Beauty-- Part 2

You may recall  that a couple of years ago,  I wrote a post on beauty.   I've been thinking about the concept more frequently these days as it relates to romantic relationships.  I met a new friend online a few months ago-- a person who has come to mean a great deal to me in a short time--though I won't elaborate any more than that.   I really don't have a clue where the relationship is headed, and in case things go south, there is no need to mar this post with gushy, saccharine remnants that will be hard for me to bear sometime later.

No sense chasing the ghost of a good thing before it's gone.

That being said, this person has really challenged me to think about how I define my own beauty.  Of course, I've always tried to subscribe to the cliche that it's "what's inside that matters."  

And, of course, that cliche is the honest truth.... God sees our souls and He has created them to be our real sources of value.  The bodies around them are just the casing.  The shell on the pistachio.  The skin on the sausage.  The oyster holding the pearl.

But who is going to pick up a rotten pistachio or a half-eaten hot dog (save a truly desperate situation) and think to themselves, "Mmmm... there must be something good for me in here?"

Chances are, the numbers are few.  

The same goes for people.  No matter the appeal of a person's wit; their intelligence; their imagination, the individual looking to be in a relationship with them must also find them attractive from a physical perspective.  Our society has been conditioned to view the worth of others as somehow tied to their outward appearance.  

Everyone can see that conditioning now by looking in magazines or mainstream media, and it is often played by interest groups to be a recent development.  However, these kind of outward judgments based on physical appearance have existed since the beginning--with the "clean and the unclean" distinctions created by MAN in the Bible; with slavery; with the "Ugly Laws" which actually banned people with physical disabilities from city streets.

Society has always been judging others based on their outward appearances.  Why?  Because we are humans.  It is not the individuals we judge who are flawed, but the judgments that we make of them.  

What difference does the color of an oyster make when the pearl inside is just as precious?

Even in church, I have been taught all my life that men, by their nature, are primarily superficial... as though it is something that I am just supposed to take as fact and accept.  But aren't those of us who believe in God to be held to a higher standard than that of the world when searching for a mate?  

God gives HIS standards for how to appraise beauty, specifically in a woman., in Proverbs 31.  All of those standards have everything to do with her virtue, and nothing to do with her height, weight, hair color, or choice of clothing.  

"Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies."  --Proverbs 31:10

Basically what the writer is trying to get across here, and in this whole chapter, is that the way a woman acts toward others, toward her husband, toward her family, and toward the tasks of her daily life is the way that God determines her worth. 

Shouldn't we be using His standards for our own? 

Not the symmetry in her face, or the style of her hair, or the height of her stilettos.... but the symmetry of her actions with His Word, the style of her interactions with the world around her, and the height of her integrity and her character.

I'm not saying that we should ignore how a person looks altogether.  We can't do that.  We are humans, after all... but the funny thing is.... I've found the more you get to know about the beauty that a person carries with her, the more you see that beauty every time she looks at you.  Think about it.  The more you get to know about a person after you meet them, the more or less attractive they become-- regardless of how beautiful you perceived them to be "in the beginning (of the relationship)," so to speak.

Maybe if more of us focused on inner attributes rather than outward appearances, we'd partner with people who truly complimented us in the ways we need for the relationship to last.

Maybe if we taught young girls to focus more on acts of service to others and development of life-worthy skills rather than learning how to dress on trend or wear their hair like the celebrities, they'd believe more in themselves and their own abilities.

Maybe if young single women in the church weren't taught that the superficiality of man is a forgone conclusion, but rather that the right kind of man will care more about their soul, they wouldn't enter into abusive relationships; or settle because they just felt like they were getting too old or didn't deserve any better; or compromise their values because they convince themselves that there's no other way to find a husband.

I'm not saying that outward beauty doesn't matter at all.  In fact, I've been feeling pretty gorgeous on the outside lately... but that's because I know that the source of my beauty doesn't come from Macy's, or the MAC store, or Ann Taylor Loft, but it is a product of the decisions I have made and the positive attributes given to me by God shining through.      

