I've been longing to pick a fight for some time now. The problem is that the woman with whom I have my quarrel is not really real. She is, you see, the legendary Proverbs 31 Woman.
All my life I've placed this lady on a pedestal. "She's the woman you should be when you grow up!" decreed my childhood Sunday School teacher. "We are looking for this girl to date!" shouted my male college friends. I never thought much about it. I mean, what did she have to do with me, a swingin' single with no kids or husband to clothe in scarlet, no servant to provide portions for in the wee hours of the morning? Not very much.
Now, however, I'm married. When I made my vows a little over 8 months ago, I was expecting conflicts with Cal, selfish tendencies to be revealed, and alone time to be scarce. What I was not expecting, however, was the growing animosity I'd begin feeling towards this role model of my childhood, this icon that all little girls should strive to be.
I don't cook. I don't sew. I don't clean. I don't like early mornings. I don't really like late nights. I'm not so great with kids. I don't have a Roth IRA. My exposure to the "poor" and "needy" is synonymous to lunch with my fellow teachers at school. I don't like sashes, much less sell them to merchants. I love idleness.
I'm doomed.
I was bemoaning my lack of similarities to the Proverbs 31 woman to Cal the other day during one of my (monthly) breakdowns. His response?
"Who's the Proverbs 31 woman?"
Sheesh. Men!
I realize that the Bible is God's word, and I realize that I should tread carefully when taking issue with Scripture. However, I'm beginning to think that all of those Elisabeth Elliot books, all of those Sunday School lectures, all of those late-night RUF retreat discussions with other Christian girls were wrong. I don't think, I can't think, that the picture of this perfect woman is provided for women to feel guilty about not being for their entire lives. She's not someone we can strive to be. She's someone we must realize that we can't be.
She's another reason for us to turn to Christ for his grace. And, boy, am I glad He's there.
2.28.2008
2.20.2008
Adventures in Alabama
Last weekend, Elizabeth and I had a near death experience.
Well, okay. Maybe I'm exaggerating a little.
We were traveling back from my friend Meredith's wedding in Jackson, MS, when we first caught wind of danger: the radio station we were listening to began to mention tornadoes in Alabama. Lots of them, and close. The good news was that the bad weather was south of us. The bad news was that it was traveling northeast. We, of course, were traveling straight east. We started to speculate regarding our options.
"Well," said Elizabeth, "they probably won't be an issue by the time we get to that area."
"Yeah," I replied hopefully, "maybe we can outrun the storms."
I sped up so that we were traveling over 80 mph, and we kept the radio station turned up so that we could hear any updates. My mother called. Several times.
"Girls? Do you know that there's bad weather in Alabama?"
Cal called. "Just wanted to make sure y'all were aware of the storms in east Alabama."
We got it. Thanks. As we neared the town of Anniston, we got a report on the latest warnings. Several tornadoes had been spotted, one just east of Anniston in the next county over. The county through which we'd be traveling in merely a few short minutes. Still feeling invincible, however, we decided to push on. Actually, we didn't really decide anything, we just didn't pull over, mainly because of our ambivalence each time we got to an exit. We kept saying, "we'll just pull over at the next one if it's bad" or "maybe we can go just one more."
Unfortunately, we did that one too many times. The weather took a turn for the worse, and suddenly the wind was rocking Elizabeth's Explorer and rain was pelting at the windshield. About that time, we heard the announcement on the radio:
"Folks, if you're in your houses, take cover in a closet or bathroom. If you're in a car, pull over to the side of the road and lay down in a ditch."
Elizabeth and I exchanged glances. Neither of us found the idea of waiting out the tornadoes in a ditch on the side of I-20 real appealing. We decided to pull off at the next exit, just ahead. And we did. However, we were in the middle of Alabama, and this particular exit was confirmation: absolutely no sign of life was in existence anywhere around. It was at that moment, stopped at the stop sign at the offramp of the interstate, that we heard the first mournful wail. The sirens had begun.
Elizabeth took one look at the blotches on my neck and face (due to my increased anxiety) and suggested we turn around and head back west an exit. I couldn't have agreed more quickly, and we soon found ourselves heading back to Anniston.
A few harried minutes later, we saw a beacon of light in front of us. Was it heaven? we wondered. Had we died back there in the tornado and were now heading towards the glow of those pearly gates we'd always heard about? For a minute, we thought that might be the case.
But then, out of that shimmer of lights, we started to make out glimpses of red as well. Red letters, actually. Red letters that spelled out the next best thing to a heavenly reunion with those who had gone before us: TJ Maxx. (cue host of angels singing "Haaaaallelujah!")
