I hope I'm not breaking any copyright laws here, but there's a Facebook group that makes me laugh everytime I see its name. It's called Fat Kids United. I'm hoping that its creator is not one of the 3 people currently following my posts, and that I'm free to use it as the springboard for this entry.
One of the things I find most entertaining about this group is looking through the pictures of its members. And, thanks for not asking, but I know you're probably wondering, so let's get this out on the table--I am not one of these people. I find it hilarious that many members of this group are, according to their profile pics, the people who probably beat fat kids up in middle school or made them cry on the bus. Why? Because many of them are blonde, tanorexic, and model for Victoria's Secret on the side while putting themselves through school for a degree in dietetics. Apparently, it makes you cool if you love chocolate chip cookie-dough ice cream, as long as you look like you don't eat it. Look at me! I eat Oreos for breakfast and I'm totally down with French fries but I'm still a complete hottie! Doesn't that make me so, like, ironic?
You know when its awesome to be fat? That would be a rousing NEVER. And why am I so sure of this? Because I, dear readers, am the original cool fat kid.
I remember being a normal weight when I was a kid. It wasn't until my middle school years, which tend to bring out everyone's blossoming physical attributes such as acne, hairiness, and braces, that I began noticing I was different. I was the funny girl, always getting in trouble for talking in class, and had plenty of friends. I was smart, if you didn't count math as an important subject, and got along well with my teachers. What's not to like?
It became clear that I was different from the girls in my class, who possessed long, straight, blonde hair, big blue eyes, and lithe, athletic frames. I, on the other hand, began to see firsthand the effects of my Puerto Rican heritage. It is of note that the word "skinny" does not exist in PR's dialect of Spanish. We come from short, thick, hearty, waistless stock--tall and willowy just doesn't cut it in the sugarcane fields, you know. I also was blessed with hair that would make Diana Ross and Cher cry with jealousy. It adamantly refused to lay flat against my head, no matter how hard my mom and I tried. And because I was constantly trying to make it behave rather than working with its natural curl, I walked around with a strange, Brillo-pad type wedge attached to my head. And let's not forget the times I cut it short in an attempt to make it more "manageable"--I ended up with one of the great pyramids of Egypt atop my shoulders.
I remember when kids started making fun of me for being chubby. It would hurt for awhile, but when I got home from school and reunited with my friend the Doritos bag, it seemed somehow less painful. I began to see that I would not be accepted based solely on appearance, so it became clear I'd have to stand out in another way. And as we fat girls know, what better option than to be The Smart Girl With A Great Personality?
So boys asked me for homework help rather than asking me to the movies. That was okay. The guys at my school were not of the high caliber I was searching to find. I excelled in school, taking as many advanced placement classes and extra credits as I could. I was polite to teachers, made my friends laugh, and mostly stayed out of everybody's way--well, the best I could, being "fluffy". I had a group of 4 girls and 4 guys that I hung out with constantly, and I knew they always had my (wide) back. I even wrangled myself a boyfriend in 9th grade, and went to my senior prom with my best guy friend. I had a huge crush on him, but of course never let on. I knew that he got grief from his friends from offering to be my date, and was too embarrassed to ever let him see how I felt.
I tried to ignore my weight as it skyrocketed in high school. But there were always events that brought it back to mind. Each time we had class photos, I saw how much more there was of me compared to everybody else. When we got measured for our choir dresses, I was the only one who needed a size 18. My denial came to a swift end when I went back to my doctor for a sore throat that had been getting worse despite antibiotics I'd gotten the week before. As the nurses (yes, two) tried desperately to find a vein in my huge arms to test my blood for mononucleosis, I heard the doctor say to my mom: "Well, the antibiotics were prescribed for a normal weight teenager, around 120-130 pounds. She's 200." I knew they thought I didn't hear them, but those words will never be erased from my memory. I was the weight of someone on the defensive line of the football team. I outweighed my friends, teachers, and even some of my friends' parents. I didn't have a "1" in front of my weight like everyone else did. I was two-frickin-hundred pounds. How in the world did this happen?
After I graduated high school at an estimated 205-210 pounds, I decieded I wanted differently for myself. People who know me and my weight-loss story ask me what made me change. Alot of times I tell them that I knew I wanted to go into nursing, and wanted to be a healthy example to my patients. That was part of it. The other part is that I didn't want to be invisible anymore. Like every 19 year old, I wanted to be asked out, go to the movies with someone, hear someone tell me those magical three words: "A, you're beautiful". I wanted love, beauty, attention, acceptance, appreciation--all those things that seemed given freely to those around me. And so I started. Walking, on the treadmill, got my out of breath in 15 minutes. But I kept going. I stopped drinking my beloved Coke and Dr. Pepper, and began my love affair with diet caffeinated drinks. The fast-food drive-thru workers at Taco Bell and Arby's quit sending me Christmas cards as I was no longer a repeat customer.
I started running. Me, a fat chick! I did everything--ancient and embarrassing Sweatin' to the Oldies tapes, lifitng dumbells, doing crunches, clipping exercise routines out of fitness magazines. And by the time I reached my junior year in college, I had made it. I was 125 pounds. My pants were a size 2-4, with the occasional zero thrown in there just because I could. And life was different.
Different because I could go up the stairs without wheezing, my blood pressure was normal, and I could run for 8 miles at a time without stopping. Different because people, for the first time in my life, SAW me, and didn't immediately pity, dismiss, or ignore me. Different because my body was no longer a source of ridicule. And yeah, I got asked out a bit more.