Husband-hunting.... You Keep Using That Word. I Do Not Think It Means What You Think It Means

Everybody who knows me well knows I want to find that special someone.  And you also know that I'm not afraid to just walk up to a random guy and say hi-- in the mall, at the library, in the coffeeshop, wherever. 

I wasn't always so outgoing.  I was the type of girl who would walk into the party and make best friends with the chair closest to the wall... and I'd sit in that chair and people-watch.  I'd watch dancing and laughter and drinks sloshing and spilling all over the floor.  I'd watch hook-ups and make-ups and break-ups, all the while feeling as though I wanted to be a part of the action.  I'd sit in my-new-best-friend-the-chair and lament that no one was approaching me and my ice was melting.  I shouldn't have come anyway.

And then my backside would start to hurt (See, even the chair got tired of my pity party). 

I'd hop up from the chair to tell myself I was going to make a new friend, when really, I was just inching sideways toward the exit.  And just then, in the dimly-lit, crowded, hot sea of people, the most wonderful thing would happen.  My crutch would slip on a piece of ice, a napkin, a straw, a lost earring, whatever--- and I would fall.

Suddenly, my body would be sprawled out across the floor like one of those chalk drawings at a crime scene, with a man flanking me at each side offering his assistance.

Voila!  The concept of husband hunting was born.

husband-hunting: (noun)  1) falling usually done in a face-first position, also known as a face-plant, and landing in a precarious, and at times, embarrassing position.  Husband-hunting falls are most often accomplished in a dress or skirt, such that the lady-like or modest nature of the person falling is somewhat compromised in the course of the fall, and are also connoted by the fact that the first individuals to rush to the aid of the fallen person are usually members of the gender preferred by the person falling.

I have husband-hunted on the Metro.  I have husband-hunted in the rain.  I have husband-hunted in a few office buildings.  I have even husband-hunted on a train  The key to husband-hunting though is that it takes even the hunter by surprise.  You never know when  your next expedition is going to occur.

Does all this hunting actually point you toward a partnership-worthy person?  That is somewhat up for debate, since current studies are inconclusive. (Read: Most of the guys who've helped me up are married).  But, for me, that's not really what all those times have been about.  I mean, sure, it would be cool to have this damsel -in-distress moment and be rescued by someone who would later go on to become the man of my dreams.... but.... for me, thinking of my embarrassing falls this way has really helped me to come out of my shell in some small way-- to begin speaking to people who I would have been afraid to approach otherwise; or to just let go of constantly worrying about what someone else thinks or might be thinking they do or do not see in me (with a couple of notable exceptions probably to be detailed in the next blog entry).

I'm not saying that in order to be ok with who you are it's necessary just to go all willy-nilly flailing yourself across all of the slick floors in America. My point is that we all have those mortifying moments that push us to the brink of our comfort zone, and sometimes beyond.  In those times, it is important that we don't shut down, degrade ourselves, or bury our thoughts in our own perceptions.  Reach out.  Meet a new person.  Learn something new about yourself and how you handle different types of situations.  There is always positive in every negative situation, and most often, the positive aspect is the lesson that God, or fate, or life in general is pushing you to learn.    

Somebody's Prize

Dating is kind of like eating a box of Cracker Jacks...

Sometimes a little sweet.  Sometimes a little salty.

Sometimes it leaves a bad tickle stuck in your throat that you can't seem to drink enough water to flush out...

But mostly, you're just sifting through the sweet and the salt and the crunch and the tickle, just to find the prize.  That tiny piece of red, white and blue paper at the bottom of the box that contains your personal square of guaranteed fun.

It could be a sticker, or a tiny picture book, or even a temporary tattoo.  Oh, you hope it's a temp tattoo... you can show that off at school tomorrow...