My mom happened to be on the phone with Elizabeth at the time of the sighting, demanding mile marker numbers so that she and Dad could track precisely where we were in relation to the tornadoes that had been confirmed. When Elizabeth told her the good news of our soon-to-be haven from the storms, my mom promptly replied with a relieved, "Well, that's great news! If you're gonna die, die in a TJ!"
What followed was 2 1/2 hours of unhurried shopping in the world's most perfect store, a leisurely dinner at Longhorn next door, and an hour of browsing sales at Target, also in the same shopping center, all the while keeping in touch with our parents who could survey the locations of the storms and let us know when all was clear to leave.
When we got home safely, 13 hours after we had departed Jackson that morning, we were exhausted and our wallets were a good bit lighter. However, we certainly couldn't complain: having a legitimate excuse to spend hours in a place that we both consider the next best thing to heaven had been worth it all.
Well, okay. Maybe I'm exaggerating a little.
We were traveling back from my friend Meredith's wedding in Jackson, MS, when we first caught wind of danger: the radio station we were listening to began to mention tornadoes in Alabama. Lots of them, and close. The good news was that the bad weather was south of us. The bad news was that it was traveling northeast. We, of course, were traveling straight east. We started to speculate regarding our options.
"Well," said Elizabeth, "they probably won't be an issue by the time we get to that area."
"Yeah," I replied hopefully, "maybe we can outrun the storms."
I sped up so that we were traveling over 80 mph, and we kept the radio station turned up so that we could hear any updates. My mother called. Several times.
"Girls? Do you know that there's bad weather in Alabama?"
Cal called. "Just wanted to make sure y'all were aware of the storms in east Alabama."
We got it. Thanks. As we neared the town of Anniston, we got a report on the latest warnings. Several tornadoes had been spotted, one just east of Anniston in the next county over. The county through which we'd be traveling in merely a few short minutes. Still feeling invincible, however, we decided to push on. Actually, we didn't really decide anything, we just didn't pull over, mainly because of our ambivalence each time we got to an exit. We kept saying, "we'll just pull over at the next one if it's bad" or "maybe we can go just one more."
Unfortunately, we did that one too many times. The weather took a turn for the worse, and suddenly the wind was rocking Elizabeth's Explorer and rain was pelting at the windshield. About that time, we heard the announcement on the radio:
"Folks, if you're in your houses, take cover in a closet or bathroom. If you're in a car, pull over to the side of the road and lay down in a ditch."
Elizabeth and I exchanged glances. Neither of us found the idea of waiting out the tornadoes in a ditch on the side of I-20 real appealing. We decided to pull off at the next exit, just ahead. And we did. However, we were in the middle of Alabama, and this particular exit was confirmation: absolutely no sign of life was in existence anywhere around. It was at that moment, stopped at the stop sign at the offramp of the interstate, that we heard the first mournful wail. The sirens had begun.
Elizabeth took one look at the blotches on my neck and face (due to my increased anxiety) and suggested we turn around and head back west an exit. I couldn't have agreed more quickly, and we soon found ourselves heading back to Anniston.
A few harried minutes later, we saw a beacon of light in front of us. Was it heaven? we wondered. Had we died back there in the tornado and were now heading towards the glow of those pearly gates we'd always heard about? For a minute, we thought that might be the case.
But then, out of that shimmer of lights, we started to make out glimpses of red as well. Red letters, actually. Red letters that spelled out the next best thing to a heavenly reunion with those who had gone before us: TJ Maxx. (cue host of angels singing "Haaaaallelujah!")
My mom happened to be on the phone with Elizabeth at the time of the sighting, demanding mile marker numbers so that she and Dad could track precisely where we were in relation to the tornadoes that had been confirmed. When Elizabeth told her the good news of our soon-to-be haven from the storms, my mom promptly replied with a relieved, "Well, that's great news! If you're gonna die, die in a TJ!"
What followed was 2 1/2 hours of unhurried shopping in the world's most perfect store, a leisurely dinner at Longhorn next door, and an hour of browsing sales at Target, also in the same shopping center, all the while keeping in touch with our parents who could survey the locations of the storms and let us know when all was clear to leave.
When we got home safely, 13 hours after we had departed Jackson that morning, we were exhausted and our wallets were a good bit lighter. However, we certainly couldn't complain: having a legitimate excuse to spend hours in a place that we both consider the next best thing to heaven had been worth it all.
2.10.2008
Oooooooh... Where is her hairbrush?
