What are you, twelve?

I’ve been feeling like I’m twelve a lot lately. I remember a lot about being twelve. It was the first time I started to play around with make up and fashion. Here I am on fast approach to 26 and all I can think is how I am stuck at age 12. I didn’t know how to do my make up then and I don’t know how to do it now. I often ask my sister to do my make up for me when I’m going out for on a special date. Every once in a while I’ll play around with the stuff, usually I just feel like I make my face look worse. Its funny, make up is supposed to make me feel pretty isn’t it? Instead it just makes me feel like I’m trying to hide from something or like I’m trying too hard.

I’ve never really been a high maintenance girl in that respect. I’ve never put too much thought into an outfit or how my hair should be worn. As far as fashion was concerned I lived in a Hollister bubble for three years. Working as an associate there, as far as I knew or cared, all that I really needed for an outfit was a pair of skinny jeans, a flannel, maybe a cardigan, and some flip flops. It was simple, which I liked. I’ve never been one to fuss over jewelry and ruffles, high heels and the such. I always had a rule of thumb, if I couldn’t wear it in the rain, then I had no business wearing it… kind of a weird rule of thumb now that I think about it.

I think somewhere during my adventures through adolescents I adopted this mentality of ease and comfort. I got this notion in my head that boys liked simple. The idea was to look good but not look like I had to try hard to look good, which translated to the T-shirt and jeans mantra. By all means I would have a few fancy pieces in my arsenal, but I’d only bring the big guns out if the guy earned it. I remember I had a guy tell me once that I was the kind of girl you could take to the demolition derby on a Thursday and the opera on a Friday, I took it as a compliment.

And yet why have I had such a sudden falter in my style? Me thinks its because I recently dated someone who dressed much nicer than I did. I don’t know how much he spent on clothing but it was a great deal more than I did. Suddenly my Hollister jeans and white lacey tank tops weren’t so great anymore, especially whenever I’d go walking around with mister designer jeans.

For a short time I was able to temper my insecurities, and why not, he was looking at me with those baby blues and telling me how pretty he thought I was all the time. I would’ve gone around wearing a paper sack if he’d just kept looking at me like that. It wasn’t until I met his friends and their wives… all the gorgeous, sophisticated, elegant, and poised wives. They all had such a style about them that just screamed grown up, confident, and independent… Suddenly my wardrobe felt so juvenile…

After returning home from a short vacation with he and his friends, I ran off to the mall with my sister, who unlike myself, has her finger on the pulse of what’s in. I spent quite a bit of money trying to make a little revamp in my style, it will likely take years to purge some of the Hollister stuff I have collected over the past three years.

The irony behind it is that even after I bought all these clothes, which in some way or another were supposed to impress my new beau, the exact opposite happened. My new clothes were supposed to make me feel pretty, they were supposed to make me feel like I was good enough to stand by this cool guy who dressed so well, and while he once looked at me with eyes so deep and compliments a-plenty while adorned in my adolescent and ill thought attire, here I was in my new well thought out garb, begging for some sort of sign of approval and I got a lack-luster, “you look nice.” In two short days the budding romance that had so much promise withered into an unforeseen cliché ending, pity.

I think the rejection has me feeling like I’m twelve though. These clothes yielded the exact opposite response that I wanted… do I really know that little about fashion? I am an uncertain twelve year old, trying on clothes every other night, trying to figure out how these girls, excuse me, women put outfits together. How do they carry themselves with such an air of confidence? How in the world am I supposed to be as confident as them when these clothes couldn’t even help me keep a man? Oh well, maybe it’ll make more sense when I’m thirteen…

Folds in my heart

Hobby: as defined by dictionary.com

-noun

1. An activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation and not as a main occupation.

Hobby: as defined by Noelle

-noun

1. A means to pass the time, easing boredom and keeping the mind preoccupied.

I have recently taken up the hobby of folding origami. Its weird that I have spent hours looking up how to fold small pieces of paper into flowers. Its interesting to think that four years ago the thought of me spending my nights working on such a meaningless task would have floored me, yet here I am, approaching the ripened age of 26 and all I can muster the will to do is fold some paper…

This month started with an ending. In typical Noelle fashion I have failed in yet another relationship. I played it off pretty cool, but truth be told it jolted me. I liked him a lot and it was truly uncanny the circumstances in which he and I met. I wont go into detail but suffice it to say that too many coincidences is no longer a coincidence. That being said there seemed to be so much promise and yet at a time when I was really vulnerable and I needed him, his affections for me had begun to fail. I tried to tell him right from the get-go, I am not without flaw and to treat me as such is to only set us up for disaster. But there were, at an end.