But once you've opened the prize, it is what it is. You don't get to put it back and reach in for another.  You don't get to choose.  Perhaps that's the only thing that dating has on Cracker Jacks-- it lets you choose your own prize.You're not stuck with a butterfly picture book.  If you really want the Popeye tattoo, you can hold out until you find it.

As a woman, I've always been told that I am the prize-- the tiny (hourglass) of guaranteed fun that a guy should hold out for, and be excited to receive.

Most of the time I believe that; I meet men online and they extoll my virtues and gush about my beauty (from what they see of me in pictures) and tell me that I am one of the most intelligent women they've ever met.

And then we meet in person.... and though it might not be at the beginning of the date... at some point in the date, I'll get that look.  The one that says they've been sifting through the box too long looking for what they expected to be a decoder ring... but what turned out to be a book of Aquaman stickers.

That I am a prize.  Just not the one they want.

You see, love is a choice.  And while they may love a million things about me that they can't see in my outward appearance, they have to also choose to love the package those things come in.

And though I think I'm pretty awesome, I'll be the first to admit to you that if I had been a Barbie, I would have broken through Mattel's mold with one swish of my spastic hip and a five-phalanged toe curl.

I'm not your typical girl... and the men who have loved me (few though they may be) have loved that about me. 

You see, love is a choice.  And I am a prize.  I am better than a thousand decoder rings and temporary tattoos, and I know it.

I'm just waiting for the right guy, sifting through the box, to pick me out and go, "Oh, cool!  I've never seen one like this before!  I'll give her a try!"

Because I know that once he makes that choice, he won't want to put me back.  And the rest will be our own sweet and salty history.  

All or Nothing

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I love the feeling of sweat pouring down my back after a long workout, or the warm ache in my muscles the morning after my first run in awhile.  I love pushing my body to complete and sheer physical exhaustion.  You could say my fitness soundtrack is usually the John Mellencamp song "Hurt So Good" on repeat.  I love competing with myself, and seeing just how far I can go.  I'm an all or nothing type of girl.  If I'm going to do something, I'm going to give it my best or I might as well not do it at all. 

I take that attitude in all aspects of my life: work, school, personal relationships.  In fact, when I was struggling with school last semester because I had no time and was always stressed to the max, my professor just kept telling me to turn "something" in even if I just threw it together.  I had the hardest time doing that, because I had been raised to do my best and try my hardest.  If I try my hardest at something, there's no need for an excuse, no room for tears, and no shame in the outcome, whether good or bad.  How much I work at something and how much I give myself over to the completion of any given task is sometimes the one thing I can control about a situation.

Being my best self is the one gift that I can give to myself every single day.   I remind myself of this in my dating life all the time.  I can only be who I am, and who I am is always good enough.  It is so hard to see that sometimes, when I meet so many guys who say things like, "You're a great girl.  You're so beautiful.  I love your personality.   You're going to make some man very happy.... but we're such good friends."

Right.  I'm going to make some man so happy-- just not you.  I'm great, and wonderful, and everything you should want.... but no thanks.  Then I start to wonder... what is it?  It has to be me.... if I'm so amazing, and admirable, and attractive... WHAT IS THE DEAL??!!

And then I look down, and I see my arm braces and think, "This must be it.  THIS has to be the reason that I'm 31 and a half and still single.  It's not because I'm not smart or pretty or don't understand football or can't cook a pot roast.  It's these metal sticks and their invisible purple force field."

And for a split second... I want to hurl them out the window.  I want to spew a million curse words and jump up and down and feel sorry for myself, because somewhere in the back of my head, that small chip on my shoulder is telepathically reassuring me that if I just let myself be angry, I'll feel better.  And you know what?  Sometimes I do.   When I come home from a date with a guy who propositions me for sex after one cup of coffee when all we've discussed online before meeting is our desire to find someone else who loves God.... when I am rejected by someone else with a disability because he can't handle the fact that I don't drive.... when a guy cuts a meeting short after 5 minutes in person because he can't deal with the fact that my "injury" isn't "temporary."  Sometimes, I come home and crank up Alanis Morisette full blast and cry and sob into my pillow and just let it out. I worry about whether I'll ever be able to feel my Daddy's hand at my side as he walks me down the aisle; whether I'll get to plan details and go dress shopping with Mama.  "Will I ever hear any tiny voice call me "Mommy?  Should I just give it up now?  Since I can't have it all... do I really deserve anything?"  I let myself feel bad. 

