The Seeking Daddy Project Day 52: Redirection.

I winced as Michael dug his fingers into the right side of my neck, willing myself not to squirm.

I'm a very petite woman.  Michael is a powerful guy. He's well over six feet tall and bench presses (lifts? I don't know the terminology, sorry) hundreds of pounds. He makes no apologies about the fact that his massages will probably hurt, but they'll be worth it.  As with so many things in life, they do, and they are.

"I joke that I turn my clients into masochists," he offered with a little laugh. "They end up needing the release of this type of pain once it's over." He was quiet for a moment as I caught my breath against that exact feeling. "It's not a sexual thing. It's just that release."

I thought about making a joke about how it's been almost two months since Tate and I broke up so at this point any kind of release is fine by me, but I decided against it.  Class before sass, at least right then.

I was actually seeing Michael for the second time in two weeks, after life (and things like the car accident) prevented me from keeping my regular appointment.  Trust me, my body really needs my regular appointment.  With Michael as my massage therapist, my mind does, too.

His fingers kept digging into my neck; the pain worsened.  Almost subconsciously, my right hand gripped the sheet covering me.  Suddenly, Michael gently slapped my hand. "Stop that!"

"Did you just smack me?!" I said, both incredulous and amused.

"No, it was...redirection!" he exclaimed.

"Uh-huh." I think at first he couldn't tell if I was angry or not.  "Redirection, you say?"

"...yes!"

"OK, that's fine, sure," I said.  Truth be told, I was a little embarrassed, but mostly I thought it was funny.  He seemed to as well.

It's been more than a week since I last saw him, but I've been turning that word over and over in my head.  If I could describe my 30's, that word is perfect.  Redirection.

If I'm being honest, in my 20's, I hook-line-and-sinker bought into all the evangelical Christian hype I could shovel down my spiritual throat and carried it with me everywhere.  Mostly, I'm ashamed to say, my main goal was finding a husband.  Everything hinged on that.  I was told I needed to find not just a husband, mind you, but a "Godly man," a "solid Christian" guy who would be a "spiritual leader."  I'm frustrated to say that I spent so much time in pursuit of that goal that there are several years, countless prayers, wasted experiences, and many missed moments I wish I could get back and would just suck the marrow out of rather than trying to analyze them as potential to be an on-ramp to reach Perfect Christian Marriage and Lifeville.

As the years ticked by, I became increasingly frustrated with the lack of this "blessing from God" in my life. I felt gypped. Led down the garden path. Overlooked. Let out to dry. Lied to. Inconsequential. Invalidated. Forgotten.

The main problem, of course, is that I am a walking oxymoron.

I'm too liberal for a conservative, too conservative for a liberal.

I support gay marriage, equal rights, and feminism, but then get extremely frustrated with especially militant Christian feminists and anyone else who spends all their time crowing over their oppression.

I don't get offended by profanity - most of the time, I think it's hilarious.

I drink whiskey, make scandalous jokes on the regular, and crave intimacy with men, though I could never conceive of having any kind of intimacy without a deep emotional connection and mutual respect.

I'm a prude to many and a Jezebel to just as many.  My best friend says I'm "too friendly" with guys, and yet I have a personal rule that I won't kiss someone until I know his middle name.

Once I turned 30, something strange happened.  I'm now on the expired shelf to a lot of the guys I used to think I wanted, but I'm finding myself redirecting.  The last year or so - especially the last few months - have been some of the best of my life.  I've relaxed.  I'm easier with a one-liner, quicker with a laugh, and much more in-the-moment than I've ever been.  I've somehow (not always, not completely, but still) become much more comfortable in my own skin.  I know who I am and I like her, and instead of begging God for a "suitable" husband or trying to pretend things about myself that aren't true, I'm just relaxing into being me.  The results, I must say, aren't half bad.

I'm also realizing that instead of searching in vain for a "Godly" husband, I'd much prefer a man who's intelligent, thoughtful, open, reflective, and real.  One who will laugh at my jokes instead of being scandalized by them.  One who will consider nuance rather than knee-jerk labeling sin. One who isn't afraid of my intelligence, my ambition, my accomplishments, and - gasp - my sexuality, and gives me the benefit of the doubt with regards to all of it.