As I mentioned, I am nearly 26. I feel as though I have grown passed the fretful nights of crying over some boy who has rejected me. I don’t want to let myself feel that bad over someone who never really cared for me to begin with. I don’t owe him my tears. He got a piece of my heart but I have come much too far and survived far too many heartbreaks to let one more guy just wreak havoc on my life. There could be a touch of denial in those sentiments but I’ve no mind to pay it at this point. I don’t feel like crying every day, and that is a much welcomed feeling.

What is unwelcome is this apathy I have settled into. I have little to no motivation to get back out there and start looking for someone new. I could honestly care less, I don’t even have social niceties in me anymore. A week or so ago I drove 45 minutes away to attend a party a friend of mine was hosting. I more or less forced myself to go, thinking it would be just the thing I needed to lift me out of this funk. Instead I felt completely alone and uncomfortable around all the new people. What I wouldn’t give for a nice night in, just watching tv with someone. I was there for less than half the time it took me to drive there, not including the drive back. From there I decided that this whole dating thing is not happening for me, at least not in 2012.

In all honesty I have no business going out with someone. If there is one thing I can’t fake. it is interest in someone. I think even in my current state, if my mister perfect were to happen upon me, my heaven picked eternal companion, I would frighten him away. I feel numb. I feel insecure. I feel like a broken mess that no one should have to deal with. So I have opted out of throwing myself at anyone willing and able to take me out, because at this point it just wouldn’t be fair to them.

I don’t know that I have ever felt like I was ready for marriage. There were times before when I had dated guys and it was a fun notion to dream about every once in a while, but in all reality the thought of it frightened me. I was so busy for so long being young, fun, and single. I was free to go where ever and whenever, without so much as a single person to answer to. There was so much freedom in it. And now? Now I just feel like I am craving some stability and some certainty. I don’t want new and different, I just want something or someone I can always rely on.

I wouldn’t say I am desperate to be married, although on days like today it would seem that way. My grandpa was in a serious car accident… I said my goodbyes to him earlier at the hospital, when I left they were giving him pain medication just to keep him comfortable and doing what they could to keep him alive so that everyone near by would have time to make it there and say goodbyes… to say the afternoon was traumatic would be coloring it lightly. I’m grateful I was able to see him and at the same time I wish I didn’t have to see him that way. I sat there with all my aunts and my uncle, my cousins and my sister, all crying and hugging… something about this whole ordeal has me feeling rather needy… Its even harder when I quietly and subtly ask for help, just a little comfort, and am still denied it… I know that there is someone out there for me. Just like my grandpa in his old age, long divorced from my grandma, was able to rekindle a romance with a high school sweetheart, there has to be hope for me. Hope that like the comfort he found from that sweet woman, I will have from a loving husband. I will have a hand to hold mine when I am afraid or shaking from the burdening sorrows of loss. I will someday have those arms to wrap around me and hold me, and a soft voice telling me that it will be okay… I will have a priesthood holder, that can give me a blessing of comfort when troubling times befall me. I am hopeful that it will happen, I’m just impatient, and how I wish I had such a blessing already.

Until he comes along and finds me, I will continue to spend my quiet weekends here in my room, watching cartoons and folding small pieces of colored paper into flowers.

Its a Jeep thing

I think a lot of my blogs are melancholy. Actually I KNOW that most of them air on the side of angst. I know how dreary it can be as a reader for an author to whine as much as I do. That being said I am striking up a new policy, for every dank and depressing piece I feel compelled to write about, I have to write something a little more cheery. I figure a 2 to 1 ratio aint too bad, besides, by my count currently I’m long overdue for something nice to write, here goes nothing!

I decided somewhat recently that my dear sweet Jeep Wrangler is preparing me for the most important job I will have for the rest of my life and all eternity… yes, marriage. Sounds weird that driving around a rust bucket like that could be likened to something as sacred and blissful as marriage, but roll with me here.