Long story--longer, I realized that being thin was freaking awesome, but it wasn't the answer. Never being able to eat what your friends are eating, obessesing over calories, getting up at 4 AM to make sure my running was done, and feeling utterly controlled by food sucks. I was hungry--ALOT. I got very good at telling people I had just eaten dinner or had a big lunch or my stomach wasn't feeling well, so I didn't have to eat in front of them. I couldn't watch cooking shows without lusting after the meals. I smiled coyly when people would ask me, "Don't you ever just want a Snickers bar?" I saw that I was turning to food as I always had--first for comfort, and now for control. Had I been less squeamish about vomiting, I have no doubt bulimia would have gotten a grip on me. And because no one can restrict themselves forever, I began reaching for some of my old favorites.
It was around this time that I met my husband. I was embarrassed that I wasn't as thin as I was previously when we met. I was terrified he would wake up from the spell I'd cast on him one day, and see me as the fat girl I really was. But his eyes never saw that in me. From the start, he told me each and every day how beautiful I was. It wasn't easy to believe this, as he had the perfect physique with 2% body fat. But being with R made me realize that when he says something, he means it. And when he said I was pretty, he really truly meant it.
Being happy and in love isn't exactly great for dieting, though. All the runs we went on together didn't negate all those romantic dinners we had afterwards. R eats very healthfully, but can eat anything and everything he wants without gaining, and I figured that perhaps I'd acquire that ability simply by hanging around him--skinny by osmosis. Not so much. I probably picked up 25-30 of the pounds I had lost from the few months before I met R until the time we had our second anniversary. The Christmas that he gave me a treadmill was sort of a wake up call. He says its for both of us. Right. More like both of my thighs.
It is a thorn in my flesh, this battle with my body. I am learning this time around, as I am attempting to lose weight and be healthier once again, that its not about the Krispy Kremes. Its about a scared, depressed, lonely girl, who desperately wants to feel fulfilled--to feel FULL. And if she can't be full of love and happiness, she might as well fill herself with whatever is available.
God created me--my saggy boobs, round tummy, pancake butt, and man-calves. He created my natural curls, my deep brown eyes, and my full cheeks. He created my stomach to growl for food, and He created my heart to hunger constantly for Him. I will never find what I'm looking for, and am cursed to remain hungry, if I keep searching for it in the eyes of men, even my husband, or at the bottom of a pint of ice cream. The journey is ongoing. Today I will hit the gym and watch my carbs. It is, after all, the hardest season of the year to lose or maintain weight. And I will cry out to my Maker, my High Priest who is able to sympathize with my weaknesses. I am conviced that means that Jesus knows exactly what it feels like to be the fat girl no one wants. But oh, how He wants me. And always, always, will. Thank you Jesus for teaching me my beauty, day by day. Thank you for not giving up on this "fat kid". Thank you for making me perfect in You.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
Grateful
Thankfulness. Appreciation. Your dad's dorky phrase: an "attitude of gratitude". We have one whole day devoted to this concept, which is a wonderful reminder between platefuls of fried turkey. What about the other 364 days of the year? How often do the words "thank you" cross your lips?
For me, that answer is a rousing "NOT ENOUGH". The past month I have felt the challenge from my Creator to be a thankful, trusting, and faithful follower of Him. I use the word "challenge" because my current circumstances are shouting at me to be bitter, doubtful, and fearful instead. Those of you who know me well are fully aware that I wear my heart on my sleeve, and if a stranger on the street asks me how I'm doing we will most likely end up crying and singing Taylor Swift songs together. It's impossible for me not to be an open book emotionally (hence the whole blog writing thing). Can this be a blessing? Sure it can. Does it sometimes feel like I have permanent PMS? Yes, friends, it does.
The past few months I have been confronted with a fear that is quite close to my heart. And in the midst of this fear, God has continually reminded me that I am to be thankful. For people that don't know Him, this sounds downright cruel. "Suck it up, kid, that's life. Now give me the praise and thanks I deserve." But I can tell you this is far from the Father's heart. Like many things He asks of me, His goal is not to benefit Himself. He's God, and He doesn't need me for that. Rather, He wants me to reap the benefit of trusting Him. He is such an incredible Father.
I have gone through the process of surrendering this fear into His hands. The emotion of it still gets to me--my stomach turns and my palms get sweaty when Satan plagues my mind with the idea of it, and I'm still not good at shutting him out. As an over-analyzer, I am constantly turning ideas through my mind, and that is where my enemy likes to trip me up. He is successful much more than I like to admit. But God is not the Author of fear. He gives me, A, the spirit of power, love, and a sound mind. He gives me calm in the middle of the hurricane. He gives me a reason to put on my socks and get out of bed each morning. He gave me, and continues to give me, life.
God does not demand thankfulness from me. Yet when I am in tune with Him, I find it difficult not to express gratefulness. I have gone through seasons in my life where I say "thank you" to the cashier at Wal-Mart more than I do to Christ. I am flawed and human, and when I get angry and sad with the way life is going, I grit my teeth and bemoan that I am not getting my way. And yet this week, even yesterday, I was able to thank Him through the tears running down my face.
As I have said before, God made me with a heart that is easily bared. My emotions are always just below the surface. I thank Him for that. And I thank Him for the season of my life at this very moment. I don't know the outcome, and I don't know what to expect. I just know who's in charge, and that no one loves me like He does.