Faith is important, but just as much so are intelligence and maturity.  I'm no longer a horse-in-blinders, gulping churchy words and spewing them with virulence, but instead realizing that grace, hope, and love are far more nuanced and complicated.

If I've learned anything in the last year, it's that it's time I started looking around and really seeing people, not just potential - in my friends, in men, and in myself.

And that right there?  That's redirection for me.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 51: Unglued, Part the Second

I know it's been awhile, but at long last I'm finishing this story.  Go ahead and read Unglued, Part the First for a refresher first!

Anyway, so, back at the ballpark...

As I sat at the picnic table, drinking a $7 cup of white wine and fiddling with the little cork-heeled cause of my angst, I realized with some horror that I wasn't going to be able to make it the four blocks (uphill) back to the car.  I was trying to keep myself from spiraling into panic mode when Aaron and a couple of our other young guy coworkers came up to the table.

My only explanation is that we communicated telepathically, because before I knew it, classic hero that he is, Aaron had offered to go get the car and bring it back to pick me up.

I handed him my keys, and ten minutes later, my coworker/friend Meghan* and I met him in front of the ballpark.  Meghan asked us to take her back to her car, and I climbed in the backseat while she took shotgun.

We started driving around; Meghan didn't really remember where she'd parked.  It was understandable, really, in all the traffic.  We were only a few streets away from the ballpark about to go through a stoplight when she said, "Oh wait, I think it's down there!" Aaron braked slightly and turned the steering wheel to the right - and WHAM! We all flew forward.  My car had been rear-ended.

The next half hour went by in a blur.  Aaron pulled my car off to a side street, and the surprised, shaken young woman who had rear-ended us followed.  Another car had nearly clipped her; she was trying to avoid it and didn't see us. No one was hurt. We didn't call the police. Her mom, who was close by, came to her rescue.  I remember that I flew out of the backseat as soon as we'd stopped, quickly dialing my dad's number even though I'm in my thirties and live 300 miles away from him.

It took me awhile to realize that the bottom of my left sandal was now totally gone.  I hobbled around,  my right foot four inches higher than the left, the whole time we stood there.  One of the senior managers at our company had parked his car on that very side street, and he ended up taking Meghan back to her car.

I hadn't been in an accident in nearly 10 years.  I kept telling myself, don't freak out, don't overreact, this kind of thing happens all the time, but I can't say I was successful in any of that.

My car was driveable.  The bumper was badly damaged and the exhaust pipe and muffler hung down towards the back wheel, but I could get it home.  The other girl's car wasn't nearly so lucky.

We finally got back on the road; I drove shakily and Aaron was trying valiantly to be calming in the passenger seat.  I think he'd given me a hug. I remember thinking I'm so glad he's here.  I couldn't imagine driving back from Durham, a route that makes me nervous anyway, all alone after that.

Despite leaving the ballpark early, we got caught in the worst of the rush-hour traffic going back to the office because of the accident.  I turned the stand-up comedy channel back on, but in our heightened state neither of us could enjoy it; it just sounded like yelling.  Soon, I switched it off, and then we just talked. It was real talk, an honest dialogue between unlikely friends - friends who had both been admittedly surprised at the strength of our connection over the last few months.  We talked about our hopes, our fears, our pasts, our dreams. We dug deep. We blushed, we laughed, we opened up.

Never in a million years when I first met Aaron would I have dreamed we'd end up so close.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I went back and forth with insurance companies, leaving voicemails and memorizing claim numbers.  I finally got my car repaired and picked it up earlier this week.  All is well again.

My secret is that, other than a home invasion or a fire, one of my greatest fears is a car accident.  They're messy, they're expensive, and without my car I'm virtually helpless - I can't get anywhere.  Aaron was (again) a hero during the interlude, picking me up on his way to work and dropping me off on his way home, checking the bumper to make sure it wouldn't fall off and looking under the car to examine the muffler.  I'll be forever grateful.  I'm so glad I have my car back, though, because nothing compares to driving down a long stretch of highway at dusk on a summer night, playing my music and reflecting.