I bought into my Jeep for many reasons, I signed up for those moments of complete happiness when all is right with the world. There is a moment when owning a Jeep is the most glorious feeling in which I feel as though I am one with the universe. It happens often in mid summer after a long run up in the mountains as the sun slowly sets. A warmth is trapped in the atmosphere heating my skin, while winds dance furiously with my hair the faster I speed down the highway. I’m listening to Fleetwood Mac, “Go Your Own Way.” I watch as the colors change in the sky, sun setting ever slowly into a summer night… this is when driving my Jeep is perfect, everything is right, this is why I bought this thing.

Much like the good times in my Jeep, in marriage we buy into the good times. We buy into those blissful moments that seem to never end. The way he looks at me just before he is going to kiss me. The way she squeezes my hand tightly. The way I feel inside when he tells me how pretty he thinks I am. The way she needs me. How could anyone desire anything but this heaven sent peace. This is why I got married.

I took really good care of my Jeep at first, naturally. My Jeep is hardly new, I affectionately refer to her as vintage as she was created in ‘94. She might not have been new, but my Jeep was new to me. My shiny, new toy. I washed her once every two weeks or so, sometimes sooner if it rained. I put money into fixing her up, had her oil changed regularly, and did all I could to make her pur like a kitten, after all, this thing was worth investing a little into.

In the very early stages of courtship that precursor to ’I do’, we do everything we can to get the oil changed regularly so to speak. Date nights are lavish, each counterpart giving everything they have to put their best food forward. She buys a new outfit, something to impress him. He cleans out his car and opens every door, he wants her to know he’s a gentlemen. She is polite, gracious. He is charming, witty. Both are working equally hard to prove to the other that they are a worthwhile person, worth investing a little into.

After settling into my Jeep I soon realized that I most likely didn’t need to wash her every other week and I probably didn’t need to put the more expensive gas in her, that regular old unleaded stuff would suffice, especially since my little monster was guzzling gas like it was her day job. I would get the oil changed but I can probably stretch it just a little longer between changes. My Jeep was loud, but that was fine… right?

There is a point during marriage, sometimes even during dating, when each person gets a little too comfortable. There is a sense of security that comes along with that unrequited love you worked so hard to earn from one another. This is the point that its easy to become reckless and careless. She knows I love her, I don’t have to take her out to dinner all the time, it was getting expensive anyway, she understands that. He already knows how handsome I think he is, I’ve told him a thousand times. We both love each other and we’re doing fine… right?

Everything was fine with the little monster, we had a couple hiccups, but nothing too major. Then it happened, the grand daddy of fix-its. Furiously I pressed the peddle down, the Jeepster roared, from the sound of the engine we should be cruising and yet we only moved inches… my dear sweet transmission, may it rest in pieces. After paying for a tow truck to haul her off to the nearest mechanic and then hearing the diagnosis from the man in coveralls, I sobbed and sobbed, it was going to cost me an arm and a leg to fix that hunk of junk. I’m stuck though, she’s mine. At this point I can’t really afford not to fix her. I gave the man the go ahead. As I drove home in my mom’s car I settled into resentment. That stupid Jeep, I just needed to fix it and get rid of it. Let that vehicle be someone else’s problem. I need to get something newer, something better.

When the newness wears off those blissful moments are that, just moments, often falling few and far between the other. It seems that the never ending pleasantries have ended and Eden has fallen, nothing is as it was. She’s constantly complaining that I don’t love her, that I don’t do enough to show her that I love her, sometimes I wonder. All she ever does is nit pick and get after me for things that aren’t that important. He seems so cold, its like he no longer cares. He used to be so willing to help me out and do anything to make me happy, now its like pulling teeth. I don’t think he even likes to be around me anymore. Sometimes a marriage or a relationship can feel like a trap, like a broken down Jeep you can’t get out from under. What once was new and exciting has now become a burden, an obligation to take care of because there isn’t any other option. Each looking at the other with a need to find someone newer, someone better.

While my little monster was in the shop I drove my mom’s car around, a Hyundai Sonata. It’s a smooth little ride, gas mileage is phenomenal, its nice and quiet on the freeway, and it gets up to speed. Can’t say that I minded one bit driving that little guy around. I began to wonder how much money I could sell my Jeep for and what kind of new car I could get into. The dreams of better things quickly ended when it snowed, and snowed, and snowed some more. I found myself timidly driving around in that little burgundy machine. Each turn of the wheel I had a prayer in my heart that I would live to see tomorrow. Is my mom’s car that bad at handling in the snow? Probably not, but I missed my big 4-wheel driving mini monster nonetheless.

