I am not an Orphan

So, I'm going to be 26 on Tuesday.  I know.  For some, that may sound terribly young.  To my students, it sounds like I should be driving a mini van and tucking my Hanes tee-shirt into my Mom jeans (which are, hysterically enough, wide-leg dark denim as I was informed by a young girl wearing jeans that could only have been painted on to her chop-stick legs.)  Regardless of what it sounds like to people, I know what this specific birthday sounds like to me.  Awesome.

Generally speaking, 26 is a fairly anti-climactic age.   No one makes black tee shirts with headstones for the big 2-6.  I think it is safe to say that I will not be surprised with a party, wheeled in by a wheelchair, or  pelted with any "over-the-hill" paraphernalia.   I have, however, hit a huge milestone.  I finally, deep down in my soul, am comfortable with myself.  I would even go so far as to say, I really even like myself.  Like, a lot.  In a not Uncle-Jesse kinda way, of course.  Now, a lot of credit is due to my husband who constantly reminds me how awesome I am (and after 3 and half years, I've slowly begun to believe him).  He has been the most encouraging, supportive, inspiring force in my life.  But I think it's even deeper than that.

I was on the phone with a good friend of mine not too long ago and was explaining this phenomenon to him.  I kept saying, "It's like, I finally figured out that I can just do what I love because I love it! Not for any monetary or social gain.  Simply because I love it.  And God's totally cool with that! I think he's even proud of me for it!"  For the first time in my life I have openly and willingly accepted that I am not alone.  I don't have to feel any guilt about not pushing my gift hard enough for it to make money.  I don't have to beat myself up for being too afraid, too lazy, not good enough, etc.  God will ensure that I'm taken care of no matter what I do! It gave me the biggest rush of freedom I've experienced in a long time.  (Almost akin to the "Wild Abandon" blog.) 

As I gushed on the phone in the car in traffic, my gracious friend inserting a few " uh huh's" and "Ah's" and celebratory, "Yes!' 's I finally paused for a breath long enough for him to say something that I'm sure I will remember forever.  He said something to the effect of  (forgive the paraphrasing- talking on the phone while driving is seriously illegal in New Jersey and I was trying to listen and watch out for blue lights at the same time),

"Wow, Jen.  You finally stopped living like an Orphan and started living like a Daughter." 

Again, paraphrase.  Those may not have been his exact words.  But those were the words I heard in my heart.   I'm not an orphan.  I'm not an orphan.  

I think living like an orphan for 25 years is more than enough.  I am so ready to start this next chapter in my life exactly as who I am.  Sans Mom jeans, thank you very much.

Wild Abandon

I was eleven years old. It was the first week of August. The old, blue station wagon had already been packed the night before with juice boxes and cheez-its. The "turtle"- remember those things?-was strapped onto the top of the car straining to retain our luggage. I always had trouble sleeping the night before we left for our annual trip to New Hampshire and that year was no different. I was already sitting straight up in my bed when my mother walked into my room at 4:30 a.m. to gently prod me into the car. Little did she know, my backpack was packed, I was dressed, and I even had my shoes on by 3:00. That year more than any year, I dreamed often of the cool, lake water lapping on the shore, up and over my knees. There was something healing about the water. Something magical. For whatever reason, I knew I had to feel that water, be immersed in it, drink it in, splash wildly in it as soon as possible. I began to tick off the calendar days until vacation.

That morning, at 3 a.m., I knew that I had to be ready. As soon as Bessie's tires hit the sunlit dirt road at Lane's End, I had to be prepared to meet the water's edge. All obstacles needed to be removed. That was when I had the most brilliant idea. I would wear my bathing suit under my clothes. In the car. For the 6 hour drive. Just so I wouldn't have to waste a fraction of a second getting to the one place I knew I belonged.

I don't have to tell you how uncomfortable it can get, wearing a bathing suit underneath your clothing in a car with no air conditioning in August. I sweat profusely. The sweatier I got, the itchier my bathing suit became, the more I scratched, the more I irritated my skin, the more I sweat, and on and on in an endless 6 hour cycle. But as soon as we made that sharp, right hand turn next to the old, wooden sign with a duck painted smack in the middle I knew I had made the right decision. I told my mom to stop the car. I could barely make out the water's edge, but it didn't matter. I would run the rest of the way.