That's ok.  It's healthy.  No one loves herself 100%, 100% of the time.  But this girl... the Alanis- Morisette-screaming, self-pitying, arm-brace-hurling, sailor-mouth....  she's not my best self.  She's not the lady I want to be, and she's certainly not the woman I want to become-- spending the next 10-15 years of my life skulking around my apartment, Miss Havisham-style, ruminating on what might have been.

What might have been is not what is, and what is is all that matters.  The fact is that sometimes guys aren't attracted to me because of my arm braces.  Sometimes it's my hair color.  Sometimes it's my accent.  Sometimes, it's no particular reason at all. 

All I can do is keep waking up every day and giving myself my best.  Whether anyone else sees my best as what they want in their lives is completely ancillary.  If am at my best, I know I'm good enough for me, and I'm striving to please God.  In the end, no matter what happens to me while I'm on this Earth, the effort I put into making myself my best is between the two of us anyway.   

Freedom.

In the days leading up to my skydiving adventure, I had pictured myself jumping feet first out of the plane, charging almost, William-Wallace-style. "Freedom!"

In reality, I could yell nothing. The wind hit my face at such an alarming fast pace that I felt as though I was stuck inside an air conditioner. I wanted to look at my instructor, Mario, and tell him to turn back, but I had made a commitment. My altimeter said 13,000 feet and there was nowhere to go but down. I was going down headfirst.

I had not been nervous the entire day. I had seen other divers take off and land. I had met two lawyers, a cop, and a middle school English teacher. All of them jumped out of planes every weekend and obviously lived to tell about it, so why did I need to be concerned?

From the moment I walked in to Skydive Orange I felt completely at ease. I had been concerned beforehand that the people there would only see my disability and not my potential. My concern couldn't have been less warranted. When I walked in, first person I saw was a man in a wheelchair assembling the day's schedule. All the staff were courteous to me, and no one ever told me that I could not dive. I had done my research beforehand so I knew that it was possible, but sometimes a bad attitude can render even the simplest of tasks impossible. No one at Skydive Orange was anything but positive. From the 60-year-old hippies who were packing the parachutes barefoot on a wrestling mat in the middle of the chaos of divers, to the administrative professional who checked me in and wished me a happy birthday when I handed her my ID, everyone around me exuded positivity and fun.

 I had built this experience up in my head for months.  I wanted to know what it felt like to soar through the sky. I wanted to experience the complete freedom of the free fall. I wanted to see the earth that God has made from the best seat in the house.

Thanks to my good friends, Chris and Jennifer Harper, I was able to do that. They had driven into Fairfax to pick me up and made the 70 mile trek to Orange, Virginia. I was supposed to dive at 2 PM, so Chris, Jennifer, and their kids, Harley, Seth, and Callen (a.k.a. the most well-behaved baby in the world) made sure I was there at 12, so that I could have enough time to suit up and train for my jump.

When we arrived, I was informed that there was a wind delay. No tandem divers were being allowed to jump until the winds died down. And so we waited.

And waited...

and waited...

and waited...

During the downtime, one of the most memorable characters I met was a lawyer who used to be a police officer. To pass the time and lighten my mood, he told me a story of the craziest house call he had ever received. A woman had called the cops because she was literally stuck on her toilet. I’ll spare you the details, but it was the most crazy, colorful thing I've heard in a while.

Eventually I heard my name called over the loud speaker. It was time for ground training, which consisted of a 15 minute class, the essentials of which were:

1)      Skydiving is dangerous.

