Not quite goodbye

Have you ever noticed that there is nothing good about a goodbye?

The word is an oxymoron, and it's well, cruel.

The only good goodbyes I know of are saying adios to a bland class,

piles of homework, extra weight, or some bad habit you've been

trying to kick. [Currently taking ideas on how to stop drinking Dr.

Pepper like it's going out of style].

I'm no good at them. Goodbyes that is.

I like routine. I like knowing who I'm going to see and what I'm

going to encounter. I think that's why no one can surprise me.

I need to know too much, so I always figure it out.

Maybe I'm just nosy...

This week several of my friends are graduating. They're donning

their cardboard hats and kissing Norman goodbye. After Saturday,

the real world begins.

I'm a little jealous. Okay, a lot jealous.

In a lot of ways I feel like I should be graduating with them. I'm

ready to be done with school and pursuing a career and family.

On the other hand, I'm excited for senior year. I have so much

to look forward to including two amazing roommates and one

lovely house.

God is constantly having to teach me contentment. Unfortunately,

it's a hard lesson to get through my thick skull. I have a bad habit

of constantly looking forward to the next big thing, instead of

enjoying what I have now and the people I am surrounded with.

I guess I'm not QUITE ready to kiss all this goodbye.

"It is not our circumstances that create our discontent

or contentment. It is us."

Zits

This weekend I got a zit. That pesky, little mountain of puss that likes to surface on my chin every so often. It usually likes to show its fabulous self after I consume ungodly amounts of Dr. Pepper. Aka post-marathon week.

I kinda started freaking out. I washed my face rigorously. Again and again. I poked and pinched. I even tried new ways of smiling too hide it.

And when the little devil didn't seem to be reducing its ginormous size, I resorted to applying loads and loads of makeup. Thank God for coverup.

Later that night, I was alone in my professor's house [housesitting].

Flipping through channels, I found a gem of a show entitled "Too

Ugly to Love." For some reason I stopped to see what it was about.

All the while, subconsciously, I was thinking I was the perfect candidate

for this show. "Check out the size of that zit..."

"Too Ugly to Love" was a documentary that followed three sufferers of

BDD, Body Dysmorphic Disorder. It attempted to help them face their

biggest FEAR, the way they look. Those afflicted are overly conscious about

their appearance. They imagine themselves to be severely disfigured, too

grotesque to even be around people.

Granted, these people don't actually have anything wrong with their faces.

They're all perfectly normal. However, their desire for beauty consumes

them. They have no friends, because they don't want anyone to see their

"ugly" faces. They have no money, because they spend it all trying to fix

themselves. They fear cameras and bright lights and the unforgiving stares

of others. Leaving the house is always a huge ordeal. All they really have

is a mirror, and the cold reminder that they aren't the way they wish

themselves to be.

I suppose that we all have a bit of BDD, don't we? Obviously, the

degree to which we suffer greatly varies, but we all believe there

is something inherently wrong with us. I'm not tall enough. My arms

never look good in shirts. My nose is too large for my face. My thighs

jiggle when I walk. My hair is too thin. My chin is too pointy. My lips

aren't full enough. The laundry list of faults we conjure up for ourselves

goes on and on...

We're all guilty. We all allow our appearance to consume our lives,

whether or not we are locking ourselves away in the safety of our homes.

In a culture obsessed with beauty, it's almost impossible not to

fall into the BDD snare. There is always someone more beautiful with

a whiter smile, thicker hair, and a better swimsuit body. We just can't

help but wish for the greener grass on the other side.

It may sound cheesy, but I believe I'm disappointing my Creator when I

have these thoughts. I mean, think about it. He made me, zits and all, just

like this. This is exactly the way He wanted me, because my God doesn't

make mistakes. He could have formed me to be a six-foot, curly-headed

basketball wonder. But He didn't. I can't help but think, if my appearance is good enough for the most important Being in this universe, shouldn't I be

okay with it?

Bring on the zits.

"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in

my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and

wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well."

(Psalm 139:13-14)

My Hips Don't Lie

Marathons are glorious. Really, I'm not just crazy. I love absolutely
everything about them. Well, except maybe the excruciating pain my hips feel
for about three days afterward. Shakira is right, your hips don't lie.

I just love the anticipation of running the grueling 26.2 miles. The
exhilaration of standing at the start. The camaraderie of the thousands
of runners around me, all of them every bit as crazy as me. The happy
spectators cheering and clapping loudly for everyone. The dead sprint
to the end. It's such a feeling of accomplishment. You can't beat it.

