I hate those annoying "Helpful Tips for New Moms" lists that say things like, "Sleep when your baby sleeps!" or "The dishes can wait!" or "Give yourself a break!" or "Make sure to take some 'Me Time' each day!"
Pardonnez the français here, but that is such a bunch of bull.
Sure, you've got to take care of yourself. You've got to cover the basics. Sure, you need sleep and you need to eat and you need to get help when you feel like you're going insane.
But, seriously, you can't sleep when your baby sleeps unless you a) are home - i.e. not driving a car while your baby sleeps in the car seat, b) are not working - because when my baby gets to sleep, I still have hours to put in at my job; this is not optional, c) only have one child - because when you've got a toddler to chase around all day long, you'll just be grateful if the baby falls asleep at all, or d) employ a full-time cook, maid, chauffeur and/or nanny. Honestly, sometimes the dishes really can't wait, like when your toddler needs to eat and there are no clean bowls left and you've started serving yogurt in shot glasses, or when you need to make dinner and all the pots and pans are piled in the sink and you're left wondering if you could cook ground beef in a waffle maker. And no, you can't always just "give yourself a break" and order a pizza because you're already broke and that would be irresponsible and likely to put you in an even worse place of exhaustion and self-loathing the next time you balance your checkbook.
And 'Me Time'? Uh, it doesn't exist. It could exist, I guess, if I was completely self-centered and wanted to say, "Yeah, Thom, I know you are working 10 hours a day to provide for our family, but the minute you get done with that, how about you take care of the kids? No, really, it's fun...it's not hard at all." [Run out the door.] I'm sorry, but the closest thing to 'Me Time' in this family is the shared-responsibility hours between 5 and 7pm where Mommy and Daddy both continue to work at getting the kids fed, bathed, and in bed, but are just happy they get to do it together. This is our break.
Those annoying lists also usually include things like "Don't forget to cultivate your relationship with your partner - go on a date night!" and "Regular exercise helps fatigue!" So which one is it? Go easy on myself or try to fit more things into my life that I wasn't even doing before I had a baby? Great. Now I feel guilty that I haven't taken the time to plan a romantic night out with my husband. Let me just add that to the list of things I'm not able to do, right after 'clean food off of carpet' and 'change underwear'. And how's this for exercise? I lift and carry two weights - one about 15 lbs, the other 25 lbs - all day long. Sometimes both at once, sometimes add 10 lbs for the car seat, sometimes more for however many bags I'm carrying at the same time, grocery or otherwise. Oh yeah, and sometimes the weights are kicking and screaming and doing their best to get away from me. That'll just have to be good enough because I'm not going to even pretend that 5am neighborhood jogs are an option.
While I do understand that there's a possibility to over-do it, it seems to me that most of the time we know our own limits, and no one else better expect any more than that. In fact, I think most of the stress of having young children is simply realizing our limitations; not because we refuse to limit ourselves, but that it is unavoidable. Every day holds up a big fat sign that says, "You can't. Now go to bed." Perhaps we need more reminders to just keep moving, instead of one more voice directing us to call it quits.
What I really think these lists should say is:
"Helpful Tips for New Moms"
1) Feel sorry for yourself.
2) Okay, are you done? Get over it.
3) You need to learn to live on less sleep than you used to get.
4) You are not going to get anything done or enjoy your life unless you w-o-r-k. Sorry, there's no getting around it.
5) Don't feel like you have enough time? Try cutting out the internet and television for starters. Then say no to things that you don't want to do...and I'm not talking about changing diapers. Then stop shopping.
6) Love your kids and love your time with your kids. Being unselfish with them is going to bring you much more joy than any time you "take" for yourself.
7) If someone offers to help, by all means, take them up on it!
8) And for heavens sake, sleep, eat, bathe when you can.
This post brought to you by some selfish and irresponsible 'Me Time'. What do you know? I feel better.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Friday, September 2, 2011
Life Alterations
I've been just itching to get back to blogging here, and after my brief hiatus (read birth of second child), I think I might be ready to do it. In January, I wrote about our winter cleaning. It wasn't nearly as thorough as I would have liked, but we have sold around 40 books on Amazon (making something in the realm of $300 doing so) and sold our hutch and our loveseat on Craigslist. We bought a large couch which didn't exactly help to lighten things up, but certainly made sitting down a lot more comfortable. And since sitting down is what I do a good portion of the day (read feeding second child), I am grateful daily for that purchase.