2)      Safety is important.

3)      Do not walk into the plane propellers.

It all seemed pretty straightforward, but I am evidence that they will let anyone jump out of a plane these days, so it was necessary. I was then placed into groups with a woman named Robin, who was jumping for her 50th birthday. We regrouped with Taylor, a recent high school grad, and her mother. We chit chatted and waited for our instructors to meet us and suit up.

Once Robin's instructor came to find her, I glanced up at the schedule board and noticed that I had been moved into the next group. "Maybe the plane was full,” I thought. I let it go. I watched Robin and her friends go up into the sky and come down, elated.

Next, I watched a group of Asian-American kids, who looked no more than 18, take my spot in line. I began to get perturbed. "What is going on?" At this point, I glanced at the board and I was on a plane all by myself." That can't be right!"  I was looking around for someone with authority to speak to, but everyone I needed was up in the air.

A young man in a blue shirt approached me and said, "Are you Jess? It's time to get dressed."

This just got real.

Before I knew it, two people were helping me dress, and I was being outfitted in a purple suit and a horrible, wedgie-inducing black harness. I met my instructor Mario, who was almost 6'4". We practiced with the harness, and he lifted me off the ground several times while making some slight adjustments for comfort.

We got a 10 minute call and I waddled toward the plane. I begged my videographer, Lambert, not to film that part. An entourage of about seven people loaded me onto the plane. I could have walked up the steps myself, but my crowd surfing entrance into the plane garnered hugs and encouragement from other divers and staff.

As we taxied the runway, I met the stunt divers with whom I was jumping. They were fist-bumping me, and the guy next to me handed a mint and said, "You're going to need this, because your mouth is going to go immediately dry at the door of the plane."

Boy, was he right! As Mario and I scooted toward the door of the plane, I felt the force of the wind sucking me out. I couldn't breathe. My feet dangled over the edge of the door. I looked down and could see nothing but blue and fog and my certain impending death.

We rocked once. Twice. And then, the fall. I don't remember much. White noise. Fear. Excitement.  Mouth-breathing. 

The first parachute deployed. We were still falling, but the fall slowed, and I finally felt I could breathe-at least a little. We were flying around in the air Superman-style, and I was trying to look cute for Lambert, who was videotaping the whole thing. He kept reaching his hand out for me but I was too scared to do anything but keep my hands in the safety position that I had learned during training.

Suddenly I felt a jerk at my harness, and I was standing straight up in the air, or so it felt. My first glimpse of the view in front of me made me instantly grateful that I had been forced to wait until the last jump of the day. The purple, blue, and orange sunset was stealing the sky above the Blue Ridge Mountains with a gorgeous stealth. There are really no words to describe how beautiful Earth looks from that altitude, especially when your vantage is not marred by the glass of a plane window. To be honest, it's probably one of the moments that I have felt the closest to God. I teared up several times as we were approaching the ground, thinking that I wasn't worthy of such an amazing experience. I must have thanked Mario 10 times, even before we landed.

When we landed I was greeted by a chorus of happy birthday. I had not made a big deal out of the day, and hadn't even told Lambert, so I have no idea how everyone knew. It was an amazing end to an amazing day. When we were walking out of the shelter that night, several of the divers, including Mario, told me to come back next year for another birthday celebration. I have no doubt they meant it. Unless, of course, Mario and I go diving with sharks...

The Proposal

One day, it's going to happen. The proposal from a man who loves me. The one moment when I'll wish for time to stop. The question that will be the second most important answer to the meaning in my life.

Yes.

My heart will swell; my eyes will burn, and my cheeks will ache, raw from smiling.

I will want to tell the world. Call my Mama. Call the papers, and shout my blessings from the rooftops. One day it will happen. The beginning of the rest of my life.
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I stood in the kitchen, clutching a red glass bowl in one hand while busying myself in the refrigerator, looking for the salsa.

