The Rough Side Of The Mountain

I really don’t like writing about dating and relationships.

Carrie Bradshaw did a fairly effective job (aside from the way she played Aidan, but I digress) and I do not enjoy painting myself into such a small box. Life is so much more than awkward silence and cautious optimism.

But now? I’m tired.

Here is a highlight reel of what I have experienced in the past six months:

--Mr. Radio Silence: we’d been “talking” for more than a year. I asked him where this was going; he told me he had feelings for me. I told him I wanted more than feelings—I wanted a relationship. In return, he said absolutely nothing.

--Mr. Too Gorgeous: Told me I was too tall for him to date; that it would be degrading for him to be seen with me. Furthermore, he told me body was “sort of gross,” but he would totally be willing to sleep with me if I kept a shirt on.

--Mr. Long-Distance: Cussed me out because I wasn’t gung-ho to hear from him after four months of hearing nothing. Told me no one would ever love me.

--Mr. Magoo: Started talking and added me on FB. It took five seconds to see he was in a relationship with someone that, at least according to FB, had just been established the week prior. When I asked him about it, he just kept asking me if I saw it on his page.

--Mr. Me, Myself and I: I told him my grandma died. He berated me for not asking how his day was.

--Mr. Must Be Out Of His Mind: Thought I’d be thrilled to be his mistress.

I don’t expect anyone’s sympathy. In each of these situations, I take my share of responsibility for what I allowed and, in some cases, what I said or did. I’m not here to bash them or all men. These men may in fact be great partners for someone else. And though this may shock my FBRs, I’m not really here to encourage today.

I’m just tired.

Now, I’ll be alright. I have an amazing support system and a relationship with God that sustains me even in the lowest, darkest moments. Still, I wonder (and worry) about everyone else out there who may not have that…’cause if you think this is just a problem I have, you would be sadly mistaken.

Why do we treat each other this way?

I have connected with people—some I know, some I don’t—who have even more horrifying tales than what I’ve shared. We have become a world where people are objectified and objects are personified. We are nothing more than a sum of parts that can be rated, degraded and then discarded.

By the way, it's bigger than sexual promiscuity or abstinence. You can get your heart broken with your legs crossed just as much as you can when they are open.

No one takes time to heal anymore. It’s too uncomfortable. It’s much easier to hop on a dating app and lay our baggage at someone else’s unsuspecting feet.

This is not dating.

This surely isn’t love.

I think what we’re dealing with here is a very complicated adult version of King of the Hill. If you never played that game, let me tell you rules: some large object is designated as the “hill.” At my elementary school, it was this big concrete tube that, looking back, should never have been on an elementary school playground. Someone jumps on top of the object and yells: "I’M KING OF THE HILL!” And then it’s on. You use whatever you can to get to the top of that hill—legs, feet, teeth, arms, rocks, anything and everything. You press, pull, claw your way to the top and try to shout I’M KING OF THE HILL before someone snatches you down.

It’s definitely not safe. I experienced numerous cuts, bruises, scrapes and even a concussion or two trying to scale that concrete tube. Looking back, there never really was a clear winner in that game.

There isn’t one in this dating game either.

Am I giving up on dating? Nope. Never. I believe there is someone out there in this world who understands why Crooklyn makes me cry or how I have to go to bed with socks on, but I kick them off in the middle of the night. There is someone who won’t be afraid to hear that I’m not having a great day and we can talk about it—just as I would with him. There’s someone who will remember my birthday and send me more than a text message.

Someone who will pray with me.

Someone who will dream with me.

My love’s design.

Dang. I got sort of teary-eyed even typing that.

In the meantime, I refuse to treat people the way I’ve been treated. If I do ever get too big for my britches, there’s no need to trip: God has a way of getting my attention and reminding me who I really am.

And if He can deal with a wretch like ME….I guess I can forgive the jackasses of 2015.

Now excuse me while I dance down the street in my pink tank top and white tutu.

Isaiah 58:11,

K. 

Writing Challenge, Day 11: Seeing Red

You all will notice I took off a few days. It's hard to write when you're stuffing your mouth with greens, chicken & dumplings, bundt cake....

'Scuse me. I had a flashback. 

Today's topic is supposed to be whatever is currently on my mind, which is a slightly provocative topic: anger. Let's see what comes out today! 

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Last week, I had a few situations going with paramours from the past. You know how it goes: you haven't heard from them in weeks or months or even YEARS, but somehow they magically find your number and try to immerse themselves in your world once again. In the most snarky nicest way possible, I told them I wasn't interested in conversing with them. 

I got called a "seven-letter word/five-letter word."

I was told I was selfish and close-minded.

My favorite? That I should be glad that he thought of me four months later. 

EVERYTHING in me wanted fire back, which I am completely capable of doing. When my mental wheels start turning, no one is safe. I turn into the black Julia Sugarbaker, hurling insults and tirades and salacious monologues that literally cause jaws to drop. 

I've had that effect on people since kindergarten. I'll never forget the look on Mrs. Seller's face when I informed her that I would cuss her out if she didn't let me go to my daddy's job...and then promptly followed through on that promise. 

At a Christian school. *facepalm* 

Just when I was stretching out my thumbs to fire off one of those three-message long text messages, I realized that this was indeed a test. In my Tilling Time (Bible study), the topic has consistently been about dealing with anger. I would highlight passages, nodding my head and thinking about other people who had that problem, but "not me!" I'd pray for God to help all these people who were dealing with anger issues, while giving myself a little pat on the back for not being like them. 

I should have seen this test coming from a mile away. 

I had a choice: keep holding onto this rage growing inside of me....or let go. I had to let go, y'all--there's just not enough room for anger and hunger in my stomach. 

I prayed a lot, taking the time to really acknowledge my anger. That's important, because I tend to play the synonym game with God and with others: 

I'm not angry, I'm  just a little offended.

I'm not angry, I just wish you would try to understand me.

I'm not angry, I'm just tired. 

I'm not angry, I'm just hungry. 

All of those sentences mean I am just angry...even the last one. ESPECIALLY the last one if I've been hungry for more than an hour. 

I forgave them and myself because, let's face it: so much of the things we hold onto are a reflection of us. But that's another topic for another time. 

I punched the punching bag at my gym until my knuckles started bleeding. I played my PMS playlist (yes, I do have one and it's pretty dope) and I frequently thought of something my Pastor/Dad has said:

It doesn't make any sense for you to sit up all night thinking about the people who hurt you. You're seething with rage while they are sleeping like a baby. Turn it over to God and get some rest! 

Before I even settled into my bed to watch The Cleveland Show, I was totally cool...and no verbal missiles had been launched. 

Not even a single passive-aggressive Facebook post. 

That's growth, baby. 

Encouraged, 

K. 

