How's Married Life?

Everyone's favorite question for me right now is: "So, how's married life?" And I appreciate their genuine interest in my life. Really, I do.

And believe me, I want with all my heart to gush and tell them that it's amazing. That it's fairytale-esque. That my husband and I eat dinner together and talk about our days. That while he does the dishes, I hover in the kitchen regaling him with stories from work or class. That we settle onto the couch and I do homework on the laptop while we watch some tv or just talk. And truthfully, I believe, this is what people want to hear.

But that's simply not how it is. When I left for work this morning, I kissed my husband and told him I would see him on Monday. (It's Friday). I spend the majority of my nights alone, while he works forty-five minutes away. We go for days at a time without seeing each other at all-- because I leave for work or internship or school before he gets back home around 7am. And he leaves again for work by 5pm and most of the time I'm not home again yet. Less than two months of marriage so far and it's far from what people imagine.

I don't mean to complain, but I get tired to telling people how wonderful it is because frankly, if I had to sum up marriage in one word, it would be "lonely."

This is the part where you tell me that I shouldn't bend the truth; that I should open up and tell people the reality of what marriage is like for me, at least. And sometimes, when I think they can stomach it, I do. But 99% of the time I get one of three responses:
1. Well, you should just be glad he has a job at all. (And I am. WE are. So very blessed).
2. It will get better. (Yes, I'm sure it will but right now, it is difficult).
3. One day, you'll wish he was working opposite schedules because you'll always be on each other's nerves OR "absence makes the heart grow fonder" (Thanks, but NO).



And so, I simply leave it at: "I love being married." This is truth. I do. It is hard-- harder than I could have ever imagined. But for the few days that we have spent together, it is remarkable. And if our schedules are like this until we retire, I still wouldn't trade it for the world.

Quirkiness

I was thinking the other day about my quirks...the little things that make me, well, me. Here are some of them.

1. If I wake up during the night or early in the morning and am awake for more than 2 minutes, I have to go brush my teeth. Absolutely must.

2. I am obsessed with Law and Order:SVU and want to be Olivia Benson when I grow up.

3. The money in my wallet has to be in descending order, all bills facing up.

4. I don't like to sit with my legs crossed because I feel (and probably look) awkward.

5. I have to sleep with the window open because Central Air and Heat feels suffocating to me.

6. I eat my pizza crust side first.

7. Exanding on #7, when I eat a meal, I eat all of each food before moving to the next. And subconciously, I choose which taste I want in my mouth when I finish my meal.

8. I hate the feel of chiffon. It makes my skin crawl.

9. I am as obsessed with Jodi Picoult (the author) as I am with SVU. The only difference is, I only get my Jodi Picoult "fix" once a year when her new book comes out. I usually finish it within a day of getting it.

10. I grind my teeth when I'm stressed, anxious, nervous or tense (i.e. all the time).

11. I don't like to talk on the telephone. I'd prefer to text, email or chat in person.

12. I am very punctual. I would rather leave and get somewhere thirty minutes early than be two minutes late.

13. I don't sleep with my engagement ring on. I started taking it off before bed at first because I was afraid it would fall off while I was asleep. Now, it's habit/bedtime ritual.

14. I don't like the number 5. I don't know why. I just don't.

15. I cannot stand to use the "Scan" button on radios. It's confusing and overstimulating.

BIG NEWS!

So, I figured it was appropriate to write a quick post about the fact that Matt proposed to me this past Saturday.

I knew it was coming sometime...I had no idea it would be then, though!

We had gotten back from Raleigh, after a long day, and it was (for all intents and purposes) sleeting in Greensboro. It was also a) freezing cold, b) nearly midnight and c) did I mention it was cold? Well, it was.

Matt asked me if I wanted to go downtown (remember, people, it's quarter 'til twelve) and see the big 50-foot Christmas tree in Center City Park.

"Nah, it's too cold."
"C'mon. It'll be fun. I want to go see it."

"It'll be there for a few more weeks."
"I want to go tonight."

"We've already driven by it twice."
"Yeah, but I want to get out and go up to it."

"No thank you."

"Please?"

"Fine." (I'm exasberated. And by this point most people are wondering why I was so dense as to not have a clue...)