Anyway, fast-forward eight months and we find ourselves in September, our motivations re-awoken, eager and alert. The Blairs are ready to tackle life. I don't want to bore you with specifics, or maybe I do, but I can't right now because I've got other things to take care of, but I'll just say big things are afoot in the Blair household.
Over the last several weeks it has slowly been occurring to me that my life just doesn't fit right. It's a little too baggy in spots, loose around the middle, and I like things put together - trim and orderly. I've decided to happen instead of letting all the happening happen to me.
Here are some of the alterations in the works, in no particular order:
- Drinking more water
- Losing weight
- Paying off all of our student loan debt
- Not watching TV
- Getting off of Facebook
- Reading more
- Not spending money out of boredom
- Not "rewarding" myself, giving myself a "break", or thinking I "deserve" food or other purchases
- Drinking less pop (soda, for all you soda-sayers)
- Practicing delaying my stress (each day has enough worry of its own)
- Having a garage sale
- Budgeting monthly, and sticking to it
- Making intentional menus/grocery lists
- Not eating out, or only eating out with a purpose, like a date with my husband
- Not using credit cards
- Drinking coffee
"Drinking coffee?" you ask.
Why, yes! I have never been a coffee drinker before, so for me it is not a nasty habit or addiction. And let's hope it remains so. Instead, I have recently discovered the pure joy of allowing a good cup of coffee (mine severely milky and sugary) to usher in my day. It's a way for me to say, "Hello, day! I greet you and invite you to stay." This is in contrast to what I did for the entirety of my pregnancy which was to try to keep my eyes closed as much as possible while Bea played on the floor next to me in order to pretend I didn't actually get out of bed yet. Some days I would keep that up until lunch time. Not a good way to live.
I have a theory about life alterations. It's that you should do them all at the same time. If you choose just one, like "I'm going to lose weight this year!", but don't change the way you treat food, money, or your time, you will not change at all. But if you realize that all of those things are linked together and that in order to start making good, healthy, responsible life choices you need to rethink your whole philosophy on life, you will find the ability to change areas of your life you never thought possible. It's a theory. I haven't exactly proven it yet.
Anyway, fast-forward eight months and we find ourselves in September, our motivations re-awoken, eager and alert. The Blairs are ready to tackle life. I don't want to bore you with specifics, or maybe I do, but I can't right now because I've got other things to take care of, but I'll just say big things are afoot in the Blair household.
Over the last several weeks it has slowly been occurring to me that my life just doesn't fit right. It's a little too baggy in spots, loose around the middle, and I like things put together - trim and orderly. I've decided to happen instead of letting all the happening happen to me.
Here are some of the alterations in the works, in no particular order:
- Drinking more water
- Losing weight
- Paying off all of our student loan debt
- Not watching TV
- Getting off of Facebook
- Reading more
- Not spending money out of boredom
- Not "rewarding" myself, giving myself a "break", or thinking I "deserve" food or other purchases
- Drinking less pop (soda, for all you soda-sayers)
- Practicing delaying my stress (each day has enough worry of its own)
- Having a garage sale
- Budgeting monthly, and sticking to it
- Making intentional menus/grocery lists
- Not eating out, or only eating out with a purpose, like a date with my husband
- Not using credit cards
- Drinking coffee
"Drinking coffee?" you ask.
Why, yes! I have never been a coffee drinker before, so for me it is not a nasty habit or addiction. And let's hope it remains so. Instead, I have recently discovered the pure joy of allowing a good cup of coffee (mine severely milky and sugary) to usher in my day. It's a way for me to say, "Hello, day! I greet you and invite you to stay." This is in contrast to what I did for the entirety of my pregnancy which was to try to keep my eyes closed as much as possible while Bea played on the floor next to me in order to pretend I didn't actually get out of bed yet. Some days I would keep that up until lunch time. Not a good way to live.