My niece, Anna Claire, loves the Veggie Tales. So when she got a little fussy while my family was all down in Destin over Christmas break, we caught her attention by dramatizing one of our favorite of Larry's silly songs. Seems the temporary diversion has stuck and is now one of AC's favorite pastimes...
Can you see now why we love her so?
(Debuting as featured back-up singers are Beth "Tina Turner" Terry and Amy "Janice Joplin" Casper: Anna Claire's second and third favorite aunts. Footage so artistically captured by Matt "Call me Steven Spielberg" Casper... I think.)
Can you see now why we love her so?
(Debuting as featured back-up singers are Beth "Tina Turner" Terry and Amy "Janice Joplin" Casper: Anna Claire's second and third favorite aunts. Footage so artistically captured by Matt "Call me Steven Spielberg" Casper... I think.)
2.07.2008
Growing old ... gracefully?
It's about that time of year when I begin to question my career choices. The students are surly, the cold early mornings make me even grumpier than usual when my alarm goes off at 6:15, and I'm just plain exhausted.
For the last couple of weeks, I've hardly been able to get out of the bed, for some reason. My lethargy is not the result of a deep depression or anything nearly as dramatic as that; it's merely because I'm tired. Dead tired. I can't figure it out, and Cal thinks it's unusual, too. In the past I've been the one to kid him about his early nights. Lately, though, I've hit the sheets long before he's even ironed his clothes or shaved for the next morning. I'm starting to feel old.
I'm turning 30 in just a few months, and I really wonder if my age is starting to affect my body in a few ways. Now before you get all "30 isn't old!" on me, let me clarify. I'm not about to die, and I'm certainly not about to give up on life. Heck, I'm thinking I've got at least a good 50 more years left, and hopefully more than that.
All I'm saying is that I am finally (and unfortunately) starting to show some signs of aging. For example ...
Wrinkles. I first noticed a few forehead creases the year I started teaching, but the wrinkles of late are a bit different. These facial distortions are most prominent in the mornings when I get out of bed, and they are, primarily, etched into the side of my face that I tend to sleep on the most.
Because of these lovely red streaks, I'm no longer able to roll out of bed and be at school in 20 minutes. It's not that my "beauty regimen" takes any longer than it used to; no, the problem is that the pillow creases (we used to call them "battle scars") on my face now take well over an hour to fade away ... shower or no shower. Unless I want my 1st period class knowing my exact sleeping patterns as shown by the marks on my right cheek (facial, of course), I have to allow time for them to go away and my face to puff back out to its natural proportions. And that means rising early. Used to be that they were gone within 5 minutes of lifting my body from my mattress. Sigh.
The other day, Elizabeth and I were discussing another sign of aging that we've both noticed recently, and it has to do with weight gain. I have officially gained 10 pounds since my wedding in June. 10 pounds! How does that happen? Sure, I've been eating more than I was before, and sure I haven't exercised like I used to. But 10 pounds?
The scarier side of the weight issue is that it's suddenly not coming off like it used to. Since Christmas, I've cut back on my eating a good bit and I've exercised a lot more, all to no avail. Nothing. The scale hasn't budged. If anything, I'm up a pound or two. AND, although I'm still 25 pounds less than I was when I lost a good bit of weight 3 years ago, I'm currently wearing some of the same sizes that I did BEFORE those 25 pounds came off. Someone explain that one to me.
The only thing I can figure is that age (and gravity) is causing the extra pounds to settle differently than they used to. Used to be that I gained weight and, well, I had a little bit of excess (somewhat) thinly spread out everywhere. Now, I gain weight, and I have a lot of excess, thickly padded right onto the general vicinity of my backside. My butt, in other words.
In a recent attempt to curb this disturbing migration of fat, I took it upon myself to do some walking lunges at the gym Monday night. I only did, like, 3 sets. Maybe. I was sore immediately, however, and I've been hobbling around like a 90-year-old with a broken tailbone ever since. Seriously.
Yesterday, I tried and tried to resist my daily afternoon diet coke. The reason? I would have to go up to the second floor of the school to get it from the machine in the teacher's lounge, and I just wasn't convinced that my tortured muscles could get me through that daunting flight of stairs. The solution when I gave in to the impossible temptation? I took the elevator. The elevator reserved for kids with broken legs or sprained ankles. The elevator with a "do not use unless injured" sign on it. A glorified handicapped lift, in other words. Oh yes. It's true. I went when everyone else was at lunch so no one would see. I was so embarrassed.
