The Horrors of Halloween and Pink Bunny Suits

            As much as I love my friends who are totally into Halloween and I super enjoy their excitement about the holiday, I must admit that I hate Halloween.  I can’t remember one Halloween that I’ve actually enjoyed myself.  There have actually been quite a few where I’ve had some of the worst times of my life.  Seriously.

            What I hate the most about Halloween is figuring out a costume.  There are pictures of me from when I was little where my parents dressed both my sister and I up in witch costumes.  This included witch hats, crazy makeup and black trash bags with holes cut out for our heads and arms as our outfits.  You see, my parents weren’t too thrilled with the idea of buying costumes. They wanted to make them.  And what’s more appropriate for a late October night in Oregon than having your kids wear something that’s waterproof and also allows them to wear big coats underneath?  It seemed perfect to them, but I remember being less than thrilled with the idea.

            A few years later, when I was in kindergarten, I got the most AH-MAZING costume EVER!  My parents had bought me this super awesome pink bunny outfit that was pretty much the exact bunny pajamas that Ralphie’s relative got him in a Christmas Story.  Not only would I be adorable going trick-or-treating, but I’d be pink, fuzzy, and could even wear them as footie pajamas!  I remember going to school and being SO excited about my costume.  I bragged about it for weeks beforehand. 

            There was a tradition at our school for kids in every class to parade around in their costumes on Halloween (or the closest day to Halloween) to kind of show off.  My kindergarten teachers asked us to do a craft project where we made masks out of paper bags and paper plates and stuff, just in case some kids didn’t have costumes or weren’t allowed to wear them to school. 

            Just a little something about myself; I have been a realist for a very long time.  I’ve always known that I have been horrible at crafts, so I was usually the only unhappy kid in the class when they asked us to do crafting.  This time, I was ok.  I knew that I had the BEST costume that I’d be wearing when it was time for the parade.  So instead of taking the crafting seriously, I just found anything pink that I could including feathers and pipe cleaners and anything else, and glued them to my paper bag.  I gave myself eye holes to look out of, even though I knew I wouldn’t actually be wearing it.  I also tried to make ears so it was as close to my pink bunny costume as I could get.  Every time I’d look at it I would think “Gross.  At least I don’t have to wear it!” 

            Then came the day of the Halloween parade.  I woke up exhilarated and feeling fine!  I remember running up to my mom and asking her for my costume…and that’s when my whole world shattered.  It broke my Halloween spirit forever.  You see, I wasn’t allowed to wear my costume to school because I might get it dirty. 

            I cried all morning.  I stomped my feet (which I still find effective today), and I BEGGED to wear it. My sister watched from a distance, knowing that my pleas were for naught.

            I don’t know how she did it, but my Mom got me to school.  I found myself in my classroom with every other kid dressed up except me.  There were even a few kids who poked fun at me because I had been bragging about my costume so much over the past few weeks (I was a little obsessed).

            I’d made a decision. I would sit in the class by myself while the rest of the kids went around and did the stupid costume parade.  No one would know that I wasn’t there, and I wouldn’t have to be humiliated.  It would be better to never be seen.  But then my plan was foiled.  My teachers told me that I had to go in the parade, and not only that, I had to wear the DISGUSTING mask I’d made.

            This is where the tears started up again.  There is nothing like a kindergartener forced to wear something she thought was the stupidest thing in the world.  My teachers kept telling me that my mask was really pretty and that I’d done a good job. I’ve always been good at telling when grown-ups were lying to me. 

            And what happened?  Did one of my two teachers stay behind with the obviously distraught child while the rest had a great time doing the parade?  Of course not!  After they couldn’t convince me that I would still have a good time in my nasty mask, they tried to remind me that I was going to make the other people upset.  Well of course I knew that, but I couldn’t stop crying!  So then I felt even worse about the whole thing. I was miserable and I was ruining everyone else’s time too.  That sure made me feel more in the spirit of things!  :P

            Finally, the teachers got annoyed enough to give up on me.  The put the bag over my head, placed me in line, and had me march around the school.  Each classroom that we went to (you see, it started with the kindergarteners and moved up through the grades where each class would join at the end of the line after getting to see everyone who was already in it) got a full view of me in my freaking grotesque mask of pink random junk glued to a paper bag that I had over my head (think of it, what is more fitting in this situation than a paper bag over my head?) SOBBING as I walked.  Not just sobbing, but sobbing loudly.  It got to the point where I was hiccupping and couldn’t breathe.  But was I let out of the horror of the Halloween costume parade?  NO.  I made it all the way through the school, back into the classroom, and then to my desk where it ripped up the freakish paper bag mask that had caused so much horror.

            This is the absolute worse Halloween that I’ve ever had.  It has bread in me a fear of trying to wear the right costume.  I didn’t want to get caught in the same kind of situation again.  Alas, I can’t even remember wearing my pink bunny costume.  I never had a costume since then that I actually liked.  I am intimidated beyond belief when it comes to finding a costume and I usually give up.  It never ends up as good as I want it to, and I always feel dumb. 