I encourage you to be naked in your heart before the Father. Thank Him--for anything and everything that comes to mind. He loves to hear from his children. Thank Him for the poetic stuff--the starry night sky, the majestic colors of autumn, and the rainbow after the storm. Thank Him for the silly things--the look on your dog's face when he eats peanut butter, when your husband remembers to put the toilet seat down, and the nights you don't have to cook dinner. Thank Him for the everyday things--the ability to get out of bed, the job that you are late for as you hit rush hour traffic, and for me, the fact that your car started that day. Thank Him for the hard things--how He holds you when the anxiety hits, the way He listens when all you can do is cry, for the ability to share in the passion of Jesus when pain enters your life. For every good and perfect gift comes from above, from our heavenly Father, Who does not change like shifting shadows. He is somehow both God and good.
There will be no altar call or 76 choruses of "Just As I Am" to complete my sermon today. Don't worry, I'll be back to the funny stuff later. I could not miss this opportunity to share what He is doing in my life. Thank you, as always, for reading. And thank you, Father, for inspiring my words. You are the Author of me.
For me, that answer is a rousing "NOT ENOUGH". The past month I have felt the challenge from my Creator to be a thankful, trusting, and faithful follower of Him. I use the word "challenge" because my current circumstances are shouting at me to be bitter, doubtful, and fearful instead. Those of you who know me well are fully aware that I wear my heart on my sleeve, and if a stranger on the street asks me how I'm doing we will most likely end up crying and singing Taylor Swift songs together. It's impossible for me not to be an open book emotionally (hence the whole blog writing thing). Can this be a blessing? Sure it can. Does it sometimes feel like I have permanent PMS? Yes, friends, it does.
The past few months I have been confronted with a fear that is quite close to my heart. And in the midst of this fear, God has continually reminded me that I am to be thankful. For people that don't know Him, this sounds downright cruel. "Suck it up, kid, that's life. Now give me the praise and thanks I deserve." But I can tell you this is far from the Father's heart. Like many things He asks of me, His goal is not to benefit Himself. He's God, and He doesn't need me for that. Rather, He wants me to reap the benefit of trusting Him. He is such an incredible Father.
I have gone through the process of surrendering this fear into His hands. The emotion of it still gets to me--my stomach turns and my palms get sweaty when Satan plagues my mind with the idea of it, and I'm still not good at shutting him out. As an over-analyzer, I am constantly turning ideas through my mind, and that is where my enemy likes to trip me up. He is successful much more than I like to admit. But God is not the Author of fear. He gives me, A, the spirit of power, love, and a sound mind. He gives me calm in the middle of the hurricane. He gives me a reason to put on my socks and get out of bed each morning. He gave me, and continues to give me, life.
God does not demand thankfulness from me. Yet when I am in tune with Him, I find it difficult not to express gratefulness. I have gone through seasons in my life where I say "thank you" to the cashier at Wal-Mart more than I do to Christ. I am flawed and human, and when I get angry and sad with the way life is going, I grit my teeth and bemoan that I am not getting my way. And yet this week, even yesterday, I was able to thank Him through the tears running down my face.
As I have said before, God made me with a heart that is easily bared. My emotions are always just below the surface. I thank Him for that. And I thank Him for the season of my life at this very moment. I don't know the outcome, and I don't know what to expect. I just know who's in charge, and that no one loves me like He does.
I encourage you to be naked in your heart before the Father. Thank Him--for anything and everything that comes to mind. He loves to hear from his children. Thank Him for the poetic stuff--the starry night sky, the majestic colors of autumn, and the rainbow after the storm. Thank Him for the silly things--the look on your dog's face when he eats peanut butter, when your husband remembers to put the toilet seat down, and the nights you don't have to cook dinner. Thank Him for the everyday things--the ability to get out of bed, the job that you are late for as you hit rush hour traffic, and for me, the fact that your car started that day. Thank Him for the hard things--how He holds you when the anxiety hits, the way He listens when all you can do is cry, for the ability to share in the passion of Jesus when pain enters your life. For every good and perfect gift comes from above, from our heavenly Father, Who does not change like shifting shadows. He is somehow both God and good.
There will be no altar call or 76 choruses of "Just As I Am" to complete my sermon today. Don't worry, I'll be back to the funny stuff later. I could not miss this opportunity to share what He is doing in my life. Thank you, as always, for reading. And thank you, Father, for inspiring my words. You are the Author of me.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
All I Want For Christmas Is...
the money back for my Honda.
Sadly enough, I do not have to rely on fabricated stories as fodder for my blog, since my real life, and in particular my automobiles, gives me plenty of material. The better to entertain you with, my dears!
Leaving my usual Thursday night Bible study, I get a text from my husband. This normally indicates that someone is bleeding/there is no food in the house/a dog or cat is sick/car is engulfed in flames or otherwise incapacitated. In other words, its usually not good news.
In true R fashion, the message is succinct: "Car overheating. Meet me at mechanic".
I arrive 20 minutes later at our usual place, the angel of rescue to my poor hubby. We drop off the car (with R ignoring my suggestions to leave the keys in the ignition and see what happens) and hope for the best.
The problem is determined to be the water pump, as mentioned in a previous post. No biggie, right? Well, apparently the 1994 Honda Civic designers don't want just anybody messing around under the hood. You practically need an engraved invitation to get into this party. And according to the bill, the man hours needed to repair the pump are equivalent to the time it took Noah to build the Ark.
Breathing a sigh of relief, we drive back Saturday to pick up the car. As I crank the engine, I notice two pretty twinkling lights on the dashboard that I've never seen before. I figure its still too early in the season for the nice guys at our mechanic's shop to decorate my car for Christmas, so I head back in and ask what's going on.