 

Writing Challenge, Day 10: Back To The Future

Dear Future K. Marie,

The number on the scale won't matter, neither will the size of those jeans.
You won't remember all the times you nervously tried to predict the outcome of something that seemed 3,000 times more mortifying or heartbreaking than it actually was.
Your memory simply isn't big enough to remember every single time you were irritated because the coffee wasn't ready, your favorite dress was at the bottom of the hamper or somebody refused to let you over on the highway.

You have my permission to forget all that stuff.

What you will remember are the times you danced barefoot in the sand to no music at all. You'll laugh as you think about the hours you spent laughing with your sister-friends, even if it was past your bedtime. Your heart will glow as you think about all the advice your dad gave you...and you'll realize he was 100% right, every single time. You will remember those moments when man told you it was impossible, but God grabbed hold of your situation and turned it around so fast, you still can't quite put together all the pieces of the puzzle.

But it worked. For your good.

You're not too old to have children. Your parents had two babies at a time when everyone said they were "too old." And your grandmother was in her 40s when she had your dad--her 12th child!

Don't get cute though. You're not about that minivan life.

Keep running, even when you think it will feel so much better to sit on the couch and watch American Greed. Girlfriend, it's all about that ten-minute window after the run--when your mind and body are both kind of quietly state the obvious: Dang. We did that. 

Despite what Shayla says, you're funny. Keep telling your silly jokes.

Stop being so cheap!

In every single way possible, love yourself.

The only thing stopping you is you.

See you at the finish line.

Love,

K.

Writing Challenge, Day 9: Speak Those Things

“Show it to me.”

Sierra abruptly stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, causing a pedestrian pile-up during the lunch hour traffic. She snatched off her glasses, narrowed her fiery brown eyes and prepared to unleash a verbal tirade that would surely cause grown men to blush and mothers to cover their child’s ears.

“…your heart.”

“I beg your pardon?”

As the attractive man stepped closer to her, her sense of smell was lured in by notes of bergamot, lavender, amber and vanilla. Prada Luna Rossa. Sierra inhaled, struggling to keep the stoic look on her face. Girrrrrrrl, don’t fall for it.

“I was just talking to God on my way back to myoffice…you’re not offended by that are you?”

“Not at all.” 

A Christian who wears Prada. Two points.

“Great.” The man smiled at Sierra and continued. “Like I said, I was talking to God about this whole dating and relationship thing in today’s world. It seems like no one is really out here to get to know each other—I mean beyond Facebook quotes and filtered Instagram pics. I’m frustrated and I told God as much.”

Is this some kind of joke? 

Sierra’s heart threatened to jump out of her tightly secured pea coat and run down the street like Scooby-Doo in a haunted house. How many nights have I cried out to God about the same thing? 

She nodded, motioning for him to continue.

“I asked God to help me find someone who would speak to my heart. It’s nice to hear about your favorite movie and how long you’ve been single; but I want to know how you got that childhood scar. Or who your hero is. What made you cry the last time tears fell from your face? What is your first thought when you wake up every morning?”

“I want to tell you the same things about me and more….so much more. I don’t have time in my life for the superficial. I’m ready to grow with someone. Build a life with someone. Face the world with no fear because I know someone is praying for me and I will do the same for her.”

“So, I’m asking you again: will you show me your heart? Will you let down your guard and take off your mask?” The man extended his hand to Sierra, who was still speechless.  “Will you believe God with me that all things are possible…even us?”

Sierra’s mind whirled a million reasons to run:

He could be a serial killer.

What if he uses me?

I can’t take one more heartbreak in my life.

Should I mace him?

Her heart spoke two words to make her stay:

Trust me.

“I will.”

Writing Challenge, Day 8: The Leather Couch & Me

“How do you see yourself? “

The first words that came to mind were the words I always use to describe myself: 6’0’’ without the heels; an enigma wrapped in a mystery; big hair, big boobs, big personality… the words that get a laugh when I’m conversing with strangers. 

But his unwavering eye contact told me that my sarcasm wasn’t going to cut it today. I had to go deeper, to that place beyond my defense mechanisms and my projection. I had to reach down into the murky waters of my past and uncover the hurts, rejections and insecurities that were strangling my future. I had to keep it real.

“I’m a failure.”

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A few months ago, I started experiencing what I call the 3:30 wake-up call. No matter how hard I exercised the night before or how many pages I wrote in my journal, my eyes would fly open and thoughts of rage, embarrassment and pessimism would flood my mind:

Rage: What did I do to deserve this?!?!?

Embarrassment: I know everyone is talking about me right now.

Pessimism: I’m just not good enough and this is never going to get any better.

The Trauma DJ would take me on a vivid journey through all of my failures in the past three years, interspersing those memories with comparisons to others and reminders of every single one of my insecurities. My body would be covered in sweat and tears would sting my eyes as I sat up on the side of the bed, crying out to God in the way that you can only cry out to God in the early morning hours. And still, I struggled.

One day, I was sitting in my office (downing another cup of strong coffee) when I felt the urge to find a psychiatrist. I nixed the idea initially, telling myself that therapy should be reserved for people who are really in crisis mode: grieving, suicidal ideation, stuff like that.

And then I saw my reflection in my cell phone. The bags under my eyes and the smile that didn’t quite go all the way up were a dead giveaway: for me, this was a crisis. I started making phone calls immediately.

Therapy has almost always gotten a bad rap, especially in the African-American community. We are guilty of saying we don’t need help or REAL Christians don’t get depressed.  However, I think the biggest issue is simply fear of the unknown. People don’t know exactly what to expect when they meet with a mental health professional.

Let me remove the stigma for you.

1. It’s always a brown leather couch.

I have visited psychiatrists and psychologists several times in my life, usually in the aftermath of great personal tragedy. They have been in different parts of the city; all races and both genders. But one thing remains the same: they all have a brown leather couch. I’m pretty sure they receive their couches when they graduate, sort of like when nurses receive their caps.

There are usually other places to sit, but why break tradition? The couch is usually the most comfortable anyway.

2. It’s not expensive.

My payment is the same price I pay for a regular doctor’s visit. Most mental health professionals will either accept your insurance (thankfully, mine does), or have a sliding scale based on your financial situation. Most offices will work with you on the payment—if they won’t, thank them for their time and keep calling other offices until you find someone who will.

I suppose some would argue that $60/month is too expensive. But you know what’s more expensive than that? Living a half-assed life full of fear.

3. It’s (sort of) like talking to a friend.

I know that sounds really cliché, but that is the best way for me to describe what a typical session feels like.