I have a theory about life alterations. It's that you should do them all at the same time. If you choose just one, like "I'm going to lose weight this year!", but don't change the way you treat food, money, or your time, you will not change at all. But if you realize that all of those things are linked together and that in order to start making good, healthy, responsible life choices you need to rethink your whole philosophy on life, you will find the ability to change areas of your life you never thought possible. It's a theory. I haven't exactly proven it yet.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Internet Poisoning
It happened again: a certain social-networking site ruined my perfectly good - and sunny! - Saturday afternoon. I just wanted to pop on for a second, see if I had email, you know, and there it was: one of those posts...on parenting.
I don't know why I read it; the same thing happens every time. I guess I justify it by thinking that if I know what people are saying, I'll be better at arguing my own points of view. But instead of just taking an objective interest, it got me all worked up and I began typing a quick-fire comment about why I disagreed with the article. I had six or seven points to start, but now, after an afternoon of dwelling on it, could maybe fill a short best-selling book with my thoughts.
I didn't leave the comment, at least. I'm usually smart enough (or cowardly enough) to know I don't really want to invite controversy into my life. It still bugs me though. I mean, the article still bugs me and I still want to post a counter-argument for every illogical, foolish, emotive sentence in the thing. But more than that, it bugs me that it bugs me. I hate that I can't let go of stuff like this. And I mean that sort of in a "live and let live" kind of way - but not that generously open-minded - more in a "don't let other people's opinions ruin your day" kind of way.
My annoyance about a post on parenting should not distract me from enjoying my own sweet daughter's face and laugh. I may not be a fool, but clearly I'm the loser here.
I don't know why I read it; the same thing happens every time. I guess I justify it by thinking that if I know what people are saying, I'll be better at arguing my own points of view. But instead of just taking an objective interest, it got me all worked up and I began typing a quick-fire comment about why I disagreed with the article. I had six or seven points to start, but now, after an afternoon of dwelling on it, could maybe fill a short best-selling book with my thoughts.
I didn't leave the comment, at least. I'm usually smart enough (or cowardly enough) to know I don't really want to invite controversy into my life. It still bugs me though. I mean, the article still bugs me and I still want to post a counter-argument for every illogical, foolish, emotive sentence in the thing. But more than that, it bugs me that it bugs me. I hate that I can't let go of stuff like this. And I mean that sort of in a "live and let live" kind of way - but not that generously open-minded - more in a "don't let other people's opinions ruin your day" kind of way.
My annoyance about a post on parenting should not distract me from enjoying my own sweet daughter's face and laugh. I may not be a fool, but clearly I'm the loser here.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
It's Winter Cleaning Time!
As of January 2nd, Operation De-Clutter is officially underway in the Blair residence. Already, we have cleared out over 50 books (hopefully, to sell) and have posted our hutch on Craigslist (and got 3 bites today!). I am encouraged. I'm sure there's no way I could manage this on my own right now, so I am extremely grateful for my husband's motivation. It's just so exciting to think about simplifying our lives a little, letting go of things that need it, and maybe making some money in the process.
I'll keep you posted on our progress.
I'll keep you posted on our progress.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
A Christmas Resolution
It's the battle of the season: on one team we have Love, Joy, Peace, and great Hope; on the other, Busyness, Stress, Anxiety, and Depression.
I have always adored Christmastime. Historically, I love holiday baking, holiday smells (Christmas trees in particular), holiday lights, holiday movies, and holiday decorations (except those blow-up lawn ornaments which should be banned, obviously). I love Christmas carols - the ones which actually talk about Jesus; I love the advent season in church; I love it when, in fleeting moments, my mind takes hold of Christ's first coming and celebrates. These are all parts of cherished memories of a very happy childhood full of happy Christmases.
But then came adulthood, and with it a large dose of sadness, and in-laws. Christmas changed.
The sadness relates mostly to my dad's death (but also partially to my own skepticism and realizing that people aren't very nice on the inside). Dad loved Christmas too, I'm pretty sure. Every year I would help him put up our outdoor lights around the eaves of the house. He'd take us driving some nights into neighborhoods, on the way home, just to look at the lights on other people's houses.