            That my friends, is one of the major reasons why Halloween is not my favorite holiday.  But I do not begrudge those who can find so much joy in such a potentially wonderful day.

Standard of Beauty: A Christian Wife's Confession

  “Men, you get your standard of beauty from your wife,” was my favorite line at church today.  It’s something that Pastor Mark brings up often in his sermons when speaking of husbands and wives.  “If she’s a brunette, you like brunettes.  If she’s think, you like thin.  If she’s formerly thin, you like formerly thin.  Whatever your wife is, that is where you get your standard of beauty.”  Part of his point here is, don’t compare your wife to other women you see.  She is who you chose to marry and she is who you will respect, love, and find attractive for the rest of your life.  

I love this.  I love that my husband is going to see me through my ups and downs, weight gain and weight loss, freckles and wrinkles, tattoos and piercings, weird hair cuts and color, and still think of me as the most beautiful woman because I am his standard of beauty.  This takes a lot of fear out of a marriage situation.  It means his eye won’t be wandering and he won’t be lusting after other women.  It isn’t a punishment for him either.  It’s something he can be glad to do.  Heck yes!  I’m soooo on this band wagon.

Aaaaand here comes my Ms. Contrary side.  How in the world can I expect that he won’t look at other women?  That’s impossible!  Have you seen the women that are out there?!  I can’t go anywhere without finding at least a handful of women that I’d gladly give my right leg (it’s my good one) to look like!  And those are real women, not just air-brushed models and actresses.  Oh wait, and I have to compete with those women too!  

Oh dear...what if I hate my hair and think I look like I was attacked by a 3-year old with a blender?  What if I gain a million gazillion pounds and end up going out like the mother in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?  Or heaven help me if I get even more stretch-marks if I’m ever pregnant!  There’s no way he’d still think I was attractive.  That’s total bull!

3-year-old with a blender

Ok, ok.  So I take things a little to far.  I kind of get something in my head and run with it, but life is full of so many surprises!  Let’s get back to the sermon.

You may be wondering why my pastor would bring standard of beauty up in a sermon.  Well, we were in the first chapter of the book of Esther where King Xerxes calls on his wife, Queen Vashti, to come to him in a room of men who had been partying HARD for six straight months.  He wanted her to walk in front of them either naked with just a crown on, or nearly naked.  He asked her to do so because she was known to be beautiful and he wanted to show her off to his buddies.  She was the ultimate trophy wife and he wanted to share.  Yeah, she said no.

So here, we stopped on the role of a wife.  If wives are to be obedient and submissive to their husbands as the Bible says, how could she say no?  Was she doing the wrong thing?  I happen to agree with Pastor Mark in that she did the brave and Godly thing by telling King Xerxes no. 

Here’s the thing.  It’s pretty awesome that Xerxes found Vashti so beautiful, I guess.  Husbands should find their wives beautiful.  But she wasn’t his only wife.  Not only was she not his only wife but he had a huge harem of women!  Each woman was taken because of her beauty so he could be with any of them whenever he wanted to.  This in and of itself is cruel and offensive for a husband to do.  Then on top of that, he wanted his beautiful wife to come parade herself in front of thousands of men who had been in a drunken stupor for six months.  Not only were these men drunk the entire time, but they were entertained by prostitutes to their heart’s content.  Would this be a situation you’d like to be in?  Well sure!  Heck, I’d love to walk naked in front of thousands of drunk men who’ve been having their every sexual and sinful desires met for the past six months so my husband can show what a big man he is!  That sounds great!

I kind of doubt that any one of the ladies reading this would think that.  So where can we take this from here?  Well, for a husband to be obeyed, he must be honorable.  He must act in a way a loving husband should.

But confound it, I had to ask here, what’s so wrong with being a trophy wife?  I mean, yeah, Vashti’s situation sucked.  Xerxes was being a jerk, but why would it be bad for my husband to want to show me off to his friends?  It would actually make me feel pretty good!  

Luckily, Pastor Mark had something to say about that situation.  He explained that your husband should love you more than that.  You should be his standard of beauty to the point of not having to show you off to his friends.  It is disrespectful to treat your wife as an object that you use to make yourself feel like a big man.  To show others how well you’re doing for yourself.  

Now, is it wrong or sinful for a husband to want to introduce his wife to his friends?  No, not at all! But the reason should be respectful.  It should be because he wants them to meet the love of his life, not see his arm candy.  There is a difference and one is far more respectful and loving than the other.

Ok!  Women’s rights!  Woo!

Ah, but here’s my crazy brain again, reminding me about something that has often come to my mind.  I’m actually embarrassed for my husband when he introduces me to his friends.  If I meet his friend’s wives, I’ll compare myself to them.  I’ve told him more than once that I’ve felt sorry for him that all of his best friend’s wives are much more attractive than me.  I feel he got the short end of the stick.

Aaron has never agreed with me on this way of thinking and it makes him upset, which really is the best response, I have to say.  But I really can’t shake it.  I’d love to be a trophy wife!  No matter how incredibly stupid it would be for someone to think, “poor Aaron, he got stuck with that?!” or anything along those lines, I still don’t want people to even come close to thinking that. 