When I walk in, he asks me about my week—what was good, what was bad, etc.  We discuss the things we talked about in the last session and whether or not they are still pressing matters. If they are, we revisit them and explore what can be done to change my thought process. If not, we celebrate the victory and move on to something else. We also talk about everything from The Bachelor to the NCAA tournament….and he laughs at my jokes. That might just be because I pay him, but whatever.

He listens. I’m not afraid that what I tell him will (accidentally or intentionally) slip out in future conversations with others; I don’t have to worry that my issue is somehow overshadowing something that he is dealing with in his life. I know that for one hour, this is about me. Sometimes, that’s difficult because…

3a. He does not give me advice.

My favorite question to ask my best friends is: “if you were me, what would you do?” I can’t ask that of my psychologist. Well, I suppose I could, but he won’t answer. Instead, he will ask me how I choose to respond. I’m forced to say out loud the words I’ve been so afraid of saying for years, because I thought people would judge me.

It’s infuriating.

I love it.

4. You will probably cry.

That’s why there’s a box of tissues on the leather couch.

See? There’s another reason why you should sit there!

5. You’ll feel better.

Make no mistake about it: this isn’t Punky Brewster. Life is just so daily and there will always be things that make you angry/sad/stressed. But therapy has taught me how to better cope with all of my emotions, both good and bad.

--I can be upset that someone cut me off on I-35, but that doesn’t mean today is going to be the WORST DAY EVER.

--I can be sad that a relationship didn’t work out without assuming it was solely based on my attraction/weight/personality.

--I can say no and mean it. (Chile….this right here was worth every penny I have spent thus far!)

--Fear looks way bigger on the horizon than it actually is.

--My life isn’t over. In so many ways, it’s just beginning.

By the way, if you call me at 3:30 tomorrow morning, I won’t be answering.

I’ll be sleeping like a baby.

Encouraged,

K.  

Writing Challenge, Day 7: Running For My Life

Ah, poetry.

Looking back, every poem I have ever written sounds like a Toni Braxton ballad or an India Arie anthem. My parents always did say I was the dramatic one!

I’m trying for a different tone today—more indicative of where I am in my life right now. Let’s see how this goes.

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Left, right

Breathe.

Left, right

Breathe.

She passed me

Breathe.

I need a faster song

Breathe.

He passed me too

Breathe.

It's too hot

Breathe.

My nose is running

Breathe.

My stomach is cramping

Breathe.

I’m not going to make it

Breathe.

This is the worst I’ve done

Breathe.

There’s the photographer

Breathe.

My thighs are probably jiggling

Breathe.

I bet I look a mess

Breathe.

Is that--

Breathe.

the finish line

Breathe.

They’re cheering for me

Breathe.

That clock can’t be right

Breathe.

I made it

Breathe.

Thank you, God 

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Best race ever.

--K. 

Writing Challenge, Day 6: The BEST Turkey Burger in OKC

About eight years ago, I stopped eating beef and pork. I mourned the loss of some of my favorite foods (like country ribs, ham, pork chops, roast beef....*sigh*....give me a minute), but I have enjoyed the journey of finding new, exciting things to eat. There is so much more to life than baked chicken.

And there is nothing better than a good turkey burger.

Turkey products have become readily accessible in today's health-conscious world. A turkey burger has less fat, calories and sodium than an all-beef patty. However, good turkey burgers--like a man who smells nice, loves the Lord and wants a relationship--are hard to find. A turkey burger will almost always taste different than a hamburger, but there should be some taste to it, even aside from the toppings. It should also have some juices sealed inside because...who wants to eat a hockey puck?

But alas, I have done all the research for you. If you want to know where to find the best turkey burger in Oklahoma City, I'd be glad to tell you.

It's a tie!

First, let's talk about the turkey burger at VZD's (4200 N. Western).
I found VZD's one day when I still worked in the Classen District and I wanted to try something different. I had heard rave reviews about the food, but I was skeptical. Okay, I judged them. There are much flashier, opulent looking restaurants on Western and I did not think VZD's was going to give me anything more than a stomachache.

I ordered the turkey burger and I was pleased with the price ($6.95). My food was also made to order, which is extremely important with turkey burgers--the longer they sit, the more they dry out. The moment I bit into my burger, I think I heard the heavens rejoicing with me.

That burger was GOOD.

It was juicy; it had the right amount of seasoning without being overpowering; there was a great meat-to-bun ratio (I like a little overlap) and the grilled onions and peppers added just the right note to the end of beautiful burger song. VZD's condiment of choice is their seasoned mayonnaise, but it taste just as phenomenal with nothing added. I was so impressed, I ate there every Friday for about a month.

I'm a creature of habit.

I know most of you will remember the big hoopla about VZD's closing, but they are back and better than ever. If you are ever looking for a casual place to grab a great burger, this is the place I recommend. It's worth navigating the construction.

If you're looking for something a bit more upscale, you cannot go wrong with the turkey burger at Charleston's (various metro locations). I have always loved the atmosphere at Charleston's--it's nice without being too pretentious. I was surprised to see they even had turkey burgers on the menu, but I decided it was worth a try.

Hold on to your seats as I make this bold claim: Charleston's turkey burger is just as good as their regular burger.

When I was still eating beef, I adored the burgers at Charleston's. I am a big fan of that charbroiled taste and they have it down to a science. The turkey burger offers that same smoky flavor. The patty itself is HUGE and absolutely covered with melted jack cheese, which excites me. Even though I am severely lactose intolerant, melted cheese is my guilty pleasure. The burger is topped with field greens (not just iceberg lettuce), thick tomato slices, red onions and honey mustard. Though a little pricier than VZD's at $10, it is worth every penny.

Charleston's would be a great choice for a date night, but probably not the first date. It's hard to engage in witty repartee when you're wolfing down an amazing burger.

Remember: you will never know how much you can truly enjoy something unless you try.

....Except turkey bacon. Save yourself the trouble and just eat a box of packing peanuts.

Be Encouraged,

K.

Writing Challenge, Day 5:Dear Homeskillet

A few years ago, I did a letter-writing challenge for this blog. The impact was phenomenal, but it left me with a lot of FEELINGS that could not be compartmentalized. Plus, I find writing letters to be kind of passive-aggressive. If I have something to say, I would much rather say it in person. 

But this letter is different--and I'm actually grateful that the challenge included writing a letter to someone. Point blank: when I'm around this person, I never get to say what I want to say. So this time, I'll take the easy way out and post my words here. One day soon, I hope that changes. 

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Dear DP,

When I met you, I had so much respect for you. You were so accomplished; so confident; so down to earth. I wanted to read every page of your life story. 

Since then, I've read excerpts and whole chapters and my assessment still hasn't changed: I think you have the potential to set the whole world on fire. 

I don't want anything from you. I am satisfied with memories of laughter, phone conversations and one slightly awkward lunch at Primo's. Thank you for, in a roundabout way, teaching me not to settle for less than what I truly deserve.