I've thought a lot about that day since it happened, and to my own surprise, I'd honestly do it all over again.  Parts of it were stressful and inconvenient, sure, but there were those moments: the moments when Aaron and I were laughing together at Patton Oswalt yelling "YOU STUPID DOUCHENOZZLE!" or on the drive back home, when I learned more about him than I ever thought I would, that I will forever cherish.

It's those moments that make life sweet.  It's those moments I'll carry with me and always think of with fondness and affection.  And if it took a fender-bender to get them, well, that seems like a bargain to me.

*Also not her real name. You know the drill by now.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 50: Unglued, Part the First

"You have to hear this one Patton Oswalt bit," Aaron* said, grinning excitedly from across our cubicle. "It's hilarious!  He's talking about a girl he slept with and going to get the morning after pill..."

Aaron and I have shared cube space almost the entirety of his seven months at our company.  In that time, we've become fast friends, bonding over our love of standup comedy and just generally ridiculing the ridiculous.  He's a standup guy (pun intended): ambitious, witty, enthusiastic, encouraging, deep-voiced and football-player-muscled.  All in all, a classic hero.  He even rescued me during Raleigh's horrendous Snowmaggedon a few months earlier by driving me home in his huge SUV. I owe him several home-cooked meals at this point.

"I was thinking about it last night; you have to listen to it!" he continued. I raised my eyebrows.  He was already giggling.

"No, no, seriously!  I know it sounds bad, but it's so funny. He's telling this story, right, and then this guy in the crowd heckles him, and he just GOES OFF on him.  Oh my god, it's amazing.  He just YELLS at him for like ten straight minutes.  He's like, 'YOU DOUCHENOZZLE!'...wait, I can't do it, I'm gonna ruin it.  You just have to hear it...oh my god..."

He put his head down on the desk, shoulders shaking. His mirth was contagious; I couldn't help but grin too. 

A few hours later, we were headed to the Durham Bulls Ballpark.  Our company had paid for us all to go to a game as a team-building exercise, providing food and a half day to sit in the sun.  Since we live close to each other and have to drive the same way going home, Aaron and I carpooled in my Focus.  I plugged my iPhone in and turned to Patton Oswalt station on Pandora, and wouldn't you know it, right as we approached the exit, the very bit he was talking about came on.  He's right - it's hilarious.  Soon we were both helpless with laughter, and the traffic jam we got stuck in coming off the exit didn't seem nearly as bad.

The ballpark was packed yesterday, almost unbelievably so.  We spent an hour circling the area around it, trying in vain to get into several parking decks only to be told they were full up as we approached in a long line of equally frustrated drivers.  At long last, we found a parking deck four blocks away from the ballpark with some open spaces.

Now, here's the thing: I'm 4'10". My shoe closet is full of 4-inch heels. 

I've run down Broadway in stiletto mary-janes. I've clipped along Oxford Street in heeled boots. But yesterday, as I was hiking the four blocks from the parking deck toward the ballpark with Aaron, the heel on my 4" cork wedge sandal ripped in half.

We made it there, but unbeknownst to me, the front part of my shoe was hanging on by a thread - literally.  Many flights of stairs, bleachers, and a long saunter (well, toddle, on my part) around the arena looking at souvenirs didn't help.  By the end of the afternoon, I collapsed at a nearby picnic table with my coworkers/girlfriends, my left sandal holding itself together for dear life.

And that was only the beginning.

*Not his real name.  It rhymes, though.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 49: The adult thing to do.

On Easter Sunday afternoon, I was driving behind my best friend's car towards her apartment, on our way to Easter brunch with her family.

"I've been thinking about what you said yesterday," I said haltingly to Tate on the phone. "...and...I just...I can't give you what you want."

He sighed. "I don't think I can give you what you want, either."

I blinked back tears and choked out, "So...what does that mean...?"

We were both quiet for a moment.

"It's the adult thing to do," he said.

Soon after pulling into my best friend's apartment complex, I was single again.

Even though our breakup was mutual - dare I say amicable - and something I think we both knew was coming, it still stings a bit. Though Tate and I remain close friends and speak often, it's still sad. It's possibly the most mature parting-of-the-ways I've experienced.