Most years, we would drive up to the woods to chop down a gigantic Noble fir to haul home. It was usually a couple feet too big, even for the vaulted ceiling in the living room. Dad liked to take time with decorating the tree; he was so patient and careful with checking the strings of lights, then winding them in and out, then he'd painstakingly drape beads in scallops along the branches. For an outdoorsman, I think it was a bit of heaven for him to have the sight and smell of the forest inside our own living room for those few weeks each year.
Dad also made peanut brittle every year. My mom did lots of decorating and baking too, but it was Dad who always had a quiet contentment with these activities. Like, you'd never hear Dad say, "And I've GOT to make the peanut brittle, and put up the lights, and decorate the tree!" in an exasperated tone that made them seem like chores. He just did them, because it was that time of year, and because he liked to.
He was a last-minute shopper, always asking me and my sisters to accompany him to the jewelry store to pick out something for my mom on December 23rd. But it was never panicked; I think he had the task boiled down to its simplest, most genuine gesture: buying something nice for my mom because he loved her. He didn't scour ads for weeks, watch sales, and exhaust all his options. He'd just show up at the store of his choice, with a dollar amount in mind, and buy whatever he thought was pretty.
Christmas will forever have a huge painful hole in it for me, now that Dad is no longer with us. Each year, it lessens as the family grows and adds new members - by birth and by marriage; Christmas changes and so Dad's place in it is not so apparent any more. But it still hurts. And will it ever not?
Secondly (apart from sadness), I mentioned in-laws but not to complain about mine. (In fact, my in-laws do up a great Christmas. My mother-in-law reinstated stockings into my life which hadn't been a part of the Gustafson Christmas at least since the birth of my first niece. The woman is an expert stocking stuffer!) Rather, I just mean that marriage signifies the joining of families, and traditions, and expectations on your time, and the doubling of names on your Christmas list.
The past four Christmases Thom and I were traveling from Illinois and, in a mad frenzy to see and do, we'd hop around to family function after family function trying to please everyone. It got complicated, and less relaxed. Gone were the days when my siblings were all sleeping under one roof, able to stay up until 3am playing games or doing puzzles if we wanted. Instead, Christmas became crowded by schedules and restrictions of time and navigating hurt feelings (whether it was just in our heads or not). We were lucky to get one day with everyone together for a meal.
I certainly don't blame my in-laws for any of that. I just mean to say that, here in adulthood, things are different. This is where Christmas can very easily be crushed by all the complications if you let it. You can turn your heart cold and brace against the onslaught of tasks and demands on your time; you can wait for the whole thing to pass so that you can just go on with your normal life; you can go through the entire season without ever believing that Christ came to save us from this very mess we find ourselves in. I could do that, and I could make it easier on myself, but I don't want to. I want to feel the joy and fear and awe that the shepherds felt on the first Christmas. I want the unnecessary things to fade away and the significant things to shine. And mostly, I want Beatrix to experience Christmas as I did, as pure joy, for as long as possible.
The battle is most assuredly raging on my heart this Christmas. For two straight days this week Busyness, Stress, Anxiety, and Depression had me pinned to the floor, but I think I may have won in the end. This round, anyway. We still have a few more days to go...
I have always adored Christmastime. Historically, I love holiday baking, holiday smells (Christmas trees in particular), holiday lights, holiday movies, and holiday decorations (except those blow-up lawn ornaments which should be banned, obviously). I love Christmas carols - the ones which actually talk about Jesus; I love the advent season in church; I love it when, in fleeting moments, my mind takes hold of Christ's first coming and celebrates. These are all parts of cherished memories of a very happy childhood full of happy Christmases.
But then came adulthood, and with it a large dose of sadness, and in-laws. Christmas changed.
The sadness relates mostly to my dad's death (but also partially to my own skepticism and realizing that people aren't very nice on the inside). Dad loved Christmas too, I'm pretty sure. Every year I would help him put up our outdoor lights around the eaves of the house. He'd take us driving some nights into neighborhoods, on the way home, just to look at the lights on other people's houses.
Most years, we would drive up to the woods to chop down a gigantic Noble fir to haul home. It was usually a couple feet too big, even for the vaulted ceiling in the living room. Dad liked to take time with decorating the tree; he was so patient and careful with checking the strings of lights, then winding them in and out, then he'd painstakingly drape beads in scallops along the branches. For an outdoorsman, I think it was a bit of heaven for him to have the sight and smell of the forest inside our own living room for those few weeks each year.