Sometimes, I do feel concern in my heart for you. I worry about the effect of people's words on your spirit. Even the strongest among us sometimes find ourselves wounded by the verbal assaults of those claiming to "keep it real." I pray daily that God would protect you from the snares and keep you moving forward toward your destiny. 

Shake it off, friend. You are not who "they" say you are.

If you ever need encouragement, I'm here.

If you ever need someone to listen, I'm here.

If you ever just want to laugh, I'm here.

....Didn't that sound like a Jackson 5 song? I felt like yelling "just look over your shoulder, honey!" LOL

I will always have your back. 

Be Encouraged, 

K.

P.S. I know I didn't reveal much--that was intentional. But if you really want me to answer that question, here it is: yep.

Writing Challenge, Day 4: The PK Rant

 I am a very laidback person (shutup, Shayla and Alonzo), so it was hard for me to come up with a rant topic. 

I debated whether or not to post this. Even though these are my feelings and I stand behind them 100%, I never want to do anything to cause issues for God's people. But there are people out there who are struggling with these exact issues right now. Though I've been set free, I know there are people out there who are still trying to get free. This one is for them. 

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1.I am not a child.

I’m going to let you all in on a little secret: I was born in 1982. I’ve been out of high school since 2000; I graduated from college eleven years ago and I have voted in the last three presidential elections.

Have any other “kids” done that?

I am a woman with my own thoughts and opinions. If you disagree with me, then disagree with me. Saying “I’m telling your dad” won’t make me stay in line.  I’ll just know that you have no respect for me and deal with every interaction moving forward in an appropriate manner.

2. I am not perfect.

“Church folks” (not Christians, there is a difference) love to throw Scripture grenades. If you aren’t doing what they think you should be doing, they will launch a Romans or Acts at you in a New York minute. Make no mistake about it: I am not above reproach. If my actions are causing my brother or sister to stumble, I can admit my mess and move forward. 

Still, I ask any of  you to show me one biblical passage that explicitly states that a child of a pastor can never do wrong, make mistakes or be anything but perfect.

…Nothing? Okay then.

I wholeheartedly believe in transparency and I acknowledge that I am just a sinner saved by grace. There are times when I just don’t want to come to choir rehearsal. There are times when I have just had a REALLY BAD DAY and I don’t feel like smiling. There are times when I have to say no to that dinner/musical/meeting because I just need some time to myself. There are times when I am bombarded with what feels like a million prayer requests—and I pray for everyone—but I have to stop and ask myself: “Who is praying for me?”

I didn’t choose this life. God chose my father, and since I am his FAVORITE DAUGHTER (just kidding...sort of), I have always supported his ministry. But please don’t look to me to be the example of perfection. That is way above my pay grade.

3. Church hurt hurts me too.

In elementary school, we played the dozens—joking around about each other’s mamas (which were really just jokes we had heard the previous night on In Living Color, but I digress). It was all fun and games until someone went too far; a classmate got too specific or said something that wasn’t funny, just mean. And the fight was on because we all abided by this one simple rule: I don’t play about my mama (or daddy).

Times have changed. We grew up.

And the words got even worse.

People have stood in my face and called my dad everything but a child of God. People have stood in my face and called me everything but a child of God.  I’m well aware that my first reaction should be to “turn the other cheek.”  I’d like to say I have been able to do that every single time someone cussed me out, dragged my family’s name through the mud or spread the most vicious, unbelievable lies I have ever heard.

I wish I could say that. But we all know it would be a lie.

I spent years trying to understand how people could be so mean. I’ve prayed about it, cried about it, spent many sleepless nights turning over this concept in my mind. How can you love God and hurt His people?

I still don’t know the answer, but God gave me something even better: spiritual maturity. You know how you’ll know when you’re there? When the same people who have hurt you are hurting…and instead of saying “that’s what they get,” you say “God, heal them.”

To be able to say that is worth every tear I’ve shed over church hurt in my life. They may not be changed, but I am.

3a.I have absolutely, positively nothing to do with the how, when or why of my dad getting married.

The only thing I have ever wanted is to see my dad happy. If that means marriage, I’m sure he can find someone. After all, he did a darn good job of it in 1974. If that doesn’t mean marriage, then I’m fine with that too. Trying to befriend me in an effort to get to him? That doesn’t work.

However, if you make a good Italian Cream Cake, I’d be more than happy to put in a good word for you!

Be Encouraged,

K. 

Writing Challenge, Day 3: My Feelings For "Him"

Day 3 is actually supposed to be a review of something, but I decided to get this one out of the way.

Writing about my feelings for someone is even worse than sending a risky text. Did he read it? What does he think? What if he responds? What if he doesn’t?!?!?!

Hi, I’m Kayla and I have Analysis Paralysis.

I hope everyone hears my heart on this, not just the intended recipient. Sometimes, the most courageous thing you can do is keep it real.

*****************************************************************************

Dear Russell Westbrook, 

The way you have been playing this season has rocked my world. Your blocks; your rebounds; your shots! It’s classic basketball and I am loving every minute of it.

Thank you for rising to the occasion in a season that initially looked bleak. Whether the world agrees or not, you are a true champion in my eyes.

I’m sorry I laughed when the Internet said you looked like a Ninja Turtle.

Thunder Up,

K. 

Writing Challenge, Day 2: Fan Fiction

I have struggled with today’s challenge. I actually had to Wiki the term “fan fiction” because all I’ve ever heard about it is the whole Fifty Shades phenomenon. I get the concept, but this is way out of my comfort zone as a writer. Still, I’ll honor my favorite college professor by never apologizing for my work!

I chose to do a short excerpt based on one of my FAVORITE books: Never Say Never by Victoria Christopher Murray. If you haven’t read this book, I encourage you to go pick it up today. This story has everything: love, loss, revenge, violence, the affair to end all affairs (IMHO)…and forgiveness.

I’ve always wondered what happened in the aftermath of lives that were so shattered. Here’s my take on it!

*********************************************************************************

Miriam

“Time to wake up, sweetness.”

I rolled over and sighed, lazily stretching my hands above my head with a big grin on my face. Even after all this time, this man’s baritone voice still made my core shiver and quake.

“Just three more minutes, babe.”

His lips brushed across my neck and my collarbone, causing the temperature in the room to rise even higher than the Arizona summers I had come to dread. But here, in this moment, I craved the heat.

“I just said you had to wake up,” he murmured as his lips continued to trace a path towards her own personal ecstasy, “I didn’t say you had to get up.” He shared a conspiratorial grin with Miriam as he eased down the straps of her nightgown.

Miriam looked down at him with a mixture of admiration and an all-consuming desire.

“Jamal Taylor, I’ve always loved you and I always will.”

