Too Much Sass

I just finished having a late lunch with my little sister, my twenty-three year old sister, at Grand Central Station. In less than two minutes I can be from my office to the clock in the center of Grand Central Station. I love my life.

Upon seeing my new flashy, sassy boots says to me, “I like them, and they are so you, but I would never wear them.” I told her how I loved them so much I wore them around our apartment all evening, even caressing the leather and wrapping the laces around my fingers as I sat on the couch at 10:00pm. When I told her I didn’t even want to take them off to go to sleep she says to me, “You’d have to knock me out to get those shoes on my feet.” These are shoes, just shoes. Not some torture devise, although some might argue…

I love them the same way I loved my black patent leather tap shoes I had when I was three-years-old, with the two eyelets and the big silk bow. Or my FIRST pair of red velvet shoes (yes, I've owned more than one), only they had gold butterflies on the outside of the toes which is how I remembered which shoe went on which foot.

The thing is my sister and I are so opposite. She likes spending money on mountain bikes and running shoes and camping gear and All-Clad double broilers. I like make-up and jewelry and shoes and handbags. This is why she bought me a pair of under armor underwear and a super absorbent camping towel for my birthday last year. And I got her some lip-gloss and a necklace.
But, I love her. We’re sisters and ourselves and honest and open. I can’t image not being great friends with my sisters.

Throughout the holidays my schedule was pretty loose; my sister has been here two weeks and will be here until January 11. My mom and two of her friends were here New Year’s week and we had a friend of Chris’s and his fiancé (his friend’s fiancé, not Chris’s) sleeping on our futon for four nights. But now, it’s all about reining it in, bringing the disorderly disarray to a screeching halt and getting back in a routine of some sort.

I try so hard to make sure everyone is taken care of and happy and pleased and is getting the desires of their heart met that it wears me out, because really, it’s not my job. I can only offer so many beverage options, wash so many towels, put so many varieties of tiny bits of cheese out for people who are probably lactose intolerant anyway. I hate saying that I am a people pleaser, but I want everyone to be 100% pleased 100% of the time, which I do realize will never happen, regardless of my efforts.

I have a control issue. I demand a lot out of myself- and from all you guys too! It’s so wrong. So, in all honestly I’ve been too self absorbed and lazy to write. I realize that I have an easy life, no pets, kids or oversized houseplants to tend to, and still I feel like I don’t get enough “me” time in each day. It’s the commute. And the cold/ dark weather. It’s the up at 5:30AM, go to gym, to work, to lunch break at my desk, to rehearsal, to CVS to get some more freaking toilet-paper and contact solution routine I’m in.

I do nothing, but I feel drained. I do nothing hard, I mean. I’m not productive in a way that I’d like to be, and yet, I crash at 10:30PM, before I even get to crack open one of the six or seven brand new books sitting on my bookshelf. Maybe I have a thyroid problem. Or a brain tumor. Or an imbalance in my hormone levels. OR maybe the fast pace of this city does begin to wear on you if you don’t take care of your priorities: community, fellowship, prayer and reading the Bible.

My gaze has begun to turn inward. My focus on myself. And this, I feel, is a daily, even hourly choice. To not become so self absorbed that you don’t even want to look at your checking account to face the reality of how much money you have spent on yourself- your desires, skin care, therapy and yoga classes. It’ pathetic, right? I’ll march on (in my new leather boots). Forward. 2010 or Bust.