Back the car goes into the repair bay, and R and I wait for another half hour for an explanation of the pretty lights. The lobby of our mechanic's shop is like an ICU waiting room but with lower-caliber coffee and crappier cable television. I feel like we spend a large amount of our lives in here, waiting to see if our vehicles will make it through the night. Interestingly, my mother-in-law calls us while we are waiting to see how the car is doing. She and I are plotting how to trick R into buying me a new car for Christmas when the mechanic reappears. Apparently the battery terminals are "dirty", which is why the pretty lights came on. A quick swipe of a shop towel and we are declared fit for the road.
Fast forward to Monday morning. R decides that the "shimmying" when the car increases in speed is disconcerting, so back to the shop we go. Mercifully, the timing belt was replaced just a month prior, so I arrive at the mechanic's armed with a warranty which I am not afraid to use. Easy-peasy.
Tuesday night, R arrives home from work and we decide to have a romantic night out. This of course means we head to the gym together. As we're backing out of the driveway, I notice that the pretty twinkling lights have returned. R says that they "go off after a few seconds" and we're fine. My eyes fixed on the dashboard, I become increasingly distressed after 5 minutes pass by and we are still lit up like the Enterprise. R suggests we leave the car overnight at the repair shop for, oh, the FOURTEENTH TIME THIS WEEK so they can "check it out". I politely disagreed and suggested what I'd like to do with the car.
Finally, we decide to leave it since R is carpooling to work in the morning. I feel like I could navigate the 6 minute drive to our mechanic with my eyes closed and hands bound by now. Wednesday afternoon I call R to investigate the status of the Honda, for which I will soon be signing a DO NOT RESUSCITATE order if this business continues.
Thankfully, it wasn't any big deal or anything. Just an ALTERNATOR. No biggie. And it's not like they're expensive. In fact, I was just saying to myself how I felt compelled to throw three hundred dollars toward a hopeless lost cause. Who needs money for little things like Christmas anyway? I wonder if we can start counting our car repairs as a charitable giving donation, and reap the tax benefits. After all, my cars practically deserve their own charity foundation by now.
Commence with the weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Oh, and the best part? It took Ryan 3 tries to start the car last night so he could pull it into the garage.
All I want for Christmas is a new freakin' car.
Sadly enough, I do not have to rely on fabricated stories as fodder for my blog, since my real life, and in particular my automobiles, gives me plenty of material. The better to entertain you with, my dears!
Leaving my usual Thursday night Bible study, I get a text from my husband. This normally indicates that someone is bleeding/there is no food in the house/a dog or cat is sick/car is engulfed in flames or otherwise incapacitated. In other words, its usually not good news.
In true R fashion, the message is succinct: "Car overheating. Meet me at mechanic".
I arrive 20 minutes later at our usual place, the angel of rescue to my poor hubby. We drop off the car (with R ignoring my suggestions to leave the keys in the ignition and see what happens) and hope for the best.
The problem is determined to be the water pump, as mentioned in a previous post. No biggie, right? Well, apparently the 1994 Honda Civic designers don't want just anybody messing around under the hood. You practically need an engraved invitation to get into this party. And according to the bill, the man hours needed to repair the pump are equivalent to the time it took Noah to build the Ark.
Breathing a sigh of relief, we drive back Saturday to pick up the car. As I crank the engine, I notice two pretty twinkling lights on the dashboard that I've never seen before. I figure its still too early in the season for the nice guys at our mechanic's shop to decorate my car for Christmas, so I head back in and ask what's going on.
Back the car goes into the repair bay, and R and I wait for another half hour for an explanation of the pretty lights. The lobby of our mechanic's shop is like an ICU waiting room but with lower-caliber coffee and crappier cable television. I feel like we spend a large amount of our lives in here, waiting to see if our vehicles will make it through the night. Interestingly, my mother-in-law calls us while we are waiting to see how the car is doing. She and I are plotting how to trick R into buying me a new car for Christmas when the mechanic reappears. Apparently the battery terminals are "dirty", which is why the pretty lights came on. A quick swipe of a shop towel and we are declared fit for the road.
Fast forward to Monday morning. R decides that the "shimmying" when the car increases in speed is disconcerting, so back to the shop we go. Mercifully, the timing belt was replaced just a month prior, so I arrive at the mechanic's armed with a warranty which I am not afraid to use. Easy-peasy.
Tuesday night, R arrives home from work and we decide to have a romantic night out. This of course means we head to the gym together. As we're backing out of the driveway, I notice that the pretty twinkling lights have returned. R says that they "go off after a few seconds" and we're fine. My eyes fixed on the dashboard, I become increasingly distressed after 5 minutes pass by and we are still lit up like the Enterprise. R suggests we leave the car overnight at the repair shop for, oh, the FOURTEENTH TIME THIS WEEK so they can "check it out". I politely disagreed and suggested what I'd like to do with the car.
Finally, we decide to leave it since R is carpooling to work in the morning. I feel like I could navigate the 6 minute drive to our mechanic with my eyes closed and hands bound by now. Wednesday afternoon I call R to investigate the status of the Honda, for which I will soon be signing a DO NOT RESUSCITATE order if this business continues.
Thankfully, it wasn't any big deal or anything. Just an ALTERNATOR. No biggie. And it's not like they're expensive. In fact, I was just saying to myself how I felt compelled to throw three hundred dollars toward a hopeless lost cause. Who needs money for little things like Christmas anyway? I wonder if we can start counting our car repairs as a charitable giving donation, and reap the tax benefits. After all, my cars practically deserve their own charity foundation by now.
Commence with the weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Oh, and the best part? It took Ryan 3 tries to start the car last night so he could pull it into the garage.