For the first time in my little kid life, and perhaps ever since, I knew what I needed and didn't care how absolutely ridiculous I must have looked, running down the path, tearing off my clothes like Tarzan, grinning like an idiot. I had to get in the water. I kicked off my shoes on the way. My tank top and jean shorts scattered the sand. I ignored all the friendly greetings from friends. And dove. Head first. Into the cold, clear, beautiful water. With wild abandon.

It was entirely out of character for me, which makes it amusing that it is one of my most defining memories. I gave myself over to something without worrying- no, without caring about the consequences. I surrendered. I let go. I didn't care how crazy everyone thought I was. How I must have looked picking up pieces of my clothing that had scattered along the pine trees from the wind. I never even had one, solitary wave of embarrassment, inadequacy or guilt. As I floated on my back, staring up into the sky, I knew that I had done something significant.

We're going again, most likely at the same time, this year. Except, I'm older, with a husband, a full-time job, worries of mortgages and bills and borders and boundaries. I have the beginnings of crows feet. And I wouldn't be caught dead in jean shorts. But, for all of it's awkwardness, I just might wear my bathing suit underneath my sun dress. Searching for that one moment of liberation. The wild abandon.

Moving on...

We've lived in Montclair for 3 years. I know that to be true, but to see it in writing is quite something else. I can't really imagine living three years anywhere, let alone living for three years with my HUSBAND- and yes, even after three and a half years that word still sounds funny when I say it out loud. I'm not quite used to Mrs. Shannon yet, either, even though that's what my students call me everyday. Anyway, the time has come for us to pack up our things and move on. Trouble is, we don't know where we're going:)

Our landlady sold our house and we figured it would as good a time as any to explore some options. To think things through. Our goals. Ambitions. Desires. Should we buy a house or move to Europe? Should we really invest in the community we live in or seek God's face about going elsewhere? Should we pursue dreams or higher education or both? Are we ready to have children?

This is probably the first time in my life that I've allowed for possibilities. I'm not counting anything out. We're looking for houses. Have even visited a few we liked. We're looking at schools- Rich and I have different tastes and callings, but our desire to learn is quite the same-and not really worrying about where those schools happen to be. We're looking into the Peace Corps and traversing up and down the Spanish countryside- and perfectly open to settling down in West Orange and having a clan only to be rivaled by our friends, the DeMarcos. All possibilites, and for once, it doesn't scare me one bit. I know we'll go where God calls us. I'm going to stop helping God across the Street like a little, old lady and start believing that He is the God he says He is. Which means, I'm in terribly good hands even when I know nothing at all.

Tight Tights

I've neglected to partake in many fashion trends over the years deeming myself too old, too "un-cool", too mature.  Though, there has been one lately in which I secretly have held a desire to experiment with.  I'll admit it.  It's the tights.

I've witnessed this phenomenon steadily climb up the trendy meter with awe and wonder at those who prance around in a rainbow array of legs- pink, green, purple, brown, black.  Paired with long sweaters and boots, ballet flats and scarves it's a fashion movement meant to be unrivaled.  So, I pushed all of my insecurities aside and took the leap.  I was advised by my younger and more fashion-conscious sister to begin slowly; perhaps just a nice pair of black ones to usher me into the world I've so longed to explore.  On a windy Saturday morning I marched right over to Target, credit card wielded high like a sword, and placed a pair of simple, elegant, black tights on the belt. (well, you could hardly see them since I had hidden them underneath a sweater, but they were there).  I left feeling mollified, almost proud, swinging that white and red bag into the trunk of my car and had laid out the outfit I would present myself to the world in later on that evening.

Nothing could prepare me for the shock.  I did everything right.  I triple-checked with my sister to make sure I had not overlooked anything vital.  After an hour of staring at myself in the mirror, I succumbed to the horror.  I was naked. With very dark, midnight black legs. Flash-backs ensued of a young girl (who will remain nameless considering I have so many readers) in my second grade class who's father had carelessly dressed her in Barbie stockings and had neglectfully forgotten to pair them with a skirt before he sent her off to school.  I could not go out into public in this manner.  You could see the outline of my butt. No one wants to see the outline of my butt.

After another wardrobe change to a top that more than came to my knees, the tights and I made peace with each other, when they were well hidden( where they belonged. ) 

Perhaps we were never meant to be.  Alas, I'll resume my wary fashion eye and stick to the jeans that my sister lovingly exclaims gives me saggy butt.  At least, you can't see anything when I wear them.