Dad also made peanut brittle every year. My mom did lots of decorating and baking too, but it was Dad who always had a quiet contentment with these activities. Like, you'd never hear Dad say, "And I've GOT to make the peanut brittle, and put up the lights, and decorate the tree!" in an exasperated tone that made them seem like chores. He just did them, because it was that time of year, and because he liked to.
He was a last-minute shopper, always asking me and my sisters to accompany him to the jewelry store to pick out something for my mom on December 23rd. But it was never panicked; I think he had the task boiled down to its simplest, most genuine gesture: buying something nice for my mom because he loved her. He didn't scour ads for weeks, watch sales, and exhaust all his options. He'd just show up at the store of his choice, with a dollar amount in mind, and buy whatever he thought was pretty.
Christmas will forever have a huge painful hole in it for me, now that Dad is no longer with us. Each year, it lessens as the family grows and adds new members - by birth and by marriage; Christmas changes and so Dad's place in it is not so apparent any more. But it still hurts. And will it ever not?
Secondly (apart from sadness), I mentioned in-laws but not to complain about mine. (In fact, my in-laws do up a great Christmas. My mother-in-law reinstated stockings into my life which hadn't been a part of the Gustafson Christmas at least since the birth of my first niece. The woman is an expert stocking stuffer!) Rather, I just mean that marriage signifies the joining of families, and traditions, and expectations on your time, and the doubling of names on your Christmas list.
The past four Christmases Thom and I were traveling from Illinois and, in a mad frenzy to see and do, we'd hop around to family function after family function trying to please everyone. It got complicated, and less relaxed. Gone were the days when my siblings were all sleeping under one roof, able to stay up until 3am playing games or doing puzzles if we wanted. Instead, Christmas became crowded by schedules and restrictions of time and navigating hurt feelings (whether it was just in our heads or not). We were lucky to get one day with everyone together for a meal.
I certainly don't blame my in-laws for any of that. I just mean to say that, here in adulthood, things are different. This is where Christmas can very easily be crushed by all the complications if you let it. You can turn your heart cold and brace against the onslaught of tasks and demands on your time; you can wait for the whole thing to pass so that you can just go on with your normal life; you can go through the entire season without ever believing that Christ came to save us from this very mess we find ourselves in. I could do that, and I could make it easier on myself, but I don't want to. I want to feel the joy and fear and awe that the shepherds felt on the first Christmas. I want the unnecessary things to fade away and the significant things to shine. And mostly, I want Beatrix to experience Christmas as I did, as pure joy, for as long as possible.
The battle is most assuredly raging on my heart this Christmas. For two straight days this week Busyness, Stress, Anxiety, and Depression had me pinned to the floor, but I think I may have won in the end. This round, anyway. We still have a few more days to go...
Monday, November 15, 2010
Shameful Memory #5: Tacky T-Shirt
It's been a while since I've written and, if you were to come inspect my organizational progress over the last month, I would be ashamed to admit there has been very little. Still Bea's closet is overwhelmed with my junk. Still the pile on the table in our bedroom sits untouched. Still the taunting boxes of file folders rest at my feet as I type, with an ever-growing amount of paperwork on top.
I have reasons - excuses - and they are good ones, but I won't bother explaining. Let's just say I've got other demands on my time right now.
However, despite my inability to let go of the tangible cluttering around me, I have more stories to tell, more memories to divulge, more shame to dump out and bury forever. Here's one that came up recently:
I was digging in storage last week for my box of fall decorations (which I never found, by the way - our apartment is going pumpkin- and turkey-less this season, sadly). I did find a box marked "Emily - Clothes" though. Inside were such treasures as the electric blue '80s full-length spandex jumpsuit that my friends gave me as a teenager, the hot pink dress I made for one of the (many) school dances I attended without a date, my old tennis uniform, and about 20 t-shirts from various events, places, and organizations of my past.
I figured the t-shirts were doing no one any good sitting in a box and that I might as well use them as sleepwear, if I never wear them in public. So I unloaded the lot into the laundry basket and they are now filling up an entire drawer of my dresser.