So what do I do now?  I agree with Pastor Mark that your spouse is your standard of beauty, but I still want people to think that he did well with me.  Yet in this, aren’t I wanting men who are most often married to be attracted to me when their standard of beauty should be their own wives?  How horrible is that?!  Does my self esteem need such a boost that I want someone besides my husband to lust after me?  Gross!  I don’t want to be that person!  

So...what should I do?  How do I keep myself from not caring?  How can I break this sinful behavior so that the way my husband looks at me should be the only thing I care about?

Ummm...Jesus.  I see this sin, now I need to repent.  Not only to Jesus, but to Aaron.  I don’t think that this is something that’s going to be easy to change, but I do have faith that I can be lead through it.

I thank Pastor Mark for preaching on the book of Esther the way he is.  I thank him for caring so much about women in general and his wife and daughters specifically, enough to be bold and vehement about treating women respectfully.  I thank Jesus for moving him in his sermons.  I thank the Holy Spirit for working in me so that I can see this tendency of mine as the sin that it is.  I pray that He continues to move me and helps me in my repentance to truly change.  I thank Aaron for letting me be his standard of beauty and for not feeling cheated in the slightest.  

Man, what a sermon!  What a husband!  What a God!

Hope From Destruction

                I was pretty sure the scratching was getting louder, but then that could just be in my mind.  It seemed like everyone was starting to go crazy by varying degrees.  Besides the constant whine of the dog, the only sound was the scratching.  But really, it did seem like it was getting louder.

                We were hunkered down in a cave that we’d almost moved past before we realized it had an opening.  There were rocks and boards inside of it that we had wedged in the open spaces, hoping they wouldn’t be able to track us.  It made it impossible to see anything, but that was almost refreshing.

                “I think we should be moving soon.” Randall whispered into the thick, tar-like darkness.  His voice seemed to be the void of noise compared to what I now thought of as the “white noise” of our little burrow.

                “I still don’t see the point.”  A voice that sounded like a hot poker grinding its way through my head sliced through the air.

                It wasn’t even because the voice was unpleasant.  In any other situation I would have enjoyed listening to it.  But, you know, there’s always one of those people who go completely bat-shit crazy when they’re in a survival situation and this guy was a total nut case.   He was the kind of guy to knock over the young ones to make a clear path to safety, or just give up and in turn force someone to save him.  I don’t understand how he’s lasted so long.  That’s probably my fault.

                Randall sighed heavily.  “The point is to keep going.  What other point do you need, Jamie?”

                “No matter where we go, they’re gonna find us.  We might as well just give up now.”

                And that was when we heard the deafening crack.  Light started streaming in.  Jamie screamed and I looked over to see him flying backward oof the mound of dirt he had been sitting on and hit his head against the cave’s granite wall.  I couldn’t hear if it cracked or not, the sound of gnashing teeth and excited scratching had accelerated.

                That’s when Marrow started barking.  He ran toward the crack in the door, meaning to do his best to protect us. 

“Marrow!  Come!”  I called with my best command voice.  There was no way I’d survive without that dog.

“We have to get out of here, now!”  I called as I turned toward the others.  Randall was on the ground next to Jamie who was now curled up against the wall.

“No!  No, I’m not going anywhere!  There’s no point!  Forget it!”  He was whining at Randall who was trying as hard as his old, gnarled bones could to pull him up and coax him away from the wall.

“You need to move Jamie.  Come on, let’s go.  You know I can’t lift you.”  He continued to try and convince him.

That’s it.  I wasn’t going to stand it anymore.  I marched toward the two with my gun in my hand and my dog at my side as the cracking continued behind me and more moonlight shined through. 

“Just leave him.”  I ordered Randall.

He looked back up at me with his withered old face contorted. “You can’t be serious!” 

“I’ve been saying it all along.  If he doesn’t want to come, he doesn’t have to.  If he’d rather die, let him.”

                I grabbed Randall’s shoulder and Marrow helped me to herd him back deeper into the cave. 

                “Wait!”  Jamie shrieked as I heard the thump of something throwing itself up against the creaking and weakening door.  “You’re actually leaving?!  How dare you!?”

                “We can’t go.  We can’t go!  We can’t leave him.  How can you leave him?”  Randall blubbered beside me.

                I rolled my eyes as we continued into the darkness.  “I’m not stopping him from coming.”  I turned around to shout behind me, "He can get up and follow us if he wants to!”

                I was pretty sure that the scuffing I heard behind us, along with a lot of sniffing and mumbling was Jamie finally moving on his own.   It didn’t sound fast enough, but it would take them a while to make a hole big enough to fit through.  I could hear their angry, guttural noises and gnashing teeth as they worked their way in.

                Trying to filter out the terrifying noise, I concentrated on moving as quickly, yet carefully as possible.  I’d heard in the past that when you’re scared enough you can build up enough adrenaline to do amazing things, but what I’ve found out in real life it that it’s all bunk.  The more scared you are, the stupider you are and the more likely you are to be killed.  End of story.