We get there and he parks the car. I tell him I'll wait in the car. (Man, I'm a terrible girlfriend!) He insists and finally coaxes me out into the wet, freezing mess. We make it to the tree, with me shivering and whining most of the way.

We walk around the tree, marveling at the beauty of this magnificent tree.

After we have circled the entire tree and discussed the possibility of climbing it, I look at him, about to ask if I can go. He takes a step away from me, looks at the ground, and gets down on one knee.

I can't breathe.

My heart is racing.

"Lindsay Caroline Widenhouse, will you make me the happiest man in the world and marry me?"

I just continue to gasp for air. (Although I'd like to say that I responded eloquently in the affirmative).

Eventually, I say yes, and he slides the ring onto my finger.

WE DID IT!!!!

Allow me a moment.

Matt and I trained for and ran an 8k. It was my first 8k, and his too. It was also our first race together. We drove up to the Outer Banks on Friday and ran the race on Saturday morning. The course was an out-and-back course (which, if you're a runner, you probably abhorr), and that means you run out half the distance, and then turn around and run back. It's discouraging because you a) know how long you have left to go; and b) because the faster runners are passing you on their way back. Oh well. All in all, it was an amazing and really fulfilling experience. It definitely won't be our last race.

Here we are before the race.

When we got within sight of the finish line, I looked at Matt and said: "Race ya!" Of course, he won the sprint to the end, but I held my own!

Haha

Today, a RESTRICTED number called my cell phone. I answered. The following ensued:

"Hello?"
"Hi. Can I speak with Roosevelt?"
"Teddy or Franklin?"
"Huh?"
"Nevermind. No one here goes by that name."
"uh...okay. I must have the wrong number."

Sigh. Okay, so that's not really how the conversation went. I left out the funny quip about which Roosevelt they wanted to speak to. But it did take all of my self-control not to say that.

The Longing Conundrum

Do you ever long for something? I feel like one word sums up how I've been feeling for a few months now: longing. But I'm perplexed because I don't know quite what I'm longing for.

I'm at once longing for the future and the past. I'm longing for the comfortable and the uncomfortable; for the old and the new. And sometimes, I'm longing for the in-between spaces.

I've always, no matter what stage I am at in life or what I'm going through, able to relate to Sara Groves' song "Painting Pictures of Egypt"

I've been painting pictures of Egypt
And leaving out what it lacks
The future feels so hard
And I want to go back

But the places that used to fit me
Cannot hold the things I've learned
And those roads were closed off to me
While my back was turned...

At one point in the song, she sings: "I am caught between the promised and the things I know." I am altogether frustrated and exhausted and excited and confused as I try to figure out what this stage is exactly in my life. I feel like I am in the in-between, where I have out grown many things but am not quite to the next phase in my life yet.

I don't want to leave too quickly, nor do I want to hestitate too long. But I don't know what exactly I'm supposed to be doing, or where I'm supposed to be headed.

I don't know much of anything right now, it seems.

Team Day at Chic-Fil-A

It was Team Day at Chic-Fil-A, and if you wore a shirt with your favorite team on it, you got a free sandwich.

Tarheels + Chic-Fil-A =Good day!

Neither one of us likes pickles, though, as exhibited in the third picture. :)

Ummm...???

My professor wants me to write a lesson plan. This would be fine if:

-I knew the components of a lesson plan
-I had ever seen a lesson plan
-I even planned to be a teacher in the future


Sigh. I want to be a social worker, people. You know, I want to talk to kids about their problems. I'm not going to give lectures or do state-mandated curriculum lessons with them.


I'll figure it out. I always do.

Blogging Hiatus

I feel like so much has happened since I last posted. My black lab mix, Riley, moved into my apartment-- my attempt to feel "safe" again. I started back to school (classes include: English, Criminal Justice, The Institution of Education, and Sociological Perspectives on Gender). Matt and I attended two weddings and have started training for an 8k.

My most recent list:

Really, really hate:
NC humidity

Really hate:

Ignorance

Hate:
Lazy punctuation

Indifferent:

Dinner choices

Like:
Taking Riley for evening walks

Really like:

Having Matt spend time with my family

Really, really like:

...I need more time on this one...

