Cut

Haircuts are like breakups. You trim your unwanted split ends much like you cut the dead beats out of your life. Sometimes, it's a well thought-out decision. Other times, it's hasty. You wake up one day and realize a change has been a long time coming. No matter how much forethought went into your decision, you always walk away changed, for better or worse. You lose something, your hair or your heart. It takes time to readjust to your new look or your new single life. And there is always the potential for it to be really awesome, or really, well, not so awesome. These two things we have probably all experienced multiple times, unless you're Amish.

Over the years, we all do our fair share of experimentation. We chop or color, straighten or curl. We get bangs then layers, grow it back out, and eventually repeat the entire process. There's a whirlwind of options and we enjoy getting caught up in the journey of trying to discover the best possible versions of ourselves.

The same goes for dating. We wisely, or foolishly [as the case may be] choose from a slew of potential boyfriends. We date, we flirt, we learn about each other. We realize Mr. Perfect ain't all he's cracked up to be, or we can't imagine what life was like before him. Again, we're looking for the person that helps us be the best possible version of ourselves.

It's all somewhat of a guessing game. There's no exact formula, no number to plug in. What worked for some, may not work for you whether that's a hairstyle or a boy.

We work hard to groom ourselves. We wash daily, blow dry, and straighten all in the hopes that we will look as good as we did the first day we walked out of the salon. As with our relationships, we try to make the other happy. We play putt-putt with his friends, we eat Chinese food, we watch movies like The Terminator. Despite our best efforts, however, eventually we need to go back to the salon. Our roots are showing. We've got split ends. There's damage and something needs to be done.

Watching that dead, damaged hair fall to the ground is freeing. You instantly feel liberated, lighter. Like when you break up. Sure you may be sad for a while, you no longer recognize your life without your significant other, just like your reflection is strange to you now. But you both knew [whether you want to admit it or not] that it just wasn't working.

Obviously departing with three inches of hair and your boyfriend are two entirely different things, and I'm by no means trying to liken the heartache of losing someone you loved to a bad haircut. The process, however, can be a fun one. Eventually you'll get it right and when you do, that haircut and that boy are gonna be great.

Make Your Own Sunshine

Summer is my favorite season. Hands down. The sunshine, the sweat, the swimming pools, the snow cones, the sweetness of NOT studying. I love throwing my hair in a bun and donning a wrinkled tank top, a pair of athletic shorts that I've owned since I was a freshmen in high school, and, of course, my abnormally large sunglasses. In almost every way, I wish it was summer year round. [Photo taken at Camp Wabanna, some of my best summer days spent there.]

But even in my favorite time of year, sometimes, it can still feel gloomy. The sun may be shining its brilliant rays, but that doesn't mean I always feel its warmth. I had a few moments like this last week. Grahm and I had just played tennis. When I say "play" tennis, I mean I would ferociously swing my racket only to whiff the neon green ball flying toward me. Or I would send Grahm running all over the court in attempts to return my "serve," which somehow never landed in the nicely outlined square. It was fun. Venus and Serena won't be calling me for pointers anytime soon, but we had a good laugh. After our tennis "match," we went for a run. Well, he ran. I huffed my way into a brisk walk. I was almost to the tennis courts, where Grahm stood waiting for my slow self to get there, when I saw a group of three women standing off to the side of the sidewalk. I politely nodded as I made eye contact with [what seemed to be] the leader of the pack. I thought I had been more than civil. After all, we don't know each other and I was running. Apparently, I was wrong because when I passed by this group of women, I heard the word, "whore." I kept running, but I was wildly confused. Surely she wasn't talking about me? Was my nod not good enough? Are my shorts too short? No, no. Whatever her reason, it soured my mood faster than my lips pucker whilst eating a pickle.

A few days later, Grahm and I went on a bike ride around wonderful, friendly Norman. Nearing the end of our trek, I had to momentarily be on the wrong side of the road in order to make a necessary turn onto Stinson. An oncoming biker, an elderly gentleman who was plenty far away, curtly said, "Get on the right side of the road!" I kept riding, but I was, again, wildly confused. I turned to Grahm, wondering if that actually happened. It did. We were both puzzled at this stranger's rudeness.

When I was young, my mother would always drive us to school. We listened to the same talk radio program every morning. The name of the woman escapes me now, but she had a signature phrase that my mother liked quite a bit. Even to this day, my mom will raise her voice and squeal, "Make your ooooooowwn sunshine!" This phrase came to mind when I heard the rude words of the mystery biker and onlooking woman.

Although summer is my favorite season and I have plenty of reasons to smile, sometimes people are just mean. I think there is real value in adopting the "Make Your Own Sunshine" philosophy. This way your moods aren't determined by the weather, the situations, or the people you have the misfortune of encountering. It's simply up to you. After all, you can always write a blog about the rude people you meet as your own poetic justice.