All I want for Christmas is a new freakin' car.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Vehicular Suicide
I wish that my cars would quit attempting to take their own life. If anyone knows of a program that treats this sort of condition, please let me know.
As any of you who know me in real life will attest, cars seem to be a thorn in my flesh. Let's bring it back to the year 2000 as we meet my first dork-mobile, a brand-spanking-new-to-me 1987 Nissan Maxima. A gorgeous shade of white, this car was two years younger than me and the vehicular equivalent of a shoebox on wheels. Perhaps subconciously, I totaled this car a mere two weeks before my senior year in high school began.
One thing that the Maxima had going for it, besides its obvious class and style, is a lack of major mechanical problems. The next jewel in my possession was not so sound. Allow me to introduce Bertha the Buick, a blindingly white whale of a car with a grille that only Grandma could love. I feel certain that my parents picked this car because they felt it would challenge an 18-wheeler in a traffic tangle and still come out on top. It was similar to driving a padded room or a white puffy down parka. Nothing was getting between this baby and me.
The great thing about having a 1993 (yes, it could still be my younger sister) car is that you are kept perpetually on your toes. I am not a betting woman, but I know the rush that gamblers must feel as they step up to the slot machine hoping for 3 lucky sevens. This is what it felt like each day as I slid the (also inflated) key into the ignition. Will it start? Will it sputter? Daddy, what's that noise and why is there smoke everywhere? Every day was a new adventure with Bertha.
Bertha also liked to take frequent vacations from her taxing job of shuttling me to school, church, and work. When she felt like she needed a break, which was pretty much every 3 months, she would decide to dismantle one of her more expensive parts leave me stranded, weeping in some random parking lot. She was towed out of Olive Garden, Starbucks at all three Chattanooga locations, the school library lot, both of my places of work, and of course, from my own house, which was 1.6 miles away from the service station. Tow trucks around town knew me by name.
Mind games were also a favorite of Bertha. One night as I was driving home from work, I noticed that each time I took my foot off the gas pedal, the car's speedometer would plummet down to 10 or 15 mph. Perplexed, I tried to keep my foot on the gas as much as possible, which is always fun when traversing a road shrouded in darkness with no roadside lighting and plenty of curves. That's when the radio started flickering on and off. Before I had time to mentally process this, my headlights shut themselves off as well. Eventually the car fell into a deep, soothing sleep as I coasted up the hill and into the driveway, at which point it promptly died. Again, weeping and heart palpitations may or may not have been involved. My father was not convinced, as I was, that the car had become possessed by Satan and was in need of an exorcism. He was leaning towards the replacement of it's alternator. One of us was right.
I believe I matched my entire college tuition on what I paid to keep Bertha afloat. So needless to say, as soon as I got a real job in the real world, I signed myself up for a real car loan complete with a real payment book. My cherry red Pontiac was like a shining beacon of hope-beautiful, reliable, compact, and NOT WHITE.
My husband entered my life shortly before I bought the car. Together with his sport Eclipse, we were quite the pair on the road. Somewhere during our first year of marriage, we made the decision to live debt-free. He paid off his car, and blinded by love and Dave Ramsey's voice, I sold my beloved Pontiac.
It turns out that when everyone tells you an old, very used car is not as reliable as a 2007 model with one previous owner, they just might be onto something. Our first car to replace the Pontiac (yes, you read that right--more on the second, third and fourth cars later) was a Daewoo Leganza. Now, at this point, we were not looking for a BMW, but rather something cheap and dependable to get us through the next couple of years. Trade "weeks" for "years" and the Daewoo did exactly that. I believe the course of events was as follows: back new-old car out of driveway, scream at funny noise and vibrations, call husband crying, take to mechanic, new expensive hoses, more funny noises, cannot fix, got a lemon, car not starting, mechanic has car towed away since it won't run.
Well, anyone can have one episode of bad luck during this process, right? You betcha! The Daewoo's replacement was an Oldsmobile Aurora (just call me Granny Long) that needed "just a touch of coolant" and was top of the line at its release in 1994. Just so you know, July is not the best month to discover that the "touch of coolant" only works well if your AIR CONDITIONER COMPRESSOR IS FUNCTIONAL. Coolant=10 dollars. Compressor=half of what we paid for the car. Oh, and did I mention the wee little oil leak from the head gasket which caused us to carry quarts of oil in the car's glove compartment? I felt like a rolling Molatov cocktail each time I entered the interstate in this bad boy.
Someone was gracious enough to rear-end me at the end of August and put us out of the Aurora's misery. The appraiser from my insurance company thought my reaction to be a bit odd when he "broke the news to us" that the car was totaled. Apparently, most people don't shed tears of joy or begin an interpretive dance of thankfulness when they hear this news. They cut us a check for the car's value (stop laughing) and we went car shopping. By now, this is no big deal for my husband and I. "What's that babe? It's the first of the month? Oh, my, we forgot to go buy a car!"
Our new car's birthday is a bit painful for me to type, so let's suffice it to say we are back, way back, in the 90's. This shopping experience was particularly interesting in that a salesman attempted to sell me the most odiferous vehicle I've ever sat in. As he handed us the keys to test drive this purple (the color of royalty!) monstrosity, I caught a whiff of an unmistakably bad smell. Imagine all the cats God ever made in one place. Then imagine them climbing into this car with no access to a litter box. Roll up the windows, set to bake at 500 degrees in the summer sun, and you have an idea of what I experienced. I managed to speak while gagging and mentioned that there was a "smell", to put it nicely, to this particular car. His response was that the upholstery got wet while being shampooed and, I quote, "A little Febreze should knock that right out". Now, as the owner of four pets, I love Febreze and can attest to its awesomeness. But it this case, it's like slapping a Band-Aid on an open heart surgery patient's chest and calling it a day. Not gonna cut it.