This morning I woke up somewhat improved, and I was encouraged. Somehow, however, between attempting to teach Alice Walker to a bunch of 1st perioders who hadn't read the assigned material and 2nd perioders who had but couldn't care less, I managed to "overcompensate" (term borrowed from Cal's athletic vocab) for the sore muscles and pulled something. Something in my butt. Something I didn't even know existed until about 9 hours ago. Great.
So tonight Cal's off playing a tennis match and I'm here at home, in my pajamas, blogging with the food network on in the background. I figure I'll head on to bed soon.
It is, you know, almost 6:30.
For the last couple of weeks, I've hardly been able to get out of the bed, for some reason. My lethargy is not the result of a deep depression or anything nearly as dramatic as that; it's merely because I'm tired. Dead tired. I can't figure it out, and Cal thinks it's unusual, too. In the past I've been the one to kid him about his early nights. Lately, though, I've hit the sheets long before he's even ironed his clothes or shaved for the next morning. I'm starting to feel old.
I'm turning 30 in just a few months, and I really wonder if my age is starting to affect my body in a few ways. Now before you get all "30 isn't old!" on me, let me clarify. I'm not about to die, and I'm certainly not about to give up on life. Heck, I'm thinking I've got at least a good 50 more years left, and hopefully more than that.
All I'm saying is that I am finally (and unfortunately) starting to show some signs of aging. For example ...
Wrinkles. I first noticed a few forehead creases the year I started teaching, but the wrinkles of late are a bit different. These facial distortions are most prominent in the mornings when I get out of bed, and they are, primarily, etched into the side of my face that I tend to sleep on the most.
Because of these lovely red streaks, I'm no longer able to roll out of bed and be at school in 20 minutes. It's not that my "beauty regimen" takes any longer than it used to; no, the problem is that the pillow creases (we used to call them "battle scars") on my face now take well over an hour to fade away ... shower or no shower. Unless I want my 1st period class knowing my exact sleeping patterns as shown by the marks on my right cheek (facial, of course), I have to allow time for them to go away and my face to puff back out to its natural proportions. And that means rising early. Used to be that they were gone within 5 minutes of lifting my body from my mattress. Sigh.
The other day, Elizabeth and I were discussing another sign of aging that we've both noticed recently, and it has to do with weight gain. I have officially gained 10 pounds since my wedding in June. 10 pounds! How does that happen? Sure, I've been eating more than I was before, and sure I haven't exercised like I used to. But 10 pounds?
The scarier side of the weight issue is that it's suddenly not coming off like it used to. Since Christmas, I've cut back on my eating a good bit and I've exercised a lot more, all to no avail. Nothing. The scale hasn't budged. If anything, I'm up a pound or two. AND, although I'm still 25 pounds less than I was when I lost a good bit of weight 3 years ago, I'm currently wearing some of the same sizes that I did BEFORE those 25 pounds came off. Someone explain that one to me.
The only thing I can figure is that age (and gravity) is causing the extra pounds to settle differently than they used to. Used to be that I gained weight and, well, I had a little bit of excess (somewhat) thinly spread out everywhere. Now, I gain weight, and I have a lot of excess, thickly padded right onto the general vicinity of my backside. My butt, in other words.
In a recent attempt to curb this disturbing migration of fat, I took it upon myself to do some walking lunges at the gym Monday night. I only did, like, 3 sets. Maybe. I was sore immediately, however, and I've been hobbling around like a 90-year-old with a broken tailbone ever since. Seriously.
Yesterday, I tried and tried to resist my daily afternoon diet coke. The reason? I would have to go up to the second floor of the school to get it from the machine in the teacher's lounge, and I just wasn't convinced that my tortured muscles could get me through that daunting flight of stairs. The solution when I gave in to the impossible temptation? I took the elevator. The elevator reserved for kids with broken legs or sprained ankles. The elevator with a "do not use unless injured" sign on it. A glorified handicapped lift, in other words. Oh yes. It's true. I went when everyone else was at lunch so no one would see. I was so embarrassed.
This morning I woke up somewhat improved, and I was encouraged. Somehow, however, between attempting to teach Alice Walker to a bunch of 1st perioders who hadn't read the assigned material and 2nd perioders who had but couldn't care less, I managed to "overcompensate" (term borrowed from Cal's athletic vocab) for the sore muscles and pulled something. Something in my butt. Something I didn't even know existed until about 9 hours ago. Great.
So tonight Cal's off playing a tennis match and I'm here at home, in my pajamas, blogging with the food network on in the background. I figure I'll head on to bed soon.
It is, you know, almost 6:30.
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