I got my Jeepster back this week and in every sense it felt like home. The resentment I had towards her for breaking down in such a costly way had simmered. I will be making payments to my daddy-dearest for the next while until that rebuilt tranny is paid off, but that was manageable, I just felt at peace once more nestled in the driver’s seat of my wrangler. This is where I belonged.

I think sometimes in relationships it is easy to become complacent and lazy. Furthermore it is easy to forget the very things that drew us to that person in the fist place. It was easy for me to stop putting the kind of effort and money into my Jeep to help it run smoothly, much like it is easy for lovers to become lax with one another and do the same. Relationships take work. A smooth relationship does not exist without a constant effort to improve and be the best person you can be for the other and towards the other. When I focus on how much it costs to fix my Jeep or how often I’m needing to fill up the gas tank, I quickly forget those long summer drives and how happy this material thing can make me. Now my car is just a car, in all reality I could just go buy another one and after all I’ve put up with her I probably should. But marriage isn’t about trading in for a bigger better deal. Its about taking the good with the bad. Its about remembering that just because there is bad, doesn’t mean that good no longer exists. Its about reveling in those blissful moments and taking the struggles in stride. Its like my Jeep: sometimes costly, not always the smoothest ride, but in the end its worth it because not every car can make it to the top of a mountain.

The thing about pride

The following blog is going to get really churchy. So deal with it.

Glean: to learn, discover, or find out, usually little by little, or slowly.

Today I gleaned that my pride will always be my downfall. At its core, pride was the very thing that kept me from getting baptized for 22 years. In my mind the idea of conceding to the very religion that had coached all these people into making my life harder, would make me not only foolish but down right stupid. In some respects I didn’t know how to let go of the hurt that a few misguided people had caused me. I didn’t want them to be right about being LDS because in some way my surrendering would mean they were right and in a way that would pardon their behavior.

Heavenly Father knew that I needed a lot of humbling to soften my very, VERY hardened heart. My kryptonite has always been a seemingly sweet, good looking guy. Literally gets me every time. So he sent me not one, not two, but three, three boys that came in just as quickly as they left, each one teaching me just a little bit more about this religion I had so arduously tried to ignore. Seeing as I am admittedly a prideful person, each rejection hit me just a little harder than the last, cutting into my ego, and down right wreaking havoc on my self esteem. Through each of these boys I sought approval, an indication of my adequacy, and instead I was dealt a sour reminder that I was almost good enough, but not quite.

I was heartsick for a very long time that year, but I’m grateful for each and every heartbreak those boys put me through because they were integral pieces in God’s puzzle that helped soften my heart enough to hear Him. But my story of pride does not end with my baptism.

I needed to purchase a car last year as mine had come to rest in the middle of trying to make a left hand turn. I had always wanted a Jeep Wrangler. This obviously isn’t the most practical of vehicles, which was something my dad lectured me on frequently. I insisted that since I was the one buying the car, I would get what I wanted, instead of what he wanted for me. The search was tiresome, test drive after test drive, I never knew that car shopping could be so exhausting. Why did I have to have a Jeep? Something about them was so alluring to me. And there it is… the pride. I wanted to look cool. I wanted a car that guys would find me attractive in, owning a Jeep says a few things about a girl. She likes to have fun and she’s not super high maintenance, that is MY kind of vehicle. Finally after over a month of searching, I found the one, and she was good to me for a while.

Next thing I know I’m dropping $600.00 to fix the manifold and another $800.00 in random repairs. Today my transmission quit, just outright quit on me and the mechanic quoted me anywhere between $1,500-$1,800 to rebuild it. And now a new battle with pride comes… it was pride, the need to look cool and feel wanted that lead me to buy that car, and now pride has me here, trying to figure out what I’m going to do next. I don’t have that kind of cushion on my credit card to pay for it, nor do I have that kind of cash in my savings account. I have no more savings bonds to cash in or CD accounts to withdraw from. My only options are to try and sell the car as is, take a loss on my loan, and try to buy whatever junker I can that can get me from point A to point B… or the option that seems much more painful and much more likely to happen… asking my dad, the very one who advised me against buying this car, for help. Oh pride, how stupid we are about to look…

I must have needed something to humble me. I believe that. I believe that things happen for a reason and I think right now Heavenly Father is doing me a really big favor, its just really hard to see it right now. At the very least I think He helped me realize something pretty big today. Thinking back on some of my failed relationships, many of the heartbreaks I have endured can be chalked up to pride. For so long I had prided my self (go figure) on being loyal to a fault. I’ve often thought that I was too loyal to leave anyone, which is what lead to each and every guy leaving me. I think the problem was never that I was too loyal… its that I’ve been too prideful to leave. I am too prideful to let go even when the guy is outright telling me he no longer cares for me. Failed relationships… that’s what I think of it as. The relationship didn’t work out, I failed and I am a failure. Tenacity is a good thing, but knowing when to let go and not being too prideful to do so, might be just a trifle better.