Jamal made eye contact, staring so deep into Miriam’s eyes, it felt as though her soul was on a pedestal. “And I—“

“MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! I need gas money!”

Miriam’s eyelids fluttered as she became aware of the dream she had had—and the reality of her present life.

Miriam pulled the covers up to her chin to cover, rolled her eyes and reached over to the nightstand and pressed the intercom button. “CJ, use the intercom so you don’t wake up your brothers!”

Her 6’5’’ son appeared at her bedroom door, nonchalantly chewing the apple he had grabbed from the kitchen table. “Sorry, ma. I meant to fill up the truck last night, but we went for pizza after the game. And can I get like twenty bucks more for some snacks?”

Miriam opened her mouth to fuss at him for spending too much money; but when she looked in his eyes, it felt as though she were staring into the eyes of her deceased husband.

He looks just like his daddy. Chauncey would be so proud.

Miriam willed the tears at the corner of her eyes to stay in their place as she grabbed her purse and handed her oldest son a one-hundred dollar bill. “CJ, I expect you to bring my change back this time. I still have to get an oil change on my car and—“

“Yeah, I got you. See you tonight.”

When Miriam heard the alarm beep, she allowed herself to lose control and let go of the sob she had been holding in for the last ten minutes. As the tears flowed, the dam within her broke. Miriam placed her head in her hands and wept as the drama of the last three years played out in her mind.

She recalled the day she sat in the hospital room with her two best friends, Michellelee and Emily, waiting to hear if her husband was okay.

She remembered the yellow dress she wore on the day she said goodbye to the love of her life, Chauncey Williams.

Suddenly, her mind transported to that moment in her her living room. Jamal. His arms. His kiss. The way his body felt pressed up against hers for hours at a time. Miriam shuddered once more, remembering how his touch seemed to love away every bit of grief in her heart.

In their trysts, Miriam felt healed. Jamal Taylor saved her life.

And then Michellelee found out.

Then Emily. She was in the car. She heard every word.

Miriam groaned as she tried to take back that exact moment when she decided to sleep with her best friend’s husband. But even in her mental rewind, her body betrayed her as she thought of how it felt to be in bed—in ecstasy—with Jamal.

It felt right.

Miriam thought about the long drive through the desert, all the way to Arizona and Mama Cee, Chauncey’s sweet, spirited mother. Miriam thought she was doing the right thing, putting as much distance between her wants and her needs as possible.

Her heart throbbed as she called to mind the day she walked into Mama Cee’s bedroom and found her dead. Miriam felt as though the foundation she had tried so hard to restore in the aftermath of Chauncey’s death had once again crumbled.

Guilt once again coursed through her veins as she remembered standing in the vestibule of the chapel on the day of Mama Cee’s funeral. She stood with her sons—Stevie, Mikey and Chauncey Junior—playing the part of the grieving daughter-in-law. She nodded as unfamiliar faces patted her hand and offered words of condolences. Every time the heavy wooden doors swung open, she held her breath and prayed it would be him. 

They sent a bouquet of lilies.

Miriam,

We are so sorry to hear about Mama Cee’s passing. We loved her as our own. Please know that you and the boys are in our thoughts and prayers during this difficult time.

With Love,

Jamal & Emily

“We,” Miriam said aloud as she fumbled for a hair tie in the dark. She brushed her thick, curly auburn hair out of her face and into a high ponytail. “We.” She crossed her arms and looked out the window, waiting for the sun to begin its ascent.

“God, give me the strength to let go of Jamal.”

Miriam kicked off the covers and made her way downstairs, hoping the Lord would answer her before she did something else she would regret.

Chauncey Jr.

I know my mom slept with Uncle Jamal.

****THE END****

Writing Challenge, Day 1: The First Date Autobiography

I know this will come as a shock to some of you, but I don't enjoy writing about myself. Talking about myself though...I can do that all day long! LOL

Since today's challenge was to write a short autobiography, I decided to frame it as though I'm answering questions on a first date. These are absolutely, 100% true replies that I have given on actual dates. In fact, I may just forward these responses to the next guy who asks me out so we can skip right past that first date awkwardness. 

Anyway, enjoy! 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My name is Kayla, but most people call me K. Marie.

Nicknames: Taterbug; Deuce or P2 (what my dad calls me). Anything but Kay-Kay.

Yes, I’m a PK.

No, I’m not ***insert PK stereotypes here***

Unity Baptist Church!

…On the East Side, of course. 

My dad is about 6’3’’, my mom was about 5’8’’.

Yes, I wear heels.

Yes, I have dated shorter men.

It’s not an issue for me—I’ve found it’s usually the men who are most affected by a height difference.

I’m not shy or quiet—it just takes me a minute to get used to new people. Then, you’ll probably wish I would shut up.

I have three sisters—two older, one younger by two minutes.

….Yes, we’re twins.

Shayla/no/yes/our personalities are different/Dude...did you really just ask me that on a first date?

I graduated from Del City and SWOSU.

Teaching is in my blood, but I don’t see myself going back to the classroom anytime soon. ***insert brief rant on education issues***

Yes, but one day soon, I’d like to establish my own nonprofit organization.

I have been a Detroit Pistons fan since the 3^rd grade and they WILL have a comeback in the next five years. Meanwhile, I totally support the Thunder.

Yes, I played basketball.

Yes, I was good. I'm STILL good. 

I’ve been single for about a year and a half now.

….I don’t know and I don’t really choose to dwell on it. When I’m meant to be in a relationship, it will happen.
A man who smells nice (!!!!) and dresses well in an age-appropriate manner; is passionate about something other than sports, has a relationship with God and no unnecessary drama in his life. 
And you gotta make me laugh. 

Chardonnay.

Turkey Burgers!

Pink.

Blazing Saddles or Don’t Be A Menace…

I am fluent in sarcasm.

People who use the word “conversate” or the phrase “a women,” people who state opinions as facts; arrogance (not to be confused with self-confidence);chronic lateness.

I am absolutely laid back. What's the point of being angry all the time?

Thank you.

Thank you. 

Thank you. 

Stop, you're making me blush! *LOL*

I had a great time tonight--thank you for the invitation. 

--OR--

Well, that was....interesting. 

If you want to know more,you'll have to ask me on a second date. 

Be Encouraged, 

K. 

Appalonia Faith

I needed a car.

I woke up one Saturday morning knowing that this was the day I was going to cop a new set of wheels. I woke up my sister--plied her with coffee--and set out on a buying adventure.

We went to the first lot and I saw a car that was adequate. I didn't really like the color or the mileage, BUT it had a refrigerated glove compartment. I just had to have that. Without even test driving the car (I know, I was ig'nant), I went inside to talk to the finance manager. I sat waiting for 45 minutes before anyone even acknowledged me. When the finance manager finally did speak, she quoted a price that was almost $1,500 more than I was willing to pay. I said "nope" and walked right out of the dealership.

