Waiting to graduate from hell

The book of Revelations has always been a little confusing to me so I'm not sure if hell is one big place or if there are personal hells devised to torture us in much more unique and painful ways than fire and brimstone. I'm not planning to ever have first hand knowledge of that one.

But for me, if hell was personal, mine would be middle school. More specifically, I would be stuck in middle school while AC/DC played an endless loop of The Little Drummer Boy. But mostly, it is that awkward, hormonal, mean, and confusing time between 12-15 that makes my skin crawl.

I grew up in small town Montana (there aren't a lot of other options in MT). This meant for the most part I went from kindergarten through high school graduation with the same girls. Girls I considered my friends in elementary school who magically grew breasts and simultaneously forgot that they knew me over the summer between sixth and seventh-grade. My breasts did not get the memo that they should appear until about 4 years later, and even then, it was a meager showing.

What I lacked in breasts I made up for with my good grades,  a talent for playing saxophone, braces, glasses, and a pretty impressive case of acne.

Awesome.

Oh wait, in seventh-grade I also learned to play the clarinet. Surprisingly, that did not raise my stock.

As you can imagine, I was quite a catch. Unfortunately, not many people were fishing for my particular species.

But it wasn't the middle school boys or their lack of interest that made my early teenage years unbearable. Probably because most of the boys were just as awkward as I was. Voice changes, carrying their Trapper Keeper in front of them while walking through the hall (I didn't understand why until college).  Not too many boys hit their stride at 13. Plus, I was pretty sure I was going to marry Kirk Cameron.

No, it was the girls who bloomed early, teased their bangs, put on the blue eye shadow and grew mean streaks. The girls who constantly made me feel like less of a person because I didn't wear designer jeans, have a boyfriend, or drink peach schnapps on Friday nights.  I feared the girls who played sports and got a tan while I did science fair projects and wrote short stories.

As I watched 13 Going on 30 today I was transported back to East Junior High. I was sitting in my backyard, wishing or maybe even praying, that I would magically be sixteen I never wanted to be 30. Even back then, 30 seemed old. But sixteen, sixteen seemed perfect. For crying out loud, they call it sweet sixteen for a reason. Probably because when you are sixteen you are done with middle school. But I had no magic wish dust that swooped me past my middle school years unscathed.

I did something even better.

I survived.

Not only did I survive, I survived while staying true to the girl in the mirror, even if I did hate how she looked most of the time. I didn't stuff my bra, beg my mom for Z-Cavaricci jeans (oh yeah, they were hot), drop out of band or try to be someone I wasn't. Instead of trading in my elementary school friends, we bonded together.  I think maybe we figured it was harder to pick us off if we were in a group.

In fact, my only good memories about middle school involve this amazing little group of girl friends.  The kind that weren't willing to change who they were either. We passed notes, giggled and talked about boys we would never be brave enough to actually meet.  We stayed up all night at sleepovers using Ouija boards to predict our future (don't judge) and eating Cool Ranch Doritos and raw cookie dough straight out of the package (again, don't judge).

Most importantly, we accepted each other.  No strings attached. Those girls, those amazing girls, gave me the confidence I needed to survive my little hell, because they never asked me to be anything.....but me.

There are still times when my insecurities get the best of me. I walk into a room of PTA moms who all know each other or start a new women's Bible study, and I am all of the sudden 13 again, only this time it is my wrinkles and weight that I'm self conscious about. I worry that I talk too much, am too sarcastic, and still don't own designer...well anything.  In an instant I forget that I am a smart, successful, fun woman who married an incredibly handsome man. Every time one of those gals whispers to another, I'm sure they are listing my glaring faults in great detail.

What I have learned over the last two decades is that most women feel exactly the same way. Even the ones with perfectly manicured nails, no stretch marks, and who only wear yoga pants when they are actually doing yoga have some buried insecurities that rise to the surface on occasion.

And just like middle school, this is one of the most important reasons we need friends. Not acquaintances. Not work friends. Not Facebook friends.

Real friends. Friends who love us exactly like we are. Who can laugh with us about our wrinkles, cry with us when our life falls apart, freak out with is as our kids grow into teenagers themselves. Friends who know exactly what kind of person we are, and love us anyway.

Because even though the door you walk through today might be to your office or even to your own house instead of home room, all of us have a middle school day once in a while. And on those days, we are just trying to survive.

So be nice. That girl you really hate, she may be having a middle school day herself.

And when you are lucky enough to find true friends, the kind that stick with you through middle school and beyond, cherish them. Whether they live next door or across the country in Chicago, they will be the reason you survive.

Waiting Tables

This week I had the privilege of spending time with one of my best friends. When we met, I was 20, and she had two girls, ages 4 and 2.  Today, one of her daughters is in college (somewhere were they whoop, so I hear) and her other will be in college soon.  And I have kids close the age hers were when we met.

Today, we realized, we are old. Actually, we realized our kids are old. We are timeless.

I consider her one my most trusted confidants and wise council. And I never would have met her if it wasn't for the only college class I took just for fun; a singing class my sophomore year at UNT.  D didn't go to UNT, she was, is, and will always be a Baylor Bear.