What I'm growing out of:
Feeling like a University student

My obsession with facebook

What I'm growing into:

My need to be included in seemingly "adult" things

Funny The Way It Is...

I got home from work yesterday at about 5:30pm. On the way home, I mentally planned the rest of my evening: watch the rest of Gilmore Girls, shower and change clothes, grab a quick dinner of left-overs, have a game night with David and Katie, then house-sit for the rest of the night. Awesome.

I got to my apartment building, unlocked the breezeway door, and found my apartment door ajar, barely cracked open. When was I here last? I thought. Yesterday, with Matt, right before the benefit concert at church, exactly 23 hours ago. Cautiously, I stepped into my apartment. "Hello?" I half-yelled. I'm notoriously anal about locking my door. I knew that someone else had been inside. And that's when I saw my TV missing. My heart stopped.

My other valuables were left untouched. I looked over to the window, that's in the dining room adjacent to the living room. The vase that was previously on the window sill was lying on the floor. Dialing 9-11 in one hand, I went back outside and saw what I had previously overlooked: the screen on the window had been cut. The pieces were beginning to fit together. Someone had broken into the apartment through the window, unplugged and stolen the TV, which was my Christmas gift this past year, and walked out through my front door.

For the second time in my life, I spoke with a 9-11 operator. Actually, the only other time I called 9-11 happened the first night I moved into this apartment. The reality of the situation began to sink in as I told the 9-11 operator what had happened. "Is there anyone still inside?" I glanced around the apartment, two of the bedroom doors (in the 3-bedroom where I currently live alone for the summer) were closed. "I-I-I don't know." "Then I'm going to have to ask you to leave the residence immediately."

I waited outside for the police. Laura Jo came over just so I wasn't alone. We waited another 2 1/2 hours for the CSI people, who dusted for fingerprints and told me it was probably someone I knew. Riiiiight. Not.

I don't care about the TV. It, like everything else, is replaceable. I am safe/okay, but I don't feel that way. I miss feeling like my apartment was a safe, secure place as long as I kept the entry points locked. Sigh.

Dave Matthews has a song called "Funny the way it is." It basically says that it's funny how one person is going hungry while another's eating out; how someone's house is burning down while I spend a day at the park with my family.

Funny the way it is, I was probably playing Apples to Apples and eating pizza with Matt, Laura Jo and Nick when my apartment got broken into. Or maybe I was at work, earning money to buy nice things, instead of stealing them. Funny the way it is...

THIS...

...is what my life consists of-- at least when I'm at work. Yep, that's right, folks. I'm the bumper boat operator at a local park. :)

Ten Things Bumper Boats Taught Me About Life:

10. Batteries need a full night to re-charge, a lot like people need sleep.
9. If you put one foot into the boat, you better follow qiuckly with the other (or you'll end up in the pool).
8. Don't squirt other people with water if you're not willing to be squirted too.
7. Color-coding helps people understand better.
6. Waiting in line makes the end goal that much more enjoyable.
5. All good things must come to an end (sometimes after 3 1/2 minutes!)
4. If you have to jump in the water, fully-clothed, to catch a runaway boat, you'll probably dry off within 30 minutes in the NC heat.
3. People only obey the rules they deem important.
2. Wear sunscreen. Lots and lots of sunscreen.
1. It's okay to act a little wild and enjoy yourself, no matter how old you are.

My Sister's Keeper

I went to see the movie

 version of Jodi Picoult's book My Sister's Keeper. I'm pretty sure everyone in the crammed theater cried at some point. 

Although I was initially emotionally stirred, it wasn't until Anna and Kate began calling each other "Sissy," that I cried. I cried because that hit home. My sister, who I envy in so many ways, and used to resent for so many reasons, was also the younger sister who I called "sissy" all through my childhood. She's the one I comforted at daycare when she fell and broke her arm. She's the one that learned to rollerblade first and taught me. She's the one who saw me off to prom on multiple occasions, only to find that I was away at college when it was her turn. She's vouched for me, encouraged me, stood up for me, and loved me in a way no one else on earth could. We've snuggled, and cried, and played, and yelled, and argued, and traveled, and danced, and dreamed. She's the one that I used to design "dream homes" with, dream homes that were big enough for our families (her with her "future husband" and "future only child" and me with my "future husband" and future "eight children.") She's the one who listened when I vented. She's the one who picked out pets' names with me, who held my hand on roller coasters, who sleeps in my room because there was a spider in hers sometime in the distant past. She's creative and talented and amazing in so many ways. Sure, my sister and I have our moments where we think we're polar opposites, but the truth is, I would do anything, anything at all, for her. 