Thankfully, we found a nice man with an older Honda Civic that was driven to church once a week by a little old lady, don't ya know. It has been a decent car despite its 180,000 miles, and we've even cheated death by taking it on a road trip to visit the in-laws. Maybe this is the one that will carry us until...*ring ring*
Excuse me, the husband's calling...
"Hi, honey. What's that? How can a car overheat in winter? OK, I'll be there in a few. Usual place, right?"
500 dollars and a new water pump later, I may or may not be crying a little.
But that's ok. The road to freedom from debt it marked with many speed bumps, and God always provides for us. I just look forward to the day when my cars can have some more self-esteem.
As any of you who know me in real life will attest, cars seem to be a thorn in my flesh. Let's bring it back to the year 2000 as we meet my first dork-mobile, a brand-spanking-new-to-me 1987 Nissan Maxima. A gorgeous shade of white, this car was two years younger than me and the vehicular equivalent of a shoebox on wheels. Perhaps subconciously, I totaled this car a mere two weeks before my senior year in high school began.
One thing that the Maxima had going for it, besides its obvious class and style, is a lack of major mechanical problems. The next jewel in my possession was not so sound. Allow me to introduce Bertha the Buick, a blindingly white whale of a car with a grille that only Grandma could love. I feel certain that my parents picked this car because they felt it would challenge an 18-wheeler in a traffic tangle and still come out on top. It was similar to driving a padded room or a white puffy down parka. Nothing was getting between this baby and me.
The great thing about having a 1993 (yes, it could still be my younger sister) car is that you are kept perpetually on your toes. I am not a betting woman, but I know the rush that gamblers must feel as they step up to the slot machine hoping for 3 lucky sevens. This is what it felt like each day as I slid the (also inflated) key into the ignition. Will it start? Will it sputter? Daddy, what's that noise and why is there smoke everywhere? Every day was a new adventure with Bertha.
Bertha also liked to take frequent vacations from her taxing job of shuttling me to school, church, and work. When she felt like she needed a break, which was pretty much every 3 months, she would decide to dismantle one of her more expensive parts leave me stranded, weeping in some random parking lot. She was towed out of Olive Garden, Starbucks at all three Chattanooga locations, the school library lot, both of my places of work, and of course, from my own house, which was 1.6 miles away from the service station. Tow trucks around town knew me by name.
Mind games were also a favorite of Bertha. One night as I was driving home from work, I noticed that each time I took my foot off the gas pedal, the car's speedometer would plummet down to 10 or 15 mph. Perplexed, I tried to keep my foot on the gas as much as possible, which is always fun when traversing a road shrouded in darkness with no roadside lighting and plenty of curves. That's when the radio started flickering on and off. Before I had time to mentally process this, my headlights shut themselves off as well. Eventually the car fell into a deep, soothing sleep as I coasted up the hill and into the driveway, at which point it promptly died. Again, weeping and heart palpitations may or may not have been involved. My father was not convinced, as I was, that the car had become possessed by Satan and was in need of an exorcism. He was leaning towards the replacement of it's alternator. One of us was right.
I believe I matched my entire college tuition on what I paid to keep Bertha afloat. So needless to say, as soon as I got a real job in the real world, I signed myself up for a real car loan complete with a real payment book. My cherry red Pontiac was like a shining beacon of hope-beautiful, reliable, compact, and NOT WHITE.
My husband entered my life shortly before I bought the car. Together with his sport Eclipse, we were quite the pair on the road. Somewhere during our first year of marriage, we made the decision to live debt-free. He paid off his car, and blinded by love and Dave Ramsey's voice, I sold my beloved Pontiac.
It turns out that when everyone tells you an old, very used car is not as reliable as a 2007 model with one previous owner, they just might be onto something. Our first car to replace the Pontiac (yes, you read that right--more on the second, third and fourth cars later) was a Daewoo Leganza. Now, at this point, we were not looking for a BMW, but rather something cheap and dependable to get us through the next couple of years. Trade "weeks" for "years" and the Daewoo did exactly that. I believe the course of events was as follows: back new-old car out of driveway, scream at funny noise and vibrations, call husband crying, take to mechanic, new expensive hoses, more funny noises, cannot fix, got a lemon, car not starting, mechanic has car towed away since it won't run.
Well, anyone can have one episode of bad luck during this process, right? You betcha! The Daewoo's replacement was an Oldsmobile Aurora (just call me Granny Long) that needed "just a touch of coolant" and was top of the line at its release in 1994. Just so you know, July is not the best month to discover that the "touch of coolant" only works well if your AIR CONDITIONER COMPRESSOR IS FUNCTIONAL. Coolant=10 dollars. Compressor=half of what we paid for the car. Oh, and did I mention the wee little oil leak from the head gasket which caused us to carry quarts of oil in the car's glove compartment? I felt like a rolling Molatov cocktail each time I entered the interstate in this bad boy.
Someone was gracious enough to rear-end me at the end of August and put us out of the Aurora's misery. The appraiser from my insurance company thought my reaction to be a bit odd when he "broke the news to us" that the car was totaled. Apparently, most people don't shed tears of joy or begin an interpretive dance of thankfulness when they hear this news. They cut us a check for the car's value (stop laughing) and we went car shopping. By now, this is no big deal for my husband and I. "What's that babe? It's the first of the month? Oh, my, we forgot to go buy a car!"