However, that class led me to see a flyer for the Off Broadway Restaurant. A week later I was a singing waitress in Dallas.

D had never heard of the place, much less eaten there.

But her boss did, once. We happened to be doing the worst show ever, and I only had one mediocre song, which is probably why only one table filled that night. They weren't even my table, but I wandered over (mostly out of boredom) and the following conversation occurred.

I kid you not, this is how it went.

"Do you go to school?"
"Yes sir, I'm getting my degree in communications."
"How would you like an internship?"
*shocked and awed* "Absolutely."
"Here is my card. My director of communications' name is on the back. Come in next week and tell her I hired you."
*now shock, awe, and disbelief "Thank you so much."

The next week I walked into her office decked out in my $23 suit from Ross. She had no idea who I was, if I had any skills, or if I was a complete moron. But her boss hired me, so she was stuck with me.

Over the next five years, she taught me so much. She taught me about PR, writing, graphic design, media relations (i.e. how never to make an enemy of Becky Oliver), and crisis management. But she also taught me about having a successful marriage, parenting, conflict resolution, putting family first, loving God, and how to get a baby to sleep through the night.

I wasn't married at the time, and kids were the farthest thing from my mind, but her stories and those lessons stayed with me. During my most frustrating parenting moments, I often pull one of her stories out of my memory file and think of how I used to laugh at how she stressed over whether her daughter's bow matched her shoes. Knowing that the things that stress me out today (like the boy child dumping four bottles of sprinkles all over the pantry floor), will be the funny stories tomorrow.

There are people I have known my entire life with whom I share no deep personal relationship.  And then there are those people that God specifically brings about via your singing waitress job that completely change the course of your life.

D is one of those people in my life. One of those rare individuals with whom I can be totally open and vunerable, because we know too much about each other to ever consider passing judgement on the other. We can go nine months without talking and as soon as we sit down (always over food) it is like no time was lost.

D isn't the only friend that came about through strange circumstances.  I can say the same for most of my closest friends. Plans went wrong, things didn't turn out like I wanted them to, and sometimes somethig literally blew up in my life, and somehow I ended up with an amazing person in my life who never would have showed up if things went according to my plan.

I'm sure there are people in your life like that. Maybe you ran into your future husband in the dairy section, even though he is lactose intolerant. Maybe you met your best friend on a misfit bowling team in the third grade.

It is these "chance" meetings, these precious friendships, that remind me that God sees the entire picture of our life, beginning to end. With that vision, He knows exactly who we need in our lives and the exact moment we need them to show up.

I have a lot of casual friends, but very few of what I consider deep, authentic friends. You know, the kind you don't have to vacuum for when they are coming over. The kind that know you are slightly neurotic but love you just the same. Scratch that, they love you because you are slightly neurotic.

Are we there yet?

Image via Wikipedia

The older I get, the more acutely aware I seem to notice that life is a series of never ending waiting rooms. We are constantly shuffled from one waiting room to the next, be it literal or figurative. When we are young we can't wait for our next birthday or Christmas to arrive so that we can attack the presents like hyenas and devour the meals our mothers spent 12 hours cooking in a matter of minutes.

The school year is basically a nine-month waiting room for summer breaj, broken up with smaller waiting rooms for Christmas break and spring break. As we get older we can't wait to graduate high school and then college, after which we (along with our parents) can't wait for us to get our first real job and move into our first place. Sometimes we find ourselves in more than one waiting room at a time. Example: While waiting to graduate from college, many of us young women were also waiting for our MRS. degree. And no sooner do we swallow that first piece of wedding cake than are we shoved by our loved ones into yet another waiting room where people keep asking us (often inappropriately soon) when we will start making babies.

I could go on, but I'm sure by now all you are doing is waiting for me to get to the point.

Whether it is something as simple as waiting for your baby to roll over for the first time or something as complex as watching a loved one as he slowly passes from this world to the next, waiting rooms cannot be avoided. Before you start hitting the "comment" button and telling me that we need to enjoy today and not worry about tomorrow because worrying about tomorrow will only rob of us our joy today, please hear me out. I am not talking about dwelling on these issues. I am not talking about anxiety, although that can sometimes not be avoided, and I am not talking about spending so much time dwelling on the problems, or joys, of tomorrow that you do not focus on those happy times of today. But just as we all had to wait our turn in line at the drinking fountain as children, we must still often wait in line as adults. And in my experience, it isn't getting any easier.

Over the past two years I have experienced numerous health problems causing me to spend a good deal of time in hospitals, emergency rooms and doctor's offices, all of which come with - you guessed it - waiting rooms. My experience in these literal waiting rooms have taught me some nuggets of wisdom that I believe are relative to the figurative waiting rooms of life. Which lead me to the purpose of this blog.

This blog is designed to be a place to talk about those everyday waiting rooms; both the silly and the sad; the practical and the poignant. I think you will find that we will have a lot in common and I look forward to hearing about your experiences as well. After all, no one wants to sit in a waiting room alone, no matter how good the reading material.