, drinking and lots of rowdiness are on the agenda all day everyday.
Ah, my husband. Romantic isn't he.

(I tastefully stuck with a cartoon image here. This is a family friendly blog. Well, I try to keep it at least PG-13. And, I will not be posting any of Chris's pictures... He is a red blooded man and if women are gonna flash, then he's gonna look. I mean heck, I'd look.)

Keeping me Awake

I don't have a problem sleeping or getting to sleep. Just pop in The Godfather, some Adam Sandler movie or any romantic comedy- I will be out in less than thirty minutes guaranteed. Most every night I sleep well, curled up like a cat in the fetal position. Some nights I don't move at all- slumbering long and heavy.

Saturday night after my long, enjoyable day that ended with two glasses of red wine, I was distraught when I woke up abruptly at 2:45am. I was wide awake. My best friend in Texas had texted me earlier in the evening and said that her water had broke and she was headed to the hospital. That was at 6:00pm. After laying there consumed with thoughts of her, I texted her a single line saying that I was awake and thinking about her and her unborn baby. To my surprise she responded. No baby yet.

We wrote back and forth for awhile then I told her I better turn in and that I loved her dearly. (I had to be at church at 8:00am, which means I had to wake up at 6:30am, which I don't even do during the work week.) She is embarking on something totally selfless and brave and one of the greatest joys ever. Thinking about her, I laid in bed, wide awake and all alone until 4:50am.

I thought. I thought and prayed and wrote an entire chapter of a book in my head. I thought about how I am really a grown up now. I mean, as soon as I quit getting acne I started worrying about spider veins. I make sure all my face lotions and skin serums have SPF now, so I can avoid a wrinkly neck. I will be thirty in six months. I think I should get rid of my oversized, plastic beaded necklaces and my halter top from H&M. I mean really, Stefani? And that brown sundress with the pink stitching that I can't wear a bra with- I think I need to get rid of it too. Not that I want to appear matronly, or avoid baring my shoulders, I just think that to be treated maturely, then my appearance needs to stay, "I am a beautiful, strong, educated, confident woman" not "Hey, I partied too hard last night and can't find my undergarments."

I passed a book display at Barnes and Noble the other day and the girl on the cover of "What to Expect When Your Expecting" looked much younger than me. Is this what getting older feels like. Becoming an adult? When your closest friends are buying homes and having babies and making partner? I don't really want any of that right now which is why New York makes me feel normal. It accepts the single and the childless and the ones who want to play, experience, and wander like my husband and I do.

So, while our dearest friends became the parents of baby Tessa, my husband and I are spending time apart this summer. It isn't to get away, or avoid one another but to discover. It was bittersweet when I wished him well on July 5th and he headed toward the Pacific Ocean on motorcylce with nothing more than a backpack and a tent. He's on his pilgrimage. A "once in a lifetime opportunity." And while I know this to be true, I miss him with everything that is within me. I've been lonely. He's been really lonely. But it is good. He is seeing and listening and writing. And I am on a journey of my very own, even though I haven't left NYC at all this summer. There are places I have to go that he can not go with me.

So, while there is not a baby in our near future, I do feel older. I feel like I need to get my moles examined, not carry so much crap in my oversized handbag, and quit wearing headbands.