                I couldn’t believe how far the cave went back.  Randall was wheezing next to me.  His gnarled hand was now on my shoulder, hooked into it with his crooked fingers digging in for support.  He wouldn’t make it much farther.

                As that though crossed my mind, we heard the big break.  Marrow barked and started growling deeply.  The clacking and scratching on the hard wood and stone floors made my heart race and the hair on my arms and the back of my neck rise.

                I put an arm around Randall and half hoisted him onto my hip to try and carry him as I ran recklessly forward.  I should have known better because before we gained any distance my foot hit something that wasn’t quite soft, but most definitely wasn’t hard either.  Randall and I both went flying.  He landed with an oomph a foot or so away from me.  I hit face first, scraping my eyebrow and cheek on the hard ground, but the rest of me landed on something much softer.

                That’s when the groaning started and whatever it was that I landed on started to move slowly.  I could tell that there were more things about me moving as well. 

“Randall!”  I called.  “Randall?  Jamie?  You guys ok?”

“Yeah.”  Randall breathe.  He didn’t sound good, but how can you at a time like this?

“Jamie?”  As much as I’d given him a hard time, I didn’t want anything to really happen to him.

Then everything went very fast.

A light that I hadn’t really noticed coming our way was close enough for me to start to see my surroundings.  Still on the floor, I looked directly in front of me and saw a putrid husk of what must have once been deemed a human.  Hunks of skin were missing from various area s of the body, and so was an eyeball.  I was frozen in horror until the remaining eye rolled around to look right at me and a hand missing part of a finger started reaching forward in my direction.

I jumped up, pulling away from the hand to then stumble over the leg of another one.  They were all around us.  Randall was scooting back on his hands and knees, trying to get away, his eyes huge with horror.

Then the screaming started.  Jamie had plastered himself against the wall.  Blood trickled down from his head into his face from where he had hit it earlier.  He was staring into the direction where we had come and I saw what was causing him to make the terrible noise.  It was the unicorns.  They had found us.

They were in a herd, as they always were.  They had all set their razor sharp horns to glow, which was why I could now see.  Each mouth was foaming with saliva from smelling us as we tried to escape from them. 

Poor Marrow didn’t know what to do.  He wanted to defend us from the charging unicorns, but he also felt a need to see if the other things that were groaning and starting to fumble their way to their feet were also dangerous.

Even though I wasn’t sure who to attack first, I decided I needed to do something.  Wielding my gun, I fired a shot at the oncoming unicorns, but as I was firing, I was hit from the side by Marrow and knocked over.  The shot went wild, the bullet ricocheting down the cave.  The gun slipped from my hand and slid into the moving bodies behind me.   

Morrow was next to me, ripping into one of the bodies.  He had knocked me over so I wouldn’t be attacked.  I’ve owed my life to him more than once.

Seeing a hunk of splintering wood I’d grabbed as we started down the cave lying a few feet in front of me, I grabbed it.  Brandishing the wood as a sword, I swung it around and did my best to attack the unicorn closest to me. 

As I jumped in and back, trying to stay away from the bone crunching teeth and impaling horn, I was able to get in a few good hits.  The ragged wood caught in the side of the unicorn and ripped into his skin.  He squealed with pain, then as I expected him to lunge toward me, his eyes opened wide and he started backing up. 

Screaming, he reared back and tried to run away but only managed to knock into his comrades behind him.  He fell, and as I watched, frozen in surprise, I was able to see what had caused him to scare.  The hulks of disgusting rotting flesh were closing in on the beast.  They moaned and gurgled in…excitement?  It sounded different than the noise they had made before; as if there was a happy timbre to it.

I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the raging animal as he and his friends were converged on.  The animated bodies began pulling at the open wound in the unicorn.  What they started to do next was enough to make me turn around and lose the very little that was in my stomach before I could try to calm myself.  It was the sight as well as the smell of the moving decay that had done it.

I was glad that show of cowardice was over by the time I looked across the cave to where I had last seen Jamie.  What was left was a mound of trampled flesh and bones.  I looked away as quickly as I could so I wouldn’t be able to recall any details.  Unfortunately, when I looked away, my eyes landed on what I could only guess was the remains of Randall.  It seemed he had been the appetizer to the feast had continued behind me.

Before the grief could hit me, I was about myself enough to know I needed to run, and I needed to run now.  But which way?  If the dead creatures had been huddled here, there was no way I was going to go farther into the cave.  I looked down at Morrow who was panting next to me, dark goop on his muzzle and chest.  His eyes were trained on the massacre.  I turned that way too.

Scanning the area, I saw a little sliver of space between the wall and a mass of feeding.  Every predator over there looked preoccupied, so now was better than later.

Taking a deep breath and almost gagging from the smell.  I coughed for a moment and tried to steady myself.  Then something rolled into my foot.  I looked down and saw a still glowing horn from one of the unicorns.  Bending over, I picked it up and clutched it in my free hand.  This would come in handy. 

Making sure to avoid the deep breath, I started to run and Marrow came with me.  He wanted to get out just as much as I did.  We had to leap over the leg of a downed unicorn.  Marrow went first and cleared it just fine.  When it was my turn I felt something squishy close around my ankle.  The break in my momentum sent me stumbling to the ground.  Luckily, I was able to land squarely on my free foot. 