These t-shirts are each a memory in themselves; they represent a time of life for me that I want to remember even though I don't necessarily want to wear something that is men's size XL, roughly the shape of a major appliance, with sleeves that hit about two inches above my wrists. They all have stories, the kinds that tell "I went there" or "I did that".
One shirt in particular, though, tells more than just that story. It's the YHM t-shirt from 2001. YHM (Youth Hostel Ministry) is a program that I participated in while I was a student at Wheaton College. In 2000, I was part of one of the teams that went to Europe and worked in a youth hostel in the Red Light District of Amsterdam for two months. In 2001, I served as the Secretary for the leadership team, helping to train and equip the next year's travelers for their summer abroad.
As part of my duties as Secretary, or because I asked for the responsibility - I can't remember which - I was in charge of designing the t-shirt. Pretty much every organization imaginable on campus had a t-shirt. It was kind of a pain. I mean, as if you needed any more reminders that you came from significantly less money than most of the student body, you'd have to shell out $10 or $12 for a t-shirt every time you turned around even though you'd probably never wear it and it would one day just end up in a box in your storage along with the 20 other t-shirts you accumulated while you were there.
This didn't stop me from relishing my design task. It was so much power: people would be required - at least once when we had to host a chapel service - to wear my t-shirt. I would probably design the coolest t-shirt ever created in the history of campus-organization t-shirts and probably everyone would wear my t-shirt long after it was thread-bare. I was thinking big.
I got too conceptual. See, I had this whole idea about how you go out there [into the world] and your life is on display for everyone to see, you travel, you work, you play, you meet people, you live, and meanwhile all the things you do are speaking the Gospel. I thought of living life "on the air" as in, live from New York, as in everyone's listening, as in, whether we like it or not, we are broadcasting the name of Christ to the world all the time. So I dug up a nice clip art radio tower for the back of the shirt, and a cute little corresponding "ON AIR" tag line for the front. A relevant Psalm 73 verse completed the look. I thought I was very clever.
No one got it. As soon as the t-shirts were distributed, I started getting questions. I had to print up an explanation for the design and hand it out at our next group meeting. That was dismaying for certain, but the really critical thing wasn't my failure to communicate, it was the shirt itself. You see, I couldn't find the exact image of a radio tower that I had in mind. I was picturing something kind of simplistic - that "less is more" kind of thing where a few seemingly careless brush strokes magically form a jovial version of your object of choice.
Just now, I did a search for "radio tower" in MS Clip Art. Apparently, the clip art catalog has expanded dramatically since 2001:
Instead, I chose an image that had six colors. Six filled-in colors that must have been transferred onto the t-shirts via industrial-level paint rollers and were encrusted an eighth of an inch thick, giving the entire backside of the shirt a plasticky, immovable feel to it. I had also opted for long sleeves which, of course, were two inches too short on me. The combination of six printing colors and long sleeves made the shirts cost $18 a piece. People grumbled. I didn't blame them; I didn't even want to own that shirt when I saw it.
So now, it's years later. The shirt is not that bad. It's not a style I'd like to wear, but I doubt that anyone was as critical of how it turned out as I was. Yet I still feel kind of nauseous when I see it. And, like all my other Shameful Memories, it's mostly because of the pride that went before the fall. At least I'm beginning to see the theme. Maybe there is hope for me.
I have reasons - excuses - and they are good ones, but I won't bother explaining. Let's just say I've got other demands on my time right now.
However, despite my inability to let go of the tangible cluttering around me, I have more stories to tell, more memories to divulge, more shame to dump out and bury forever. Here's one that came up recently:
I was digging in storage last week for my box of fall decorations (which I never found, by the way - our apartment is going pumpkin- and turkey-less this season, sadly). I did find a box marked "Emily - Clothes" though. Inside were such treasures as the electric blue '80s full-length spandex jumpsuit that my friends gave me as a teenager, the hot pink dress I made for one of the (many) school dances I attended without a date, my old tennis uniform, and about 20 t-shirts from various events, places, and organizations of my past.