So, like my mother, I say...

"Make your own sunshine!"

Undomestic Attempts

I'm not very good at being a girl. It's true. My domesticity stretches only as far as my mascara brush.

When I think of femininity, I think of an all-out, macho wonder woman. She cooks and bakes with ease. Recipe books line the shelves of her organized pantry. A red checkered apron is tightly wrapped around her thin waist. Flour is on her cheeks. This woman also sews. Plush pillows rest on the sofa. Each window is adorned with handmade curtains.

I couldn't be more undomestic. If you're looking for someone to spend your money, sign me up. If you need advise about which blouse you should pair with your new skirt, I'm there for you. But ask me to make a casserole for a bridal shower? Yeah. You just wouldn't do that. After all, I'm the girl that messes up boxed brownies. [Eggs are an essential ingredient in case anyone was wondering.]

The sad thing, people, is that I want to be domestic.

I want to be one of those amazing housewives where my husband and children will shower my cooking/decorating/sewing/overall amazingness with constant praise.
"Yeah, this is alright I guess. But my mom makes it better."
"Got to get home. The wife's making my favorite!"

I think there is something absolutely beautiful about being a housewife and mother. Obviously, I am neither of these things. My mom, however, couldn't have demonstrated real domesticity and femininity better. Seeing her love and care for us, I have always had an inexplicable desire to do the same with children of my own. I'm getting older now and still don't know my way around a sewing machine, or the kitchen. I think it's time for that to change.

The past few nights I have been cooking dinner for Grahm. When I say cooking, what I mean is I brown the meat for tacos, or I "grill" chicken for sandwiches. Intense, right? Well, I'm gradually working my way up. Yesterday I made chicken spaghetti [see picture] and chocolate pie. Next on the cooking agenda is enchiladas. He is way too nice to me and always eats things with a smile. As for the sewing, my goal is to make some new pillows for my house. We will see how this goes.

Crap-Away Cleaners

I discovered something about myself this past year.
I'm anal.

Okay, I may not have full-blown obsessive compulsive disorder, but I definitely have OCD tendencies.

I just can't help myself. Cleaning is one of my favorite things to do. Wiping away that grime, getting rid of all that dirt. It's a great feeling of accomplishment. I mean, why let dishes pile up in the sink, when I can easily squirt some yummy Grapefruit Dish Soap on the plates, scrub scrub scrub, and put them back where they go? Why clean the bathroom whenever you feel like it, when you can do a little bit everyday to enhance the overall cleanliness of your home?

Okay now don't get me wrong. I'm not a freak like Monica Geller [Friends]. If my refrigerator magnets are rearranged, I don't notice. If my lamps aren't facing north, or my books aren't aligned just so I won't flip out. Right now, if you walked into my bedroom, you would see an unmade bed, decorative pillows strewn everywhere, and a pair of shorts on the ground. [I knew I would be blogging about cleaning today, thus I made a mental note of my room's condition prior to leaving; I do not usually have this information memorized.] But this usually is not the case.

Sometimes it's just hard for me to [consciously] let things be in disarray. After I clean, it's frustrating to see everything slowly start going to going back to the chaotic mess it was just a little while ago. The Second Law of Thermodynamics, right? I might have made that up. As much as I try to "not live" in my apartment after I clean it, [ie I try to not make footprints in the carpet after vacuuming, use the sink, sit on my freshly made bed etc.] eventually it will get messy.

It's ridiculous, but again, I can't help myself. I don't want my hard work to be in vain. Despite my best efforts, it does get grody. I live with two other girls, who are completely normal and actually want to live in their apartment and not in some sort of model home which appears as if no one actually lives there. Sometimes I wish I was like this. Instead, I'm cursed with a love for cleaning. Maybe I should start a business or something. Carper's Cleaners? Jena's Genies? Dust-Be-Gone? Crap-Away Cleaners?

I think cleaning is just a great reminder of God's abounding grace. I can spend a few hours every day making sure my apartment is spick and span. I use all the right cleaners, I vacuum, I dust, I disinfect, I wipe, I scrub, I spray. And for a while, usually not very long, everything seems clean. It feels better. I can breathe easier. Yet, not too long after the clean it slowly starts getting filthy again. I can try and try to keep it clean, but eventually it's going to be gross.

Unlike my bathroom, I can never make my heart appear clean. It's always going to be filthy because, well, it is. The more I try to wipe up the grunge and the grime, the messier I get. We can't make ourselves clean, we can't fix ourselves up no matter how hard we try. Thankfully, there is one who can. He takes away the permanent stain I have inside of me, and that is one mess I'm thankful I don't have to worry about.