Turning around to assess the situation, I saw a hand decaying as it clutched onto me.  Realizing I still had the wood in my hand, I swung as hard as I could at the head that was moving closer to me.  It caved in easily with a sickening smack.  I had to wrench the wood out of the brain and mush that it had sunk into.

I was up again and running as fast as I could, holding the horn in front of me so I could see where my feet were landing.  Morrow stayed a short distance in front of me, staying in the glow of the light.  It seemed like I was in the cave for years, yet before I knew it I was in the surrounding forest, resting and panting against a boulder with tears streaming down my face.  I hadn’t been aware of crawling out of the cave or reaching fresh air and moonlight.

Rubbing my face with the back of my hand, I came face to face with the glowing horn and it made me freeze.  Did this mean what I thought it did? 

Biting my lip, I concentrated as hard as I could and thrust the tip of the horn toward a smaller stone a few feet away.  A stream of lightning flowed from the tip before the stone disintegrated into gravel.  Morrow whined as he sat next to me.

I looked over at Morrow and felt a smile creep over my face as hope crept into my being.  “This changes everything.”

White Red Black

          Everyone had always commented about her skin.  It had always been creamy in its darkness.  She rarely ever had a blemish, and scars never stayed for long. 

          She took off her jeans, tossing them in the hamper, and sat down on the towel she had neatly placed on the floor.  Cleanliness was always a habit for her.  She couldn’t allow things to become messy.

          Running her hand down her inner thigh, she inspected the skin.  It wasn’t quite as smooth as the rest of her body, the color was a little off as well, but that was the only evidence.  It helped that she never did it in the same spot.  Yet years of release meant that she was running out of space. 

          Turning and reaching under the bed, she pulled out a pink jewelry box covered in sparkles.  Her father had given it to her when she was little, when she was still whole; before the blood in her veins had started to choke her.  It was something she couldn’t explain to anyone, not even her grief counselor. 

Her father had passed away from cancer when she was in fifth grade.  His death had of course devastated the entire family.  They all did the healthy thing and went to grief counselors and “felt much better” for it.  Everyone was healing and they were all healthy.  Healthy healthy healthy!

          Then in early high school, she started feeling odd; somehow compressed; like she would explode. She had no idea what to do.

          One day she just found herself staring in the mirror.  It seemed that her head was full of flames and her body felt swollen, ready to split.  Yet she looked just fine from the outside. 

          She stared for a long time, just looking at herself, disgusted.  What started as studying her entire body then narrowed to separate parts; her arm, her hand, and eventually just her thigh.  The thought, “what beautiful skin!” passed through her mind.  An echo of praise she’d heard her whole life.  It disgusted her.  That was it.

          She left the bathroom.  Her little brother than up and gave her a hug as she made her way to the kitchen.  The house smelled of the pancakes and bacon her mother was cooking for their Saturday morning feast.  She stopped to ruffle her dog’s fur, and was given an attack kiss on the cheek from her mother.  They were all so happy and healthy!  Happy happy happy!

          She wasn’t afraid when he mother asked her what she needed the knife for.  It was a steak knife with a white handle and serrated edge.  Of course it was just for a “school project” she was working on.  Her mother wouldn’t be surprised that she needed a tool like that.  She was known for her brilliant science projects, dioramas, and everything else scholastic.  Whatever she needed to flex her scholastic muscle was given to her.

          As she walked back to the bathroom and grabbed a dark blue towel, her mother called after her that breakfast was almost ready.  “The brain needs to be fed,” was one of her mother’s favorite saying.  This was especially after her father had died and she had struggled to keep any food down.  Food still made her sick, but she chewed and swallowed with the best of them, keeping a smile on her face the whole time.

          Laying out the towel as she would at the beach, she sat down and looked at her arm.  Her very exposed arm.  All of the sports she played had short sleeved uniforms.  That won’t work.  Then she looked at her inner thigh.  It was as pristine as the rest of her skin.  It even had a bit more flesh.  Less dangerous.

          So for the first time, she sank the tip of the white handled knife into her skin…just the tip…and held it there.  Instantly her brain slowed down and acted like normal.  Her body no longer felt like it was about to burst from the inside out.  She sighed with relief.  The little trickle of blood that dripped out seemed inconsequential.  It was absolutely worth the relief.  She didn’t go any farther that time, but each release seemed to require the cut to be a little bit longer. 

People commented about how easy going and calm she was after that.  Great skin, great grades, great family, great athlete, great great great!  Healthy healthy healthy!  And this time she felt that it was true.

          And now it was today.  It was this time.  It was now.  She opened the jewelry box that smelled like aging felt.  The ballerina that used to twirl ever so slowly each time the cover was lifted still sprang up, but had run out of music to dance to and working gears to guide her. 

She still felt a little nervous, but then very calm and peaceful each time she held the knife.  The blade still pristine and white from all the scrubbings it had been given.