When I got in my sister's car, I was so angry. I KNEW I was going to get a car today and I was sure it had to be that one. After all, I wasn't making much money; I was still paying off my student loans. I was just looking for adequate...and now, it seemed like I couldn't even get that.

Let's pray about it.

I knew Shayla was right. I had done all of the research in the world, but I hadn't sought the Lord at all that morning. We prayed, right there in the parking lot of that shady dealership.

I felt better.

I still had hope.

Why don't we try one more dealership?

At the next place, I got out of the car and greeted the smiling salesman with my most intimidating glare. "Look," I told him, "I don't have a lot of money. I don't expect anything fancy, but I do want something reliable. If you can help me, I would be appreciative. If not, just let me know now and we can both go on about our day."

SN: If you know me, you know that had to be God working through me. I am NEVER that assertive.

Sam, with that same smile on his face, told me he had just the car for me. The MOMENT I saw that shiny, bright red HHR, I fell in love. I checked her odometer and my jaw dropped. She hadn't even been broken in! I drove her through the streets of Midwest City and I knew this was my car.

When we got back to the dealership, the process was smooth. Sam the Salesman wasn't kidding about working with me; neither was the finance manager. In less than an hour, I had the keys in my hand and I was on my way home.

She sort of looks like an apple. What are you going to call her?

Appalonia.
*********************************************************************************
I was writing in my journal this morning and I noticed my words were once again filled with defeat.

I'm never going to ________________.
I've already tried _________________.
But they'll say ___________________.

And right in the middle of my laments, I heard God whisper my name--you know, my real, government/Mike and Regenia-given name--along with this simple reminder:

You just need to have some Appalonia faith.

Back then, I knew Appalonia was mine.
Today, I know healing is mine.

Back then, I obliterated words of defeat with words of power and faith.
Today, I can put the brakes on the Trauma DJ with verses like Romans 8:1.
Or Psalm 37:25.
Or Psalm 119:50.
Or Philippians 4:19.
And definitely Ephesians 3:20.

Back then, I knew God was bigger, badder and better than my biggest problems.
Some things never change.

Today, I have Appalonia faith.

Encouraged, 

K.

Time To Tidy Up

As I’ve previously discussed on this blog, I don’t enjoy cooking. I can cook, but I think food that is made from love is the best (for reference, see my Aunt Dy’s Sock It To Me cake).  What I can do with love, however, is clean. For me, there’s a little slice of serenity in dusting, mopping and even scrubbing tiles.

But that wasn’t always the case.

When I was a younger, moody pre-teen, I refused to clean my room. No matter how my mom scolded, yelled and nagged, I just couldn’t be bothered to straighten up. I liked my mess because it was mine. There were even days when, on a cleaning frenzy, my mom would clean my room herself. I’d take in the freshness of it all and promptly throw my jeans on the ground, starting that pile of dirty clothes that only seems to grow larger, never smaller. My mom would sigh, shake her head and clean something else. I’d kick my feet up on my unmade bed and smile that smug, pre-teen smile.

Kayla-1

Mom-0

One day, a few of my friends came over my house. After we ate dinner, we lounged around in the den and watched BET (back in the dark ages when they still showed actual music videos). My mom walked in and said: “Why don’t you take your friends to your room?”

My pulse quickened a little bit. I mean, my mess was my mess, but I am a little bit southern….and every southerner knows your home should be clean when you have guests. The den was clean; my room was not.

I narrowed my eyes at my mom.

I detected the hint of a smile on her face.

“We’re good down here, actually. We wanted to watch videos.”

“You can watch videos in your room,” she said with finality. That was the end of the discussion.

I trudged up the stairs and opened the door to my bedroom. I could almost see those wavy lines used in commercials to denote a particularly pungent odor. My friends pretended not to notice, but they soon found an excuse to go home. I spent the rest of the night cleaning my room.  

To this day, I don’t even leave my house without making sure my bed is made and my clothes are where they are supposed to be.

Kayla-0

Mom-1,000,000

My mom did what she did out of love. She probably could have (and would have) cleaned my room every day. But she wanted to teach me to take care of myself. That day, I know she was probably just as embarrassed as I was, if not more. Still, the lesson had to be learned.

Sometimes, God opens the door to our hearts and reveals our mess—our sin; the burdens we’ve been carrying around forever and a day; the resentment we hang onto like a well-worn blanket. Others may see the mess—those of us who have been there before know that there are moments when God has to do big things in order to grab our attention. However—and here’s one of the things I LOVE about God—most of us will experience that revelation in private.  He will open the door and show us that we “missed a spot.”

Because He loves us.

And the best news? Today is Big Trash Day. I don’t know about y’all, but I’m ready to take my burdens to the Lord and leave them there.  

I like a clean room, but a clean heart is ten times better.

Be Encouraged, 

K. 

Blaryngitis: Finding My Voice (Again)

Last weekend, I read an article by a young fashion blogger named Sarah Ashley Buckley. Her article listed the five reasons why she walked away from her wildly popular blog, The Quirky Martini. I could relate to everything she said, but her definition of blaryngitis resonated with me:

I had lost my blogging voice. I had been so wrapped up constantly creating new design and layout concepts for my blog, for making it this glittery, “look at me” blog, that I had forgotten to take a look at myself. Reading previous posts, I could admit that I had changed drastically in not only my writing style, but also in my attitude. I was no longer “the girl-next-door oddball who helped college students dress a little more professionally while on a budget”. I was “the girl who began with the right motives, but lost her way amidst the glamour of blogging”. I had lost my authenticity, and it wasn’t fair to my readers to be subjected to that.

If I can't say a word, I'll just wave my hands.

When I started this blog, I was still in my twenties.

In. My. Twenties. Hmmm. That left a weird taste in my mouth.

The big 3-0 was looming in the horizon and yet, I felt like I already knew who I was—an encourager. I owed it to the world to wake up every morning and share with them whatever major eye-opener I had received in a way that ignited change in their own lives. I had to pour out the deeply personal moments of my life (e.g., major weight loss, my mother’s death, FEELINGSBOMB posts about relationships and the elusive Mr. Big) and wait for the “me toos” because...that made everything I had gone through somehow worth it. 

For a long time, this was my writing style and my voice. Until it wasn’t.

One of my favorite quotes talks about learning how to dance in the rain of life’s storms (“life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass…it’s about learning how to dance in the rain”). Not to toot my own horn, but I am really good at dancing in the rain. I know how to praise God when everything seems to be going topsy-turvy in my life. I can smile when I should be crying. And YES, LORD, I can encourage someone else no matter what’s happening in my world.