Our new car's birthday is a bit painful for me to type, so let's suffice it to say we are back, way back, in the 90's. This shopping experience was particularly interesting in that a salesman attempted to sell me the most odiferous vehicle I've ever sat in. As he handed us the keys to test drive this purple (the color of royalty!) monstrosity, I caught a whiff of an unmistakably bad smell. Imagine all the cats God ever made in one place. Then imagine them climbing into this car with no access to a litter box. Roll up the windows, set to bake at 500 degrees in the summer sun, and you have an idea of what I experienced. I managed to speak while gagging and mentioned that there was a "smell", to put it nicely, to this particular car. His response was that the upholstery got wet while being shampooed and, I quote, "A little Febreze should knock that right out". Now, as the owner of four pets, I love Febreze and can attest to its awesomeness. But it this case, it's like slapping a Band-Aid on an open heart surgery patient's chest and calling it a day. Not gonna cut it.
Thankfully, we found a nice man with an older Honda Civic that was driven to church once a week by a little old lady, don't ya know. It has been a decent car despite its 180,000 miles, and we've even cheated death by taking it on a road trip to visit the in-laws. Maybe this is the one that will carry us until...*ring ring*
Excuse me, the husband's calling...
"Hi, honey. What's that? How can a car overheat in winter? OK, I'll be there in a few. Usual place, right?"
500 dollars and a new water pump later, I may or may not be crying a little.
But that's ok. The road to freedom from debt it marked with many speed bumps, and God always provides for us. I just look forward to the day when my cars can have some more self-esteem.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
If Life's A Marathon, Looks Like I'll Die Halfway Through It
You know that saying, "Life's a marathon, not a sprint"? I'm really banking on that not being true. Because I really want to make it past age 43.
Why am I thinking the marathon thing is insurmountable? I ran my first half-marathon 4 weeks ago today. And my hip is still angry with me.
I've been one of those wacky people known as runners for the past 5 years. I started as a way to lose weight ( which really works, by the way) and have continued it as my primary form of exercise ever since. Here's a little secret runners don't want you to know: a majority of the time, running SUCKS. Oh, sure, we want you to think it's like fleeing through a field of poppies in springtime, with the weather a perfect 68 degrees and no traces of humidity, light as a feather, the incarnation of the Greek goddess Nike as we sprint blissfully towards our goal, which is never to look good naked, no, its for our health. To be one with our bodies as nature intended, the occasional gleam of light perspiration on the brow as the toxins vacate our Temple. It's as easy and breezy as a Cover Girl commercial!
News flash: its not. I don't run because I find it entertaining. I run because I like to eat ice cream and still fit into my jeans. Sure, the added benefits of lower blood pressure and stress relief are a nice bonus, but let's be clear: this is totally about vanity.
So last July I came up with the brilliant idea of running a half-marathon. I've done several (3) 5 K's before, and was accustomed to running up to 8 miles at a time (last done two years ago), so I figured I'd give it a shot. I signed up for the Dalton Half-Marathon/ 5K to be held October 16.
The hardest part of the training was by far the long runs. Not that tempo runs are a walk in the park, but there is something about getting up at 4 AM that triggers anger within your quadriceps. Every week when that alarm went of on Friday mornings, I heard my body saying "You are not supposed to do this to me."
The added bonus was that even in the early AM, that good ole' Southern humidity was alive and kicking. It feels similar to what I imagine the Costa Rican rainforest is like. In August. At midday. In the blinding sun.
Yet off I went, gradually pushing myself further past what I thought was possible. The day I hit 13 miles was an incredible reminder of how far I had come, from a 5 foot 3, 205-pound high school graduate to, well, an athlete. Bring it, Dalton.
October 16 slapped me in the face with a head cold. Not the kind where you have some sniffles throughout the day, but the kind that transforms the head into a mucus factory working 24/7. I had the pleasure of running with Kleenex stuffed into my running pants, looking like I was smuggling pounds of cocaine or perhaps carrying a litter of white kittens with me throughout the race.
After the first few miles, as the crowd thinned out, I was better able to see my competition. It was both inspiring and disheartening to see the amount of senior citizens pounding the pavement beside me. Especially as they began passing me, one by one. After the 6 mile mark, I was transported into the running Twilight Zone in which mile 7 was sure never to come. I felt dizzy, queasy, and ticked that I was willingly spending my Saturday engaging in self-torture. And as if God wasnt getting enough entertainment out of watching me, the hills began.
Finally, as I crawled toward the finish line, I remembered that my goal was not to be the first, but simply to finish. This was a timely reminder, since throngs of runners were breezing past me with their finisher's medals to their cars as they left the race. I didn't care; when I crossed the line it was a total "Chariots of Fire" moment. With my parents and husband there to greet me, its safe to say I have never been more proud of myself.
Running is a lot like life, especially for followers of Christ. Alot of times it sucks, the hills are never fun to climb, and people will repeatedly pass you, making you second-guess your course of action. But just as nothing compares to feeling the weight of that finisher's medal around your neck at the finish line, nothing will compare to falling into our Father's arms as He welcomes us home.
C.S. Lewis said what saves a man is to take a step, and then another step. Be a step taker rather than a spectator. So let us throw off everything that hinders and run with endurance the race that Jesus has set before us.
Happy Trails, fellow runners!
Why am I thinking the marathon thing is insurmountable? I ran my first half-marathon 4 weeks ago today. And my hip is still angry with me.