          She found a spot that was still clean and smooth.  The color was still perfect and creamy, deep and dark.  She slowly placed the tip in and stopped for a moment, taking three deep breaths so that she could concentrate on the relief rather than the pain.  She then dragged it a little further, feeling the weight on the tip as it opened her skin.  It felt so wonderful.  So good and clean.  The pressure was escaping.  Her head was calm. 

          Then a dark but tempting thought revealed itself from the depths of her mind.  She could just keep pushing.  If this felt good, then it wouldn’t hurt for the knife to go in farther. 

With giddy delight she closed her eyes and pushed down harder on the knife, breathing out with a long sigh.  She was oblivious to her surroundings, including  her dog who had nosed his way into her room to check on her.  She wasn’t expecting it when he placed his snout on her foot in a friendly and comfortable way.

          She jerked, and felt real pain for the first time in years.  Letting go of the knife, she looked down and saw the white handle sticking out of her brown flesh, the blade in up to the hilt.  There was thick line of blood spilling out of what was now the sagging flesh from her thigh.  The small cut was turning into a gaping hole.  She’d gone too far, but before the thought had sunk in, she became mesmerized by what she had made; the beauty of the dissected muscle, the pure red of the blood.  She watched it flow while her head was overcome with a fuzzy sense of being. 

          She didn’t notice that she was slumping over until she’d slid onto the floor.  Her vision was focused on the blood that was flowing past the edges of her towel.  Briefly, she thought that she would need to clean that up first.  But then even that didn’t matter; when everything went from red to black.

My Kryptonite

**There are some people out there who will read this and roll their eyes, knowing everything that I’m going to include in this post.  Those who are new friends of mine, this will be valuable information for you to know.  

-Just a reminder, I often write using hyperbole and this post is no different. If you don’t know what hyperbole is, just think of it as how most people today use the word “literally.”**

I hate you, heat!  HATE YOU!

I hate the heat.  HATE it.  My close friends as well as family can attest to this fact.  One of the strongest memories that my best friend has of the time we lived together was finding me lying on my bed in the summer time underneath the ceiling fan, groaning.  The heat had gotten me and I didn’t know how to deal with it.

I was lucky to live most of my childhood life in a brand new house that my parents had built.  They were AMAZING enough to install a temperature system that kept the house a particular temperature no matter what time of year it was.  I had always been a homebody, but when we moved into that house, there were very few times that I went outside during the spring and summer.  

I remember very clearly opening the front door to go outside to talk to my Dad while he mowed the lawn, hang out with my Mom while she gardened, or to go and get the mail.  As the door opened, I would be hit in the face with the intense Eugene summer heat that can only be really appreciated for what it is by a pale, white girl from Irish descent.  Sweat would automatically pop out on my skin and cover my entire body.

On top of the discomfort of the heat, I also have to touch a little more on my skin tone.  I am pale.  A friend of mine from Brazil described my skin as “milk.”  Another friend described it as florescent.  People have commented on certain pictures of me from childhood and even now, asking why I’d decided to wear white tights or white socks with certain outfits.  I always have to explain, those are just my bare legs.  

My sister’s goal in life during the summer from the time we were small children up to this day is to keep me covered in sunscreen at all times.  I remember her dragging me out of our pool, lakes, and other fun swimming spots to slather more goop all over my skin.  I eventually learned to deal with this interruption of my good time because it was inevitable and went faster when I gave in.

But I digress.  You see, having the kind of skin that I have means that I do not tan.  I have had one tan in my life that had resulted from one of the most painful sun burns that I had ever gotten.  That is, if you can call skin being lobster red and then fading to pink and staying that color for about six months a sun tan.  The sun and I do not get along.

The few times that I did leave the house during the summer was to go to softball practices and games.  I was a catcher for most of my career, which was an incredibly fun position, but not the best thing to do when you don’t take heat very well.  The worst time was in sixth grade when our uniform was modeled after professional baseball players uniforms.  We wore thick shirts and pants that did not breathe.  Putting catcher gear on top of this uniform was hell, but I also felt like a badass.  The pictures my parents have of my games that season show me as a be-freckled pre-teen who looks about ready to pass out from heat exhaustion. 

I can appreciate the beauty of a sunny day, but please do not ask me to go out in it.  I prefer to stay inside next to an air conditioner and look out at the scenery from there.  

No Sympathy

None

My most memorable birthday present was the air conditioner my parents and my sister got for me three years ago.  It is my most prized possession.  I would rather give up my entire wardrobe and even my nanimals than have to part with my air conditioner, and I am ready to have it installed TODAY.

I am not quiet about my distaste for the heat and the spring/summer season.  Another bad habit of mine is that I love zip ups, layers, sweatshirts and pants.  How do these two subjects go together, you may ask?  Well, I tend to wear my thinner pants, zip ups, and sweatshirts in layers during the spring and summer.  I have received quite a bit of criticism for this.  People have often scoffed when I complain about the heat and mention the “fact” that I could wear a t-shirt, tank top, shorts, or skirt instead and I’d be cooler.  Yet there is a problem that they don’t understand.  If I wore those things, I would be feeling uncomfortable with what I’m wearing on top of being too hot and showing even more skin to sizzle under the sun.  No thank you.  I’d rather just stay in an air conditioned area, inside, away from the sun, thank you very much.  And don’t get me started on how skirts are a very big problem for someone whose legs touch when they walk, especially when sweat is added to the equation. 

