just call me seven

In Which I Spill My Guts, Just A Little Bit.

Day Nine of LaBloShoeMo. This is only my eighth pair of shoes. However, I am not about to be legalistic about the whole thing, so that’s that. It’s hard to be all girly and excited about shoes when you don’t feel anything like a real person, let alone a girly-girl.

These flipflops, I bought at Wal-Mart (I know, I’m the devil) for two bucks, at the end of summer like 3 years ago. I loved them so much (because they were squishy and conformed to my feet) that I went back to buy more pairs, but they had sold out, to my great dismay. I proceeded to wear them for three years, and I still own them. But I don’t wear them very often, because I happen to think it’s a bad thing when you can feel the cracks in the sidewalk. Through your shoes.

They’re so cute, though, that I can’t get rid of them just yet.

So they languish in my shoe bucket, passed over time after time for a better pair, a prettier pair, a pair that works better or a more practical pair.

On a completely unrelated note… I am so tired of being fake. If I have to tell one more person that I’m doing “pretty well,” I just might scream. I hate that our culture (and more specifically, the church) puts so much pressure on everyone to be this perfect specimen of life and love and happiness. Revelations of doubt, self-loathing or temptations are met only with shock and disappointment. Pleas for help hit the brick wall of an expectation of perfection that, let’s face it people, can NEVER be attained this side of Heaven.

I’ll get really honest: I struggle to believe that I’m really saved. I’m afraid that somehow, despite my intense desire to know and love the Lord, I am not one of the elect. I’m terrified when I consider what my life would be like if I never get married, if I am doomed to be alone for the rest of my life. And people say that “if God calls you to that, He will fulfill you,” but I have a hard time believing that. Because you know what? If I’m really honest, God doesn’t feel real to me. I don’t hear His voice; I don’t have confidence that when I die, I’ll hear “Well done, good and faithful servant;” I’m afraid of death; I wonder when everyone is going to figure out that I’m a fake, that I’m not that good Christian girl who reads her Bible day and night and prays without ceasing, who, when her phone rings with the “Jesus Loves Me” ringtone, answers with a hearty “Praise Jesus! How ya doing?” The list goes on. I am full of insecurities and devoid of the smallest shred of confidence that anyone would actually like me if they knew the real me.

But it gets old to always be the downer, too. Because I’m afraid that no one would ever want to be around me if I showed my true colors; I hate to be that girl who is always depressed, the one whom you avoid when you see her coming because you know if you don’t that you’ll be subjected to an endless litany of all her problems. I guess I figure that if people are going to be nice enough to put up with me when I’m around, I might as well do them a favor and at least attempt to appear okay, so they don’t have to deal with the mess that is me.

Some facts:

Fact: I love to sing, and while I feel my voice has gone downhill in recent years, I think it sounds pretty good; at least that’s what I’m told. I sing at church a couple times a month, and I would love to do it more, except I am certain that people would think that I think I’m hot stuff, which isn’t true. So people ask me why I’m not singing in the choir, and I come up with lame excuses like that I’m too busy (I work 15 hours a week. I have like 21 hours to kill every single day) or that I don’t know, when I know perfectly well why. It’s because I am so worried about protecting my Good Christian Girl alter-ego that I can’t do anything that I think might jeopardize that, like making people think that I’m vain and love the sound of my own voice. (Fact [since I’m being all honest and stuff]: I am vain, and sometimes I do love the sound of my own voice.)

Fact: I worry that no boy will ever love me (Fact: I worry that girls don’t love me either).

Fact: I feel like I am a disappointment to everyone I come in contact with: I make mistakes in my work; I am jealous of other peoples’ happiness instead of rejoicing with them (which makes contact with happy people sometimes awkward instead of joyful); I tell Smalls, when she asks me to do something with her, that I don’t feel like it and promptly go back to my dinking around on the Internet, doing nothing of importance and worrying my mother with the amount of time I spend on this life-sucker; I don’t respond well when my dad tells me stuff; I don’t ever call my siblings who don’t live here; I don’t call my siblings that do live here; I don’t call my friends; I come across as rude (I know I do, and I can’t seem to stop it) to people I don’t know very well, because I am so uneasy in social situations that I can’t even answer questions with much more than a two- or three-word sentence, and then can’t think of anything to say/ask in reciprocation, so an awkward silence falls, while I die of mortification because while I know I’m being rude, I have absolutely. nothing. to. say. ever.