I've been one of those wacky people known as runners for the past 5 years. I started as a way to lose weight ( which really works, by the way) and have continued it as my primary form of exercise ever since. Here's a little secret runners don't want you to know: a majority of the time, running SUCKS. Oh, sure, we want you to think it's like fleeing through a field of poppies in springtime, with the weather a perfect 68 degrees and no traces of humidity, light as a feather, the incarnation of the Greek goddess Nike as we sprint blissfully towards our goal, which is never to look good naked, no, its for our health. To be one with our bodies as nature intended, the occasional gleam of light perspiration on the brow as the toxins vacate our Temple. It's as easy and breezy as a Cover Girl commercial!
News flash: its not. I don't run because I find it entertaining. I run because I like to eat ice cream and still fit into my jeans. Sure, the added benefits of lower blood pressure and stress relief are a nice bonus, but let's be clear: this is totally about vanity.
So last July I came up with the brilliant idea of running a half-marathon. I've done several (3) 5 K's before, and was accustomed to running up to 8 miles at a time (last done two years ago), so I figured I'd give it a shot. I signed up for the Dalton Half-Marathon/ 5K to be held October 16.
The hardest part of the training was by far the long runs. Not that tempo runs are a walk in the park, but there is something about getting up at 4 AM that triggers anger within your quadriceps. Every week when that alarm went of on Friday mornings, I heard my body saying "You are not supposed to do this to me."
The added bonus was that even in the early AM, that good ole' Southern humidity was alive and kicking. It feels similar to what I imagine the Costa Rican rainforest is like. In August. At midday. In the blinding sun.
Yet off I went, gradually pushing myself further past what I thought was possible. The day I hit 13 miles was an incredible reminder of how far I had come, from a 5 foot 3, 205-pound high school graduate to, well, an athlete. Bring it, Dalton.
October 16 slapped me in the face with a head cold. Not the kind where you have some sniffles throughout the day, but the kind that transforms the head into a mucus factory working 24/7. I had the pleasure of running with Kleenex stuffed into my running pants, looking like I was smuggling pounds of cocaine or perhaps carrying a litter of white kittens with me throughout the race.
After the first few miles, as the crowd thinned out, I was better able to see my competition. It was both inspiring and disheartening to see the amount of senior citizens pounding the pavement beside me. Especially as they began passing me, one by one. After the 6 mile mark, I was transported into the running Twilight Zone in which mile 7 was sure never to come. I felt dizzy, queasy, and ticked that I was willingly spending my Saturday engaging in self-torture. And as if God wasnt getting enough entertainment out of watching me, the hills began.
Finally, as I crawled toward the finish line, I remembered that my goal was not to be the first, but simply to finish. This was a timely reminder, since throngs of runners were breezing past me with their finisher's medals to their cars as they left the race. I didn't care; when I crossed the line it was a total "Chariots of Fire" moment. With my parents and husband there to greet me, its safe to say I have never been more proud of myself.
Running is a lot like life, especially for followers of Christ. Alot of times it sucks, the hills are never fun to climb, and people will repeatedly pass you, making you second-guess your course of action. But just as nothing compares to feeling the weight of that finisher's medal around your neck at the finish line, nothing will compare to falling into our Father's arms as He welcomes us home.
C.S. Lewis said what saves a man is to take a step, and then another step. Be a step taker rather than a spectator. So let us throw off everything that hinders and run with endurance the race that Jesus has set before us.
Happy Trails, fellow runners!
It Sounded Brilliant At The Time
Hi. My name is A, last name Long, and as I was cleaning house this morning it occured to me that the blog I've been promising myself to start for years could have this really cool play on my last name that NO ONE has EVER thought of until now--Long Winded! Get it? Because I write, and tend to kind of ramble, and my last name is Long, and WOW that's amazing let's get this party started.
Congratulations to every one with this groundbreaking creative genius who beat me to the punch. That's why my blog now has a name that doesn't exactly have the star power I was looking for. I am actively accepting applications for alliterative witty titles.
Now that that's settled, let's get to know each other. I am the proverbial twentysomething looking for her creative outlet, since a career in medicine does not encourage me to be "creative" in my endeavors. Patients frown on that sort of thing. I'm a frustrated English major who became an RN so I could, well, eat. That's something I do pretty well, being a former fat girl. I've been married for two years to my husband R, and am the mother of four children shunned by their grandparents due to their penchant for peeing on the carpet and clawing the sofa. My most important relationship is the one with my Creator, the only one to date Whom can make sense of my thoughts and feelings. He is my life, and I do my best to live it for Him.
At present, my prehistoric dryer is blasting its air-raid siren and demanding my attention, and so off to the laundry I go. Who knows--maybe by the time I return I might have a follower or two. This depends entirely on when the husband gets home.
Blessings!
Congratulations to every one with this groundbreaking creative genius who beat me to the punch. That's why my blog now has a name that doesn't exactly have the star power I was looking for. I am actively accepting applications for alliterative witty titles.
Now that that's settled, let's get to know each other. I am the proverbial twentysomething looking for her creative outlet, since a career in medicine does not encourage me to be "creative" in my endeavors. Patients frown on that sort of thing. I'm a frustrated English major who became an RN so I could, well, eat. That's something I do pretty well, being a former fat girl. I've been married for two years to my husband R, and am the mother of four children shunned by their grandparents due to their penchant for peeing on the carpet and clawing the sofa. My most important relationship is the one with my Creator, the only one to date Whom can make sense of my thoughts and feelings. He is my life, and I do my best to live it for Him.
At present, my prehistoric dryer is blasting its air-raid siren and demanding my attention, and so off to the laundry I go. Who knows--maybe by the time I return I might have a follower or two. This depends entirely on when the husband gets home.
Blessings!
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