I have a lot of things to be humble about today. I don’t have near enough money to fix a car that didn’t make me look that cool to begin with, my dad was right and I may have to beg for his help to fix this car, and I like a guy that doesn’t like me back.

I often question my adequacy in this world, whether I’m good enough to deserve anything. The salvation to my sanity is that I know I am good enough for my Father in Heaven. He loves me no matter how foolish I am, or how prideful I am. He will continue to give me humbling lessons to remind me that I am fortunate, that I don’t have all the answers, and most of all that I don’t always know what’s best…

Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?

Warning: what you are about to read falls into the categories of “poor little rich girl” or “oh woe is me.” If either of these genres are found to be bothersome, then discontinue reading right… now.

I am rich, not in the literal sense, but more of a metaphoric sense. I don’t have a lot of money, which is probably a good thing because I would likely spend it on frivolous things. No, I am wealthy in another way. I am pretty. Yup, I said it out loud. To quietly acknowledge a realization such as this is one thing, but to vocalize it? I am aware I am dancing a fine line of vanity and conceit. Let’s face it, I am not standing on a mountain top proclaiming to be the fairest of the land, because I know I am not. I am simply stating that I believe my physical appearance is pretty.

Whether I think I’m pretty or not can be somewhat irrelevant, especially in the context of being young and single. In most cases it is more so whether or not the opposite sex finds me to be attractive that is of real importance. In this instance I have been rather fortunate. This isn’t to say that all men find me attractive, because no such woman exists. This is to say, however, that according to my location and my age, the general population of young single men might likely find me attractive. In the words of a friend of mine, the odds are in my favor and therefore I get my pick of the litter.

At this point it seems pretty silly, why would anyone complain about being found attractive? And why should I? I am rarely left dateless on a weekend, I have my pick of almost whoever I want to start a relationship with, and should a relationship end, I only have to stay single for as long as I feel like it because there is always someone waiting in the wings… so when does being beautiful become a double edged sword?

I know that beauty is but a temporary state. I do not want to be this vain person that gets free rides because of her looks, because when it all ends, I will be left with nothing. I don’t want to be one of those ladies that is bitter and struggling in her older adulthood, grasping at years that have passed and clinging to her youth. I want to accept each and every year as it comes. Accordingly I have taken time in my life to acquire skills that maintain much more longevity than that of fleeting beauty. I want things to fall back on and be proud of when I am older, I need other areas for which to gain self worth and feel good about myself. I am not the smartest person, but I have put in a lot of effort to learn things about the world. I am no specialist nor am I an expert on any one particular thing, but it feels nice to know a little bit about a vast number of things.

But my fear runs deeper than becoming a bitter old hag… there is a sense of satisfaction whenever I meet a new boy and he goes on and on about how pretty he thinks I am. It feels good, it feeds my ego, my self esteem, and my sense of self worth… but much like the realization that my looks wont last forever, how long will his affections last for me when I am no longer youthful and pretty? I am aware of how ungrateful I sound, but there is a point in a relationship when I start to cringe every time I am told I am beautiful… Perhaps it is my own insecurities in the other aspects of my life, but this anxiety exists that he only wants me because he thinks I’m pretty. If that is the basis and foundation of all my relationships, I fear I will never settle down with anyone.

So deep rooted in me is this need to be loved and needed for much more than the genetics my parents and the Lord have blessed me with. I find myself seeking the answer, “do you love me because I am beautiful, or am I beautiful because you love me?” I am always begging for the latter, so much so in fact I feel as though I unconsciously dress myself down in an attempt to ugly myself up, just hoping he will still find me attractive.

I think I just want what every girl wants. I don’t want to have to worry about always being in tip-top shape just to keep someone interested in me, I want to be accepted as I am. I want to be loved for all I that I am and all that I am not. Its times like this when I think those girls who don’t think they are very pretty have it easy, at least they know with certainty that when a man says he loves her, its because he loves who she is, not what she looks like.