I read back through a year or so of my blogs tonight.  I fell back and out of love twice.  I relearned hardlearned lessons three times, and decided life is moving along just fine.

 

  I'm very happy with blogging right now.

  That word.  That stupid word.  Ok, it's not the words fault.  In fact I kind of like the word.  I like the last 'e.'  But the idea!  You know it means excessively submissive?  That entire concept just crawls right under my skin.

  At least it did.  Until now.

  Jared and I take turns doing the dishes.  I'd start in on how we came to this arrangement and how I pointed out him that doing the dishes was his only household chore besides taking out the trash (I mean, did he think the floor, shelves, bathrooms, and counter tops just cleaned themselves?) but that is over there in the past, and this is the present.  So, Jared and I take turns doing the dishes.  When I do the cooking (and I always do, just saying) he is supposed to clean the dishes I cooked with.  It is a trade in his favor.  I also plan the menu, and do the grocery shopping.  I know, I'm a saint.

  But no, I'm not.  It's that thing again... subservient.  I am so not that girl.  I've been keeping score.  If you were wondering: yes, I am winning.  The prize for winning this game?  Deep bitterness resulting in long lasting resentment, and angry explosions apparently out of no where.

  Jared disappeared for two days.  He calls to tell me if he isn't coming home because I am particular about locks when I'm sleeping.  This particular text message read, "Staying in Irving tonight.  See you tomorrow!  I'm drunk."  I laughed.  It is hilarious.  So I called him today.  "Hey drunky," I was very nice, "You coming home today?"  He said he was, and I said that's good because the dishes he said he would do four days ago, and every day after were starting to grow things.  He laughed.  "Right!" hahaha, "I forgot all about that."  Sure, my heart pounded up into my ears, my blood pressure soared, but I kept a smile in my voice.  Midnight rolls around so I text to ask him if I should lock up.  I would have text him sooner but it took my a couple hours to figure out how to phrase "Where the hell are you?" in an polite way.  He replied yes and he'd be back in the morning. 
  Alright, I'm not perfect.  I spent a few minutes cursing at the phone.  Two particular words came up more than others.  That's when I started feeling foolish.  If there's one thing I hate more than feeling submissive it's feeling foolish.  I went to brush my teeth.  (What? It calms me down.)  When I went into the kitchen to spit out the toothpaste I couldn't because their were dishes everywhere! 
  I'd like to say I took a look at my metaphorical scoreboard and realized the folly of my point keeping ways, but I didn't.  Nope, I marched outside determined not to do his damned dishes for him.  I cleaned off the patio table, but when I went to throw away the trash I couldn't... because the trash can was full.  Cue total meltdown?  Yes... usually.  But not tonight.  Nope, something weird happened.
  Angels on both shoulders.

  Angel 1: Just do the dishes.
  Me: Hell no.
  Angel 2: It won't take very long.
  Me: So not the point.
  Angel 1: And take out the trash too.
  Me: I'm certain now you have no idea who I am.
  Angel 2: If it helps, you're not doing it for Jared.

  Oh.  OH!  Did you see this coming?  Did you know this?  Look, I get it.  So I did it.  I did the dishes, and took out the trash.  Screw the score.  Do you know what a relief it is not to make a lesson plan for my roommate's behavior? 

  Having a servant's heart isn't about being subservient, because it isn't a power play.  I feel really good about my clean kitchen, and my hands are all soft from the dish soap.  Jared doesn't have anything to answer for because I didn't do it for him.  He doesn't owe me, and that's nice because I'm don't want to try and collect.

  What's more, I feel all sorts of warm fuzzies like God just stepped down and gave me a big hug.  :)  This is better than winning.

        It was two days ago.  I was one of the first girls to get to my Creative Writing class.  Going to a "woman's" college most of our classes are all female.  As the other 11 students started to filter in I did what I usually do- try to ooze "just let me be" vibes and hope for the best.  A friend told me later that evening I might be causing myself more trouble, because "just let me be" is often interpreted as "lonely" by more nurturing women than myself.  Maybe that was why, out of all the other empty seats, I was eventually flanked on all sides.  It didn't really occur to me that I was carrying around a genuinely mean spirit until I read the paper in front of me.  I am in the habit of keeping pen and paper handy because I am also in the habit of blurting out whatever I'm thinking at any given time.  With the paper, I can blurt silently.  I've done it so many times I don't even differentiate between thinking and writing anymore.  So I was surprised when I looked down to see an entire page filled with errant impressions.  The last entry was, "Quit looking at me. I'm trying to ignore you."  I covered it quickly with my hand.  It's one of those things that makes me wonder how far God's going to take me to task.  I was embarrassed even though no one had seen.  I was ashamed I had the capacity to be so unwelcoming.  But it wasn't just the one comment.  I had also written, "Surely this isn't right... surely I don't belong amongst the lot you" among other things.
        I couldn't believe how quickly I had zeroed in on uni-brows, overbites, turned up noses, and pudgy always smirking cheeks.  I was irritated by the striking similarities in the room.  Everyone was about the same size- me being slightly smaller now that I've lost some weight.  Most girls had little gothic hints here and there with purses shaped like corsets, and dark hair turned different shades of melancholy blue.  There were fairy butterfly patches on backpacks, socks covered with perky frogs, and dark thick rimmed glasses covering small eyes.  The girl directly to my left announced that she is in the process of legally changing her name to Muerta.  "Yes," her mouth splitting the dried hot pink lipstick across her smile, "as in Death."  The professor laughed, and said we would all definitely have to talk about that later.  "Why?!" sprawled out beneath my hand.
        There I was surrounded, I thought to myself, by ugly girls and fairy tales.  I knew it wasn't right to think so.  I knew a classmate's lisp makes me cringe because of my own insecurities, not her shortcomings.  I fought the feelings of superiority because I know they are defense mechanism.  But there it was.  I am certain, given the chance, any of these girls will write about beautiful worlds where wild impossible dreams become real in places called realms and knights do things uncharacteristic of not just the modern man, but any man (or woman for that matter).  Right will win, and evil will be exiled to lingering punishments.  There will, of course, be magic.  I instantly resented the hope and friendliness in their eyes.  Everyone carried about them an air of "if only things were this way," and I, hardened by confrontations with reality, sneered in response to their optimism.  I mentally accused them of various crimes against literary ethics, and smugly congratulated myself for finding them out.  They're using their work to escape, I nodded in agreement with my own analysis, and wrote what was supposed to be stirring reply.
     "I don't think we're supposed to hide behind our work.  Our phrases should expose us.  Our words should indict, and define us.  We should let this fiction reveal the truth of those dreams and terrors starting us from our beds: those things we want to be, and the ones we fear we already are.  We should let the writing frame the essence of who we are- actually.  So get up.  Take a shower, and brush your hair; it's time to be seen."
      I still rather like my response, but have taken a second, third, and fourth look at my classmates.  This time, telling myself we are all gathered there with the same passion.  Reminding myself their desire to write is as valid as my own.  If any of their perceived strangeness shows through to their characters that is completely and totally their own business.  Really, if I'm going to worry, let me worry about unchecked mean spirited irritability bleeding into mine. (and, more importantly, into me.)