It's a heartwrenching movie about death, life, love and the bonds that hold us together. But I can relate on so many levels to Kate and Anna, from understanding the dynamics of sisterhood within the family unit, to wanting to give my sister everything so she could have the best possible life; to understanding that doing so to my detriment did neither of us any good; to wanting to give her the world; to knowing that I couldn't; to knowing that wherever we went in life, whatever came between us, we have always been and will always be remarkably close. And nothing could make me stop loving her, ever. 

Go see the movie. Really. But bring tissues. 

Fishing

Matt took me fishing this morning. This is the latest in our outings together. We've seen movies (in fact, we made an entire list of movies we want to see this summer and fall), gone to the zoo, hung out at the pool, played countless video and board games, had a cookout with friends and one with his extended family. But today, we went fishing. 

I fished some when I was little, but I was ill-prepared for today. I was all gutsy when we got to the bait shop to buy the bait, and acted like the knowledgeable girlfriend when Matt and I conversed about what type of bait to buy. And when we got to the lake, I hauled the tackle box and the pole (he carried the chairs) down to the dock. It was going well so far. 

And then he opened the container of worms-- two kinds of worms: earth worms (really, really long ones) and glow worms (no, not the toy you had when you were growing up!). I instantly became the squeamish girlfriend and backed away, telling him he could have the honor of putting the bait on my hook. He readily agreed, chuckling a little bit. And whenever I needed new bait, I would carry the container over to him, hand him my pole and offer my sweetest smile. It worked. Haha. 

We didn't catch a thing, but we had a wonderful time. It was sunny, albeit a little too warm and we got to see some heron and lots of turtles, as well as a lot of geese and ducks. 

Anyway, all of this was to say that today was a perfect example of our relationship. Matt doesn't  love me because I have a stomach of steel and can put up with gross things. He also doesn't love me because I'm the perfect girlfriend or a complete girly-girl. Nope, he loves me because I'm me. And I am really enjoying the freedom of not having to become someone else to please him. It's very freeing and it allows me to love him better, because I'm not doing it out of compulsion or fear, but because I just do. 

Update

I'll let the pictures be the update...

Pondering...

What color is a chameleon originally, when it's not trying to blend in? 

I hate the way people react...

...when I tell them I'm majoring in social work. You'd have thought I told them: "I expect to single-handedly alter the course of history." 

The conversation with any "adult" has become painfully predictable. 

"What are you majoring in?" They ask, hoping I'll say "education" or maybe "business," possibly even "political science." 

"Social work," I say with a smile. 

And then it starts. It always does. "Oh," they muse, trying to figure out where to direct the conversation next. "That certainly is a...unique...calling, isn't it?" Unique as in, different? Or bad? 

I smile politely, trying to bear with them. "Mmhmm." 

"You know, the burn-out rate is really high. Most people leave the profession within five years." 

Yes, you know, I've heard that from the thousand other people before you who inquired about my major. 

"I suppose," I venture. "But I think the burn-out rate in any job has the potential to be high. You have to find something you enjoy getting up for in the morning."

"But you can't possibly help everyone." 

Uhhh...DUH. And here is where I bite my tongue. Here is where I've learned not to argue. Not to point out that if we all believed we couldn't make a difference, we'd sit around idly all day wondering what to do with ourselves. It's where I would point out that a single smile, as cliche as it sounds, can bring someone back from the edge. It's where I would launch into my mantra about why I want to be a social worker, about the guy who was throwing star fish back into the ocean, one by one, on a beach with thousands if not hundreds of thousands of star fish. And another man came along and told him he couldn't possibly make a difference. 

And you know what the first man did? He picked up yet another stranded star fish that would suffocate if not thrown back into the ocean, smiled and said, "Made a difference to that one."