I was famished. I'd just come back from fetching you at the airport and it was later than I would normally eat. My head was hurting and I couldn't wait for the food we'd ordered to arrive.

You had pushed me into the kitchen when I'd started to feel dizzy. "You need to eat, baby, " you chided. "We can't have you sick."

So there I was, still in the clothes I wore to work, a figure hugging dark purple dress, black tights and knee high boots. I was stooped over the bottom fridge shelf, holding the door open with a crutch.

I could feel you watching me.

You slowly laid your hand at the small of my back, careful not to cause me to startle.

"Jess," you whispered. Your voice was tender, different.

I turned to face you and watched you kneel, shakily, on both knees. The bowl dropped from my hand to the cream laminate floor in the tiny kitchen without shattering.

My breathing quickened. There was a pain in my throat. The pressure of anticipation. I'd waited for this for so long. For you. Specifically for you.

The next few minutes were a blur. You told me you loved me more times in 5 minutes than I'd heard in 2 years, and I knew you knew how I felt. I adored you.

You Loved Me Too. Me! You wanted me for your wife. For the mother of your children.

I was, you said, the only person you could ever love enough to marry.

You pulled me toward you and I grasped your shoulders, pushing myself against the wall.

You kissed me in a way you never had before. Deep and passionate but still soft. My knees buckled and feeling the sway, you placed your hand at my waist.

When you pulled away, I wanted to scream for joy. Call the papers. Call my Mama Shout my blessings from the rooftops.

There you were in my arms, my soon-to-be husband.

But I couldn't. Call my Mama. Call the papers. Scale the rooftops.

My happiness was a lonely place. A hard bench in a deserted wood meant only for two. You and me.

No one else would approve.

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One day, it will happen. The proposal from the man I love. Someone who loves God, Christ, and my soul, in that order.

My heart will swell; my throat will pulse, and my cheeks will ache, raw from smiling. And I will know that I have waited for so long for this moment. For you. For your love. But specifically for you.

Yes. You.

My Special Person

When I was a little girl, I loved playing house and pretending I was coming home from work to cook dinner for my husband and kids.  I would go through a lot of "imaginary husbands," sometimes 3 or 4 a week.  They were usually based on soap opera character names I'd heard at my babysitter's house or little boys I knew.

You could say that I've always felt "called" to be a wife and a mother. 

It's not because anyone told me that I had to be someone's wife, or that I grew up thinking single people weren't just as awesome and happy, but.... I admired my parents' marriage.  I wanted what they had.  They laughed together.  They seemed stronger together than apart.  They were best friends, and had been for such a long time. 

As a young kid, I didn't always see the struggles that made them strong or the tears that came before their laughter. 

All I could really see was love. 

When I would talk to my mom about getting married someday, she always said, "It will take a special person to love you forever."  As I grew older, especially into my teenage years, this statement started to bother me.

Why did it have to be a special person?

Wasn't I loveable enough for any guy?

How special did this person need to be? 

Wasn't I good enough to be somebody's wife?

I see now more than ever, though, that she's exactly right.

It hit me when I moved into my 2 bedroom apartment last week, and all of my boxes and belongings were strewn in the front two rooms.

I needed help.  Lots of help. 

I wanted to just pick up a box and move it to the correct room, but I couldn't.  I have an awesome brain, but I needed some brawn.  I not only needed someone to help because he felt he had to, but more than that, because he wanted to. 

The thing is, it takes a special person for everyone.  A person who is ready to love us for who we are, flaws and all... and not just for our flaws, but for the things about us that can't be changed, whether good or bad.

We all have boxes to move and bags to carry, but the trick is in finding the right set of arms, willing to pick up the box for you when it becomes too heavy.

I need someone who not only sees me for me and loves me for me, but who thinks that I am enough for him--who wakes up most days thinking that he is lucky I'm around.

That person, whomever he is, is already incredibly special, and I hope I find him.