For as much training as I did for this marathon, I was quite pleased with how
I did. I found a pace group and I stuck with the man waving his yellow balloons
and his slew of sweaty disciples until mile 19. And then an ugly wall hit me.

Everything seemed to be draining from me. My high, my adrenaline. I couldn't
see my group anymore. Tears filled my eyes. My foot was still bleeding.
My Ipod was still on the fritz.
All I could think was: "I'm not going to make it."

It was then that a friendly man on the sidelines looked directly at me and
said, "828, you're doing great! You're so close!"

I clenched my jaw and nodded my head. It was too hard to speak at this point, so
I simply picked my feet back up to show my kind onlooker that I wasn't dead yet.
He's right. It's so close.

For the next few miles, it hurt. I couldn't think of anything BUT the pain. I wanted

to quit. I wanted to collapse in the middle of the pavement. I wanted my mommy.

But somehow I was still running, somehow I was still standing.

Rounding the corner, I saw it.
The 25 mile marker. It's almost here. I can taste the end, or maybe that was
just the salt that had been crusted on my face for the past two hours.
Whatever it was, it tasted wonderful.

I looked to my left and saw a happy, large man holding a sign that said,
"26.2 is a bitch!" An elderly woman next to him gripped a yellow poster
that emphatically stated,"Toenails are overrated."
I smiled. They're so right.

Somehow I mustered the strength to start running fast.
I could see the finish line now and all I could do is run. Run like I stole something.
Run like my life depended on it. Run like the wind.

I heard people (Grahm, my parents, and high school principal) yell my name.
I heard the announcer say "828 - Jena Carper."
But all I could see was the big, fat, glorious FINISH sign.

Somehow, I made it. Four hours and thirteen minutes later, it was all over.
The unlucky volunteer who happened to be standing a few feet behind
the finish was bombarded as I collapsed into his arms, crying like a little girl.
"It's over! It's over!" I said. He patted my back. Poor guy. My apologies

whoever you are.



Now that my body is starting to recover, I'm eager to start marathon

number three.
Call me crazy.

An Already Wonderful Life

It's a Wonderful Life is one of my favorite movies. Mostly because George

Bailey and I aren't so different. Neither of us realize the goodness, the

wonderfulness, if you will, of our lives. We go about our days with no real

rhyme or reason. We smile occasionally, laugh every once and a while... but

for the most part we simply do. We are duty bound. Obligation keeps him in

his small town, stuck in a boring office at a dinky bank because he doesn't

want to see the place his father built destroyed. His life of adventure and travel

is put on hold... indefinitely. But for a while, it seems okay.

He has a wife, whom he loves. Children who adore him. A town that depends

him. A seemingly adequate life. For all intents and purposes, George Bailey

should be happy. Nothing is really wrong.

And then it happens. Uncle Billy loses the bank's deposit and Mr. Potter takes

full advantage of his mishap. The people begin to panic. The town is in

mayhem. And George thinks the only way to end it all is to end himself.

Enter Clarence.

His guardian angel, the one who would completely change George's

perspective on his already wonderful life. If you think about it, nothing

really changes for George. True, the bank does get out of some serious trouble

and he no longer has to go to jail. But for the majority, his life remains the

same. He is stuck in the same old town with his family. The exciting life he

has always dreamed about is still sitting on the shelf.

But now George is happy because he GETS IT.

As Clarence says, "You see George, you've really had a wonderful life. Don't

you see what a mistake it would be to just throw it away?"

I had one of those moments yesterday, a George Bailey moment.

My boss praised my work thus far in my internship and said some nice things

about me and it got me to thinking...

For the last few weeks I had been complaining and longing for the day this

internship would finally END so I wouldn't have to continually drop cash I

don't have to drive to a town I don't like to edit song lyrics that aren't even

good to begin with... I was sour and bitter because I thought I wasn't being

taken seriously and well, I was over it.

But I was. I am. My boss noticed me. He saw the hard work, the effort I have

been putting forth the past four months and I impressed him.

It's funny how the little things in life end up being the parts of your day that

REALLY matter.In the grand scheme of things, Curtis telling me that he was

impressed by my work ethic and would like to give me a job after I graduate

may not be like that big of a deal.

But, like George Bailey, my perspective got changed.

I still spend too much money on gas, I still edit some interesting pieces.

BUT now I appreciate it that much more.

For a few minutes, Curtis was inadvertently my Clarence.

So the storal of the mory (as Mr. Madden used to say) is..

Next time you get bored, or stuck, or just plain ol' apathetic,

try changing your perspective and realize that life already is wonderful, you

just haven't realized it yet.