Everyone has a unique calling, just for them, a passion, of sorts. And you know what? If you pour your heart into what you do, it might be taxing. But I think that's more of a reflection of the passion of the person than the profession. 

Rapport

Okay, this is going to make me sound stupid and uneducated but I promise I'm not...at least not nearly as much as this blog post is going to make me sound...


Last night Alyssa and I were watching the Colbert Report, something I've heard of but never actually watched. I didn't realize he dropped the "t" on both his name and the word "report," making it sound like "rappor." I remarked to Alyssa how dumb this seemed to me, since obviously, I told her, that's not how you spell rapport.

And I went on, with the conviction of someone who's on fire and knows what she's talking about, to tell her that rapport was obviously spelled "r-e-p-o-i-r-e." You'd think I was spelling the word for the National Spelling Bee. Alyssa just looked at me and was like: No, that's not how you spell it.

I challenged her, saying that I was clearly right. She retorted: "Rapport is spelled R-A-P-P-O-R-T, here I'll google it." And she did. In fact, she googled (don't get me started on how "google" isn't a verb) the word I was spelling.

Urban Dictionary (the source of all knowledge, OBVIOUSLY) defines "repoire" as: the way stupid people spell "R-A-P-P-O-R-T."

Lovely.

Granted, I have never used the word repoire in my writing, but I have seen it written in internships and in things I've read online and otherwise, so I'd like to think that the ignorance and stupidity of others has clouded my ability to know the truth. But alas, I admit that I simply didn't know the proper spelling for the word.

Sigh. (This is why when I tutor kids in reading and spelling, I can't explain to them the English language. I mean really? "Wicked" and "licked" don't rhyme, but they should. And rapport should NOT be spelled like that. Oh well.)

Fear

Ten years ago, tragedy and evil struck at Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado. I was 11 years old that April and in fifth grade. Although I remember the sadness of the adults around me after the Oklahoma City bombing, I do not remember the tragedy or news coverage of the event specifically. But I do remember Columbine.

I remember the news footage of students running from the building. I remember tearful parents clinging to their children. I remember ghastly images of things that should never have happened at that high school. I remember nation-wide revelation that "our kids" might not be safe, even at the sanctuary that is the schoolhouse. The point is, I remember.

It was the first time in my life that I understood danger and evil as something other than "bad guys." There were pictures and a specific event that marked my new understanding. I remember lectures from the principal about telling an adult if someone is threatening violence. I remember "safety drills," where we had to hide from view of the classroom door. Maybe most terrifying of my memories is when we had to actually use the drill for real at my elementary school one day.

Ten years is a long time. My understanding of safety and evil has very much grown, matured and changed from what is was as a fifth grader behind a desk. But Columbine shaped how I saw evil and a huge part of that view still remains with me.

A lot of times, I am overcome by the fear that comes with the realization that malls, schools, colleges, workplaces, nursing homes, gas stations, private homes, and modes of transportation are far from safe. But like everyone else, if I allow that fear to cripple me I will never live. In the wake of every tragedy the survivors and the public at large find strength to go on, to live. We have to. There isn't another option, really.

Lives of Quiet Desperation

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation." -Henry David Thoreau, Walden

As a college student, I am living under the assumption that once I graduate I can make my life mean something. Make an impact. Affect change. You know, the naiive belief that I am more than just a vapor.

But if that is true, if my life is just a fleeting mist, then how am I supposed to not lead a life of quiet desperation? If I resign myself to the fact that I can have no lasting impact, then what keeps me from living the kind of life Thoreau observed and wrote about?

I'm not saying that nothing matters; I'm just wondering what the balance is between the humility of knowing that I am just a fragile piece of the great human race, one miniscule drop in an infinite ocean, one second of eternity, and living a life of purpose.

More to learn

Apparently I have more to learn to be a true Tar Heel fan:

1. Duke is spelled Dook.
2. Tar heel is two words.
3. ACC = Another Carolina Championship
4. (yes, as asked in the last post) UNC = University of National Champions (as demonstrated last week.)


I know the song, but that comes from six years in youth group at CHBC...it was pretty much Tar Heel-owned. :)