It isn’t just the discomfort either.  I get sick very easily when I’m too hot.  Headaches, stomach aches, dizziness, and other issues come up from the heat.  It isn’t the most fun thing ever.

One of the things that pisses me off the most about the spring and summer is that people pretend that because I live in Oregon, I have no right to say that it’s hot.  Apparently “Oregon heat isn’t heat at all.”  I beg to differ.  If it isn’t enough for someone, they can move somewhere else.  One of the things that I like about Oregon, at least in the areas I have lived, is that it is cooler than a lot of other places in the United States.  This doesn’t mean that weather between 75-105 degrees isn’t hot (and yes, 75 is hot for me).  I can’t just tell my body, “well, at least it’s ins’t super humid or over 100 degrees,” and expect my body to slap itself upside the forehead and say, “Well duh!  I can’t believe I thought I was hot!  Never mind then!”  It doesn’t work that way.

It is the biggest pain to get out of the shower after washing off the sweat from the warm day, dry off, put clothing on, and then realize you’re covered in sweat again.  I cannot count how many times I’ve gotten out of the shower, fresh and clean, to then moments later have to wipe my face off before I even try to put on my makeup.  Then I have to continually take breaks while getting ready to stand in front of the air conditioner or under the fan to keep myself from pitting out my fresh clothes.  

Heat Hair.  Emo bangs don't work when you're too hot!!

I really do hate the heat, and that has made me hate both spring and summer.  I dread the thought of the coming of these seasons all through the fall and winter.  It seems as though they come too fast and I never quite get enough time with my nice, cool weather.  I can promise that I will never start complaining about it.  You should all feel special that I've taken the time to brave the heat and sit in my plastic desk chair, where my legs are currently stuck.

HOT HOT HOT!!!

The only way to get through it all.

"Chubby Chasers:" Rantings of A Big Girl

            I am prepared (at least I think I am) for some of you to be kind of irked at me after this article. I’m going to be completely honest and try not to hold anything back, so if you don’t want to know too much about me, please feel free to skip this post.  I won’t mind. J

            I would like to think that I have a pretty good sense of humor.  I like to laugh, I love sarcasm, and I’m a pretty big fan of jakes in general.  That being said, I have recently been acquainted with a new term that I absolutely despise: “chubby chasers.”  It’s possible that it’s been around for a long time and that I’ve been sheltered from it previously, but it is all over the television now.  Most often as a “joke.” 

The show I was most surprised to hear it on is one of my new favorites, Psych.  The term was followed up by another character asking, ‘they actually have those?”  As if it’s beyond comprehension that anyone would find a “chubby” person attractive.  God forbid, eh?

            I hate to be one of those people who blame everything on the media, but there is a little something to that.  I’ve still never heard this phrase used in regular conversation, but I have heard it a few times on television.  I also have a few friends whom I can see using this, and it really bothers me.  Isn’t there enough out there that promotes people feeling bad about their size (whether big or little), and everything about them? I swear, you can’t win no matter what size you are!  Magazines and entertainment shows will write/say hateful things for people being large, glorify them for losing weight and then turn around the next day and say that they’re too skinny and look disgusting.  Oh, and FYI…America sucks because everyone’s fat.  Be ashamed!

            I freely admit that I am 100% absolutely “chubby” (at least).  I know this and anyone who has seen me knows this.  It’s something that I’ve been incredibly embarrassed about since kindergarten.  It’s one of the reasons why I have a bit of a social phobia.  I often don’t want to go anywhere because I don’t want people to have to look at me.  Oh don’t worry, sometimes I absolutely think I’m super-hot!  That’s because the “me” in my head is about 7 sizes smaller than I actually am.  But when I realize that this isn’t so, I want to curl up in a ball and hide.

            I’m a big fan of my husband for many reasons (I guess I’ll keep him).  According to the term’s definition, he is a “chubby chaser.”  I was definitely smaller when we started dating (let’s admit it, we both were), but I was still “chubby.”  He was very very skinny, and as much as he denies it, still is!  And yet he has always found me attractive.  He chastises me when I start to make fun of myself because he thinks I’m amazing and hot (dude, his words, not mine). 

I often tell people that I’m lucky to have him because he doesn’t mind my size, and everyone agrees with me.   I react to his praise by thinking, “oh, he just loves me so that makes him blind to the fact that I’m so gross.”  Yet I’ve begun to realize, he doesn’t find me attractive despite my size, and he doesn’t “just get past” that fact. He freaking loves everything about me. Crazy isn’t it?  There must be something wrong with him!  …or there may be something wrong with everyone else for thinking that being a “chubby chaser” is even a thing that needs a label.  I’m a person.  I have a body.  My husband tends to enjoy said body.  Huh.  What’s the world coming to?