But life is not always about storms. There are some moments when everything is calm—the birds are chirping, there are no clouds for miles around and the sun is heating up a turkey sausage biscuit in the microwave.

I love that commercial.

There are times when life is so good and so calm that really, you shouldn’t do anything but be grateful. I tend to panic. I am constantly scanning the horizon, looking for the first sign of rain…because we’re always either going into a storm or coming out of storm, right?

How can I encourage someone if I ‘m not going through anything?

If I can’t write about the trials and tribulations, who am I as a writer?

I am still a writer; I’m just not a storm chaser. I am learning how to truly live in the moment. Sometimes, that means storms; other times, it’s all sunny days. I can embrace both situations without immense feelings of guilt, self-imposed or from others’ expectations…which is whole ‘nother blog post and saints, I will surely deal with that!

I’ve never stopped writing. I never will. It’s taken some time and one incredible experience with a group of amazing writers, but I have found my voice again. I hope my dear FBRs will stick with me for this next chapter in my (writing) life.

In case you’re wondering, yes….

I’m still encouraged.

--K.

Enough.

(Hey FBRs! I haven't written any poetry in a LOOOOOONG time, but it seemed so appropriate for what can only be described as *Blank Stare* Saturday. Hope you hear my heart on it.)

I am Enough.

Cried an ocean of tears

Smiled ‘til my cheeks burned

Butterflies 

Jagged rocks

Bitter pills 

They mingle together in my stomach

I have dreamed

Fantasized

Wished

Hoped

Prayed

For him.

And him.

Oh, and “pleasepleasepleaseprettypleaseGodIknowheistheone?”

Him too.

But he wasn’t.

And I was still

Am still

Enough.

I jumped through hoops

Balanced on tightropes

Wore the mask

Stuffed the hurt deep inside because…

Statistics.

I am more than numbers

And percentages

I am Enough.

I am not your ex-girlfriend

Ex-wife

Baby mama

I did not break your heart

I did not ask for your money

I don’t even know you

You don’t know me

Allow me to introduce myself…

I am Enough.

More than

A credit score

A dress size

A skill

A look

A word

A feature

A promise that if you will just….

all you need to do is…

Be Enough?

I am.

--K. 

Take My Advice...Or Don't.

Currently, my favorite app is Scout. All I have to do is type in my current location and Scout tells me how to get wherever I want to go.

But it’s not always right.

A few weeks ago, I needed directions to a restaurant in Norman. I told Scout I was at home and Scout’s lovely voice told me it was getting the fastest route to my destination. I started driving, allowing Scout to lead me down I-35 to my appointed exit. The closer I got to Norman, I started seeing signs about construction. In fact, the exit I needed to take was closed. I had to take a detour.

I got off of the highway and realized the area was familiar to me. I relied on my knowledge of landmarks to lead me where I was trying to go, even though my girl Scout kept insisting I was wrong. When I pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant, all I could do was shake my head at that voice that was trying to “reroute” me. I had already arrived.

I have a bone to pick with this sudden flood of relationship advice overflowing my newsfeed. Reading these memes. misquoted quotes and the flat-out incorrect statistics  leads us to believe there is only one road to the finish line-- which is marriage, for most of us. That road, according to Facebook, is filled with shame.

Single? Here’s why:

You’re fat.
You’re not thick enough.
You’re promiscuous.
You won’t give it up.
You have too many kids.
You don’t have any kids.
You’re too eager (or, for the younger generation, THE THIRST).
You’re not aggressive.
You’re too loud.
You’re too soft spoken.
You’re bitter.
You’re broke.
You want too much.
You don’t want enough.
You’re just not good enough.

If you combined all of this advice in a bowl and baked it at 350 degrees, what you will have is a hot mess.

This advice does not take into account the current mental status of its readers. There are some broken people in this world. If their hearts were jigsaw puzzles, those three connected pieces in the middle were swept up and thrown away with yesterday’s trash. They have dealt with grief, loss, heartbreak, abandonment and rejection so severe, even getting out of bed to face one more day seems like a chore. They log on and see words of disparagement “liked” and applauded by thousands of people, and the Trauma DJ begins to play their greatest hits once more.

You deserve all that has happened to you.

The vicious cycle continues. We create more brokenness in a world that is so desperately in need of whole people.


Dear FBRs, sometimes, it’s good to take a moment and reflect on your choices in life and love. My journal is filled with cringe-worthy, what in the world was I thinking moments. There are also epiphanies and lessons I have learned that, for me, will help me become the wife and mother I long to be some day. But I can’t post those things on the Internet and say it is the definitive road to lasting relationships.


I don’t have all the answers.
You don’t have all the answers.

And that’s okay.


In case you’re wondering, there is some relationship advice I follow.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking. It is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always perseveres.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. 

--I Corinthians 13:4-7;13 (emphasis added)

Detours, closed exits, reroutes and all, I’ll get there.


Be Encouraged,

K.

Requiem: The Text Conversation

I was folding laundry and watching Basketball Wives (don’t judge me) when I felt my phone vibrate.

Hey.

I don’t even have to glance at the top of the screen. I know who it is.

Leopard.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Leopard isn’t his real name, but it is the name he has in my phone. In fact, he’s had the same name in the last two phones I’ve had.  Leopard is the litmus test; the lens through which all new men are viewed.

Leopard is not a bad man. He is my type, both physically and intellectually. He is as sarcastic as I am. If I type LOL in a text message conversation with him, I mean it. He is not intimidated by me at all. On the contrary, he doesn’t allow me to get away with a one-word explanation or a dismissive brush-off. If I had a checklist for potential, he’d meet most of the criteria. Except for one:

He doesn’t want a relationship with me.

Well, he does not want a relationship with anyone. That’s what he says.  And I accepted it because…it sounded so different, such a millennial way to approach this male-female interaction. At the time, I was not in the mood for the late twenties melodrama that seemed to be engulfing my friends’ relationships. I had just gotten over one of those Toni Braxton heartbreaks myself (read: EPIC). I just wanted to hang out with someone every once in a while and have a good time.

And we did.

Eventually, I realized I had all the demands of a relationship and none of the perks.

If my car is making a funny noise, I still call my dad or a mechanic.

If I have a cold, he’s not bringing me orange juice.

When I have an aggravating day at work, I can’t get a reassuring hug from him.

I can’t let down my guard around him.

As long as Leopard is the placeholder in my life, there’s no room for anyone else.

________________________________________________________________________________

I’m sort of dating someone now.

Six words I agonized over; two seconds to press send and begin to untangle a web of complex emotions stirring within me. I worried he’d make a scene. I thought he might call and demand more answers than I really have. But he was cool.

No all caps rants. Only one exclamation point.