And yet, I feel a bit like the wind has been let out of my sails.

I never thought I would still be single at 31. All my life, I've dreamed of having a partner - in ministry, in family, in life. Perhaps it's a little girl's fantasy, perhaps it's a desire shoved on me by the patriarchy, perhaps it's just something I long for, but it's always been there. I know I'm not "old," and I know there's still plenty of time to date, get married, and (possibly) have children.

I also know I can be more than content on my own. I'm comfortable going out alone - I went to a concert and two restaurants by myself just this week. I have all the affection and cuddles I could hope for in my precious Lottie. God has blessed me with a busy life that is full and rewarding whether or not I have a man in it at any given time.

Even still, I can't help but daydream.

It's not the every-dayness that bothers me, really; it's the big picture. The goals, the dreams, the things to work towards.  I've always thought I'd be making these goals and planning these dreams with my partner, but as the years continue to turn, I can't count on that. Should I begin to plan that it'll be just me? Should I begin working towards my own individual goals 10, 20, 30 years from now? I know well enough how quickly time passes. There's so much I want to do - for God and for others. I want to go back to England, write books, take seminary classes, be a poodle foster mom.  Some or all of those may or may not be possible with a family, I'm well aware. Should I just accept now that I'll be doing all of that on my own?

It's a hard pill to swallow. I've been turning it over and over between my fingers for awhile now, gulping.

In the meantime, I aim to continue to get back to being close with my Daddy, my Creator, my Lord...because in His welcoming arms I can find all the love, comfort, and companionship I know I will ever need.

It was the adult thing to do.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 48: It's May!

Happy May Day, everyone!

In honor of today, I present the wonderful song from Camelot that every year I always sing to friends, coworkers, and (mostly) Lottie:

I apologize for my silence in the last few weeks.  A lot has been happening, which I'll probably write about here tomorrow. Suffice it to say, my silence hasn't been laziness or apathy about my closeness with God.

For today, though, let's enjoy the fact that it's spring! May is my favorite month, and hopefully this year will be no different.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 47: An old meme?

I just watched "Pitch Perfect" for the first time a few weeks ago when my good friend Kayla was visiting. It was cute, but one part stood out to me - Anna Kendrick's little song and cup percussion combination when she was auditioning.

I may have spent an hour or so watching Anna Kendrick perform the "Cups" song and singing that lovely little lyrical bit in the wee hours of the morning last night, and I may have made it my new mission in life to learn how to do it, too.

Here's the full (studio) version, if you haven't seen it:

When Tate came to visit me today, I told him about my plan excitedly.  Apparently, though, I'm a bit late to the party, because he said dismissively, "Oh, that's an old meme now."

I have to say, I was a little crushed.

I kept thinking about that summation this evening as I was getting ready for bed. An old meme. What makes it old?  For that matter, what makes it a meme?  To be honest, oftentimes at this stage in my life, I feel like an old meme.  I've been there, done that.  I've seen it all before.  It's not my first time at the rodeo.

But you know what?  This is my first time seeing this little song and I think it's precious and whimsical and I want to learn it. It's not an old meme to me.

And so, from one "old meme" to another - it sure would be prettier with you.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 46: Stagnation.

Well, I failed.

The last few weeks of March were rough, busy at work, some life things getting in the way, and I got behind on my posts. Then I got more behind, and before I knew it more than a week had gone by and I failed.

I'm sorry.

It'll probably happen again.  And I'm sorry for that, too.

To be honest, I'm kind of floundering. Stalling. Stagnating.  I'm not moving forward. I wouldn't say I'm moving backwards, per se, but if you're not moving forward are you really doing anything?

Probably not.  Isn't there a famous quote about that somewhere?

So, in summary, I'd ask for prayers. If any of you out there reading this have experienced this kind of stagnation - this kind where you just want to sit still and be, but aren't really doing anything except existing in that stillness - and would like to share that story with me, I'd be glad to hear it.

This is the strangest season I've ever been in, because I'm not quite sure what to do.

I think I know, but then I think maybe I don't.

I remember when I thought I knew so many times before, and I was wrong.

So all I can say is...I'm still here.

And that's pretty much all I have for today.