I figured the t-shirts were doing no one any good sitting in a box and that I might as well use them as sleepwear, if I never wear them in public. So I unloaded the lot into the laundry basket and they are now filling up an entire drawer of my dresser.
These t-shirts are each a memory in themselves; they represent a time of life for me that I want to remember even though I don't necessarily want to wear something that is men's size XL, roughly the shape of a major appliance, with sleeves that hit about two inches above my wrists. They all have stories, the kinds that tell "I went there" or "I did that".
One shirt in particular, though, tells more than just that story. It's the YHM t-shirt from 2001. YHM (Youth Hostel Ministry) is a program that I participated in while I was a student at Wheaton College. In 2000, I was part of one of the teams that went to Europe and worked in a youth hostel in the Red Light District of Amsterdam for two months. In 2001, I served as the Secretary for the leadership team, helping to train and equip the next year's travelers for their summer abroad.
As part of my duties as Secretary, or because I asked for the responsibility - I can't remember which - I was in charge of designing the t-shirt. Pretty much every organization imaginable on campus had a t-shirt. It was kind of a pain. I mean, as if you needed any more reminders that you came from significantly less money than most of the student body, you'd have to shell out $10 or $12 for a t-shirt every time you turned around even though you'd probably never wear it and it would one day just end up in a box in your storage along with the 20 other t-shirts you accumulated while you were there.
This didn't stop me from relishing my design task. It was so much power: people would be required - at least once when we had to host a chapel service - to wear my t-shirt. I would probably design the coolest t-shirt ever created in the history of campus-organization t-shirts and probably everyone would wear my t-shirt long after it was thread-bare. I was thinking big.
I got too conceptual. See, I had this whole idea about how you go out there [into the world] and your life is on display for everyone to see, you travel, you work, you play, you meet people, you live, and meanwhile all the things you do are speaking the Gospel. I thought of living life "on the air" as in, live from New York, as in everyone's listening, as in, whether we like it or not, we are broadcasting the name of Christ to the world all the time. So I dug up a nice clip art radio tower for the back of the shirt, and a cute little corresponding "ON AIR" tag line for the front. A relevant Psalm 73 verse completed the look. I thought I was very clever.
No one got it. As soon as the t-shirts were distributed, I started getting questions. I had to print up an explanation for the design and hand it out at our next group meeting. That was dismaying for certain, but the really critical thing wasn't my failure to communicate, it was the shirt itself. You see, I couldn't find the exact image of a radio tower that I had in mind. I was picturing something kind of simplistic - that "less is more" kind of thing where a few seemingly careless brush strokes magically form a jovial version of your object of choice.
Just now, I did a search for "radio tower" in MS Clip Art. Apparently, the clip art catalog has expanded dramatically since 2001:
Instead, I chose an image that had six colors. Six filled-in colors that must have been transferred onto the t-shirts via industrial-level paint rollers and were encrusted an eighth of an inch thick, giving the entire backside of the shirt a plasticky, immovable feel to it. I had also opted for long sleeves which, of course, were two inches too short on me. The combination of six printing colors and long sleeves made the shirts cost $18 a piece. People grumbled. I didn't blame them; I didn't even want to own that shirt when I saw it.
So now, it's years later. The shirt is not that bad. It's not a style I'd like to wear, but I doubt that anyone was as critical of how it turned out as I was. Yet I still feel kind of nauseous when I see it. And, like all my other Shameful Memories, it's mostly because of the pride that went before the fall. At least I'm beginning to see the theme. Maybe there is hope for me.
Monday, November 8, 2010
"A Confession on Thank Yous" Undo (Again)
Okay, okay. If the last time around didn't do it; this had got to finally cure me of my obsession over tracking thank you notes: yesterday, we received a thank you from our friends who I had previously listed here (but have now deleted).
Written on the outside of the envelope was a note that said the card had been penned a year ago and never mailed, apology for the outdated content, smiley face. Inside was the proof: it was all about how we were moving away from Illinois.
I think a late thank you note is actually much more charming than an expected one!
Written on the outside of the envelope was a note that said the card had been penned a year ago and never mailed, apology for the outdated content, smiley face. Inside was the proof: it was all about how we were moving away from Illinois.
I think a late thank you note is actually much more charming than an expected one!
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