            So, as I mentioned before, I’ve always been super self-conscious, and a lot of it comes with my size.  I am embarrassed that I’m so big.  Although it seems like it should be the opposite, I feel like less of a person.  Why should people ever listen to me, being the size that I am?  What would they get out of being my friend?  I know this is absolutely ridiculous, but sometimes you can’t help how you feel. 

            I don’t blame this just on the media.  A lot of it was the world in which I grew up.  I grew up with someone who said that the only prejudice she has is against fat people.  After high school, I gained about 20+ pounds.  I was starting to feel as though there was something odd going on with me and my family that I couldn’t put my finger on.  I understood what it was when my sister and I were talking one day and she told me that my parents were worried about me with the size that I was.  That hurt, and it hurt bad.  So I started to work out and watched my calorie intake.  I mostly ate popcorn, corndogs, and SlimFast because they were quick, easy, and it was easy to keep track of the calories.  I lost 30 pounds, but I’m pretty sure I became even unhealthier than I was before.

            My family could not stop talking about how great I looked and how amazing it was that I lost the weight.  Other members of my family told me that I looked good at that particular size and should try to stay there.  It made me feel good, but also a little embarrassed.  If it made such a difference with my family, how did other people who didn’t have to love me see me?

            There was one time in my life that I actually felt good about myself and liked the way I looked. I wasn’t even the skinnies that I’d ever been, I just felt good and I liked what I saw when I looked in the mirror.  A few months later, I was diagnosed with Hodgkins lymphoma.  One of my first thoughts when diagnosed what that I would lose weight.  I was actually excited because I thought cancer + chemo = weight loss. But of course I ended up getting the kind of cancer that usually causes people to gain weight during treatment.  And boy did I gain! 40 pounds!  Every two weeks they would weight me and I’d gain between 3-7 pounds each time.

            That summer, I was a bridesmaid in one of my best friend’s wedding.  I had gotten my dress just after my diagnosis.  I’d try it on every week to make sure it still fit.  Of course, when I tried it on the day before the wedding, the zipper busted open when I had finally wiggled it closed.  I was devastated.  But I knew there must be some way to fix it, so I ran to the mall and went to the store it was from. 

            I’m pretty sure I looked totally nuts as I zipped around the women’s dress section.  I was able to find the dress, but in the wrong color.  Mind you, it was summer, I got winded very easily because of the chemo treatments, I was bloated from the steroids they were giving me, I was upset, and I had a shaved head.  As such, I made my way up to customer service and asked the sales lady if they had any more of the dresses.  I explained to her that my friend was getting married the next day and I needed a bigger size.  She gave me the dirtiest look and a bit of a snippy response that the only dress they had left was the brown one I’d found.  I assume she was thinking that I was a weird, bald headed, fat ditz who should have known the dress didn’t fit before now. So, I explained the chemo to her and how I was ballooning up.  Let’s just say that her attitude completely changed and she looked a little harder for me.  

            Situations like this happened all over the place while I was undergoing treatment.  Outsiders, family, and friends gave me a free pass to look however I wanted and do whatever I wanted (you better believe I took full advantage).  Yet what I learned here compared to how people treated me before was that it is only ok to be my size if you have a good excuse.  This is very messed up.

            I still haven’t been able to get back down to my comfortable size.  Every time someone looks at me or talks about working out in passing, I want to explain to them why I look the way that do.  I need to give them an excuse so they don’t think that the way I look is really my fault.    They need to understand that I am trying my hardest to be healthy and treat my body well, you just can’t tell.

Now, I think (hope) I’m in a bit of a transition.  I have recently moved to Gresham and work with so many fantastic people, I can’t even begin to give enough people enough credit for all they’ve done for me.  For this subject though, I have to give some fantastic props to the lovely Annie.  She is a co-worker of mine and also the owner of a beautiful shop called Fat Fancy Fashions.  In her work, Annie is taking the negative stigma away from “chubby.”  It is not something to be ashamed of.  There is no reason to want to hide yourself.  People of all sizes have value.  Skinny doesn’t mean healthy.  These are truths that need to be embraced. I haven’t been able to shop at her store yet, but I’ve got a gift certificate I won at our holiday party that I cannot WAIT to redeem.  And here’s a link, in case you want to check the store out (which you should): http://www.fatfancyfashions.com/

            With my old issues mingling with the fantastic influences I have at work, I had an epiphany.  Instead of dieting and working out to lose weight and get smaller, it’s more important to eat right and exercise to be healthy.  You may ask what the difference is.  To me, it means that I don’t have to go crazy counting calories, weighing myself every week, and beating myself up if I don’t lose what I want, or *gasp* I gain a pound.  Instead, I eat what I should and how much I should to be healthy and exercise regularly.  I don’t have to care what I weigh if I’m doing all I can to be healthy without driving myself into a downward spiral of numbers and depression. Ta-da!  Issues solved and health acquired!

            So, going back to the whole “chubby chasers” bit; the way this term is being used is absolutely abhorrent.  There is nothing weird or wrong with a person finding someone “chubby” attractive or sexy.  There are way too many uninformed people out there putting pressure on others to be something that they’re not; attributing it to laziness and unhealthy living when this is not always the case.  