Even when I told him I was going to blog about this, he gave permission with but one caveat: I couldn’t use his real name.  That’s fine. In my eyes, he will always be Leopard.

And a Leopard never changes its spots. 

--K. 

Milk and Friendships

As I have previously discussed on this blog, I am severely lactose intolerant. By law, I should not be allowed within 300 feet of any dairy products. However, there are times when milk is a necessary evil for some dish I'm making....

Or, I just need a quick swig to wash down my favorite guilty pleasure: a delicious Lofthouse cookie.

On many occasions, I have opened the container and smelled the most unholy stench. A cursory glance at the label tells me the milk has expired--usually by a day or two, sometimes even a few weeks.

It is an inevitability of life. At some point, you'll need milk only to discover that your milk has reached its expiration date.

Just like friendships.



I LOVE having friends. To me, there are few things better than meeting a friend for lunch; texting inside jokes or standing in a parking lot, talking and laughing for what you tell yourself will only be a few moments--only to find yourself in a deserted parking lot, hours later, belly laughing about that one embarrassing thing you did in junior high.

But true friendship is more than those fun moments. It's answering the phone after 11:00 because your girl is in crisis mode. It's stopping in the middle of the day to pray, because you remember your friend has a doctor's appointment or a very important job interview. It's crying with them when their hearts are broken. Friendship is riding the waves of life together, no matter how fast or slow the current may be.

I wish every friendship I ever had could be placed in the category of forever. But the older I get, the more I realize that some friendships are past their sell by date. How do you know?

The Superman/Wonder Woman Effect: While friendship does mean being there in time of stress, there are those who only remember your number when they need someone to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Your primary role in the friendship is savior. Phone calls or text messages usually begin with a "huge favor" and end with a "thanks, you're a lifesaver."

I was looking over my resume the other day and nowhere on it was I listed as a superhero. I don't meet the job description.

Where's Waldo? On the other hand, there are times when you will find yourself in a less than ideal situation. You want to cry, scream, vent or just talk to someone, ANYONE who understands why you feel the way you do. You call your friend and they seem...disinterested. You text them--their response?

Oh.

Thanks, pal.


Six Degrees of Separation: Sometimes, there is no dramatic climax to a friendship. You just drift apart. Phone calls get shorter; lunches get postponed until the 30th of February and the extent of your relationship becomes likes on social media. You miss what you had, but you realize that your lives have changed. There is no sea of regret or feelings bombs--just a slight pang in your heart when you realize you haven't really talked to this person in months or years.

Note: this is the only acceptable slow fade that should ever occur in interpersonal relationships. Anything else is grounds for numerous passive-aggressive Facebook posts and tweets...and Instagram pictures with a sunset as the background and some "Oh no, not I/I will survive" motivational quote on it.  


When milk is no longer edible, what do you do?

 Put it back in the refrigerator because a day past the expiration date is not really that bad. Toss it in the trash. Pour it down the sink.

I can't advocate doing that with former friends. If I ever loved you at any time in life, I will always love you. But to continually place myself in the position of being hurt? That's cruel and unusual punishment.

I will pray for you.
I will wish you the best in life.
I will love you from a distance.
I will remind myself that friendship is always worth the risk.

Even when it expires.


Be Encouraged,

K.

The Old Shoes

Note: the following topic was requested by one of my best friends in the whole wide world. I'm honored that she thought of me to handle it....especially since I haven't written much in the past two months but shopping lists. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. 

I do not like buying shoes. This greatly disappoints my father, who is a shoe fanatic. My mother was as well, to the point that she would hide her newly purchased pumps in the car trunk and warn us not to tell how much she spent. But I never saw the point. To me, shoes are just....well, shoes. Eventually, even the best shoes start to fade or crack; they get smudges that no amount of shoe polish will hide; sometimes, they even start to pinch your pinky toe.

But you have to buy them. Walking around without shoes would make me Britney Spears.

Two years ago, I needed a new pair of workout shoes. After rolling my eyes at the exorbitant prices and the "air cushion Robotronic technology," I finally found a pair that suited me. They were comfortable, affordable AND they came in my favorite color. I snapped them up and immediately started to wear them everyday.

When I put them on, I felt great. I felt like they made me run faster, jump higher and look sort of sexy while doing it. I received lots of compliments about my new shoes, to the point where people wanted to know exactly where I purchased them. They were absolutely, positively perfect.

For awhile.

Eventually, I noticed my shins starting to hurt after a long run. I assumed I just needed to stretch more, so I did. I changed my posture; I even tried a different running trail. Still, my shins continued to throb. I finally realized that the source of my shin ache happened to be my beloved shoes. I was crushed. Was it time to toss my super sneakers?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The beginning of a relationship is the kind of stuff dreams are made of. If I could bottle that "butterflies in your stomach/can't eat/can't sleep" euphoria, I would be a billionaire. Everyone wants to feel that way. In fact, everyone needs to feel that way at least once in their life. Even the memory of it will make you smile.

But the feeling cannot last forever. Soon enough, you discover that your sweetie is....*gulp*....not flawless. She doesn't drink anything but Fresca. He never misses an episode of American Idol. She does not understand why you think wrestling is real.

He is a Lakers fan. 

Disappointed? A little. Reason enough to end it? Absolutely not.

I know we all toss around the phrase "nobody's perfect," which is very true. However, we need to add an addendum to that statement, especially in regards to relationships: "....and no one is ever going to be just like you."

As much as I love me some K. Marie, I could never date someone exactly like me. That would be terrifyingly frustrating. Only one person gets to be sullen and moody until they get their morning coffee and that's me.

So, what do you do when the relationship is no longer new? You accept the newness of your current state.
Girlfriend, you already know he enjoys spending time with you. Brother, you know longer have to play your highlight reel on dates--she's still captivated by the ordinary in your life. And HALLELUJAH, you don't always have to plan these epic dates. Sitting on the couch watching the NBA finals--in basketball shorts, sans makeup--feels just as nice as dancing until dawn in six-inch heels.

It's still a little scary, taking off the mask and revealing this multifaceted, sometimes fragile, sometimes stubborn, sensitive person. But it's you.

No longer new, but deliciously real.

It's comfortable, just like that old pair of shoes.

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Even though my shoes no longer worked for running, they were too cute to toss. So, I incorporated them into other parts of my life. They are perfect for a day of catching sales at the outlet mall. They work well for Casual Fridays, with my jeans and a witty t-shirt. They are the shoes that I keep in my car when I am wearing heels...because eventually, they are coming off.

No longer new.

Still perfect for me.

To those of you who are in relationships, I wish you many moments of comfort, love and happiness with your shoes.

And to those of us who are not in relationships?

Keep your eyes and your heart open. You haven't tried on every shoe just yet.

Always Encouraged,

K.