Well. I think I’ve said quite enough, and I will probably regret being this open in the morning, but I am sick to death of putting my little mask on and pretending that I don’t cry myself to sleep on a regular basis. I’m not looking for affirmation, so don’t feel like y’all (if anyone actually reads this) have to clog the comment form with gushes of nice things to say about me. I just wanted to spew all this out so that I can start to be a real person instead of just a cardboard cutout.


In Which I Mourn The Non-Seaworthiness Of Salt Waters.
5 December 2007, 10:49 pm
Filed under: I Am A Rat of the Packiest Variety, I'm a Big Dork, LaBloShoeMo

Day five of LaBloShoeMo.

I bring you… (drumroll please) Salt Water Sandals, official choice of children everywhere. And me.

Mine happen to be navy blue, and I just discovered tonight that one of the straps has come unsewn in the front of the left shoe. That is sad news indeed, and makes me wonder what my shoes are about in my shoe bucket that a sturdily sewn sandal could pop a strap, but I believe that somehow, I shall survive.

This is actually the second pair of Salt Waters I have owned, and they are exactly the same as my first pair. It’s a pretty funny story…

I went rafting down the Rogue River with my youth group one summer (long time ago… I was probably 16 or 17), and somehow had gotten in my head that because Salt Waters were called “Salt Waters” that they would probably be good shoes to wear in the water. I was mistaken of course… they were heavy and annoying. And when we got out of the water to jump off of this really tall rock into the river, I slipped and slid all over the place, because, let’s face it: Salt Waters have the least amount of traction out of any shoe on this green earth. I would rather hike in high heels, because at least they have a pointy part you can use for grip. So anyway… I made it to the top without killing myself, by the grace of God, so I jumped off.

You know how when you jump off the side of a pool, you take a quick breath and hold it? I did that, except I started running out of air, and I hadn’t hit the water yet. I had time to take 3 or 4 breaths before I finally hit… that’s how tall this rock was. I hit the water with a bang, and immediately started shooting back up, because I was chicken and wore my gay orange lifejacket. As I started getting sucked back to the surface, my right sandal was ripped from my foot. I tried to save it, but I was being pulled too fast to the surface. I came up and gasped for air, and tried to look around for my shoe, but the water was too muddy. I thought that maybe if I waited for awhile, it would show up, but I thought wrong. Did you know that Salt Waters sink to the bottom of a river faster than a lead factory would to the bottom of a puddle? Neither did I. I sat around wondering when my sandal was going to show up, and a slow puddle of dread formed in my gut. I took off the other sandal and did a test float… sunk like an anchor. I knew then that I would never see that right sandal again.

For some reason, I kept the left shoe for a long time… like a couple years. I’m not sure why. Perhaps I was waiting for someone to show up on my doorstep, Prince Charming-like, with the right one in hand, and say, “Excuse me, miss, but did you lose this on the Rogue last summer?” Then I would say, “Why, yes, I did… and here’s the other one!” And maybe then he would say, “I love your shoes… let’s get married,” or something equally ridiculous. And I would live happily ever after with both of my Salt Waters, and my Handsome Prince. Or maybe I thought that an amputee woman would have a garage sale one day, and I would happen to be there, and she would just happen to have one shoe that she didn’t need, and it would be a size 8 navy blue Salt Water sandal, the right one. And I would buy it for fifty cents, and THEN wouldn’t I be glad I’d hung on to the other one all these years?

Eventually I realized that I was the dumbest person on the planet, and that I was never going to come across just one sandal that would happen to be the correct size, color or style (not to mention that it had to be the RIGHT sandal), and that the space in my closet could be better devoted to other things.

A couple years ago, I was in Goodwill, checkin’ out the shoe section, and came across a pair of size 8, navy blue Salt Waters for somewhere around $4, so I snatched them up and hustled them home as fast as I could, where I proceeded to never wear them again (hardly ever).

Thanks to Smalls for her cute little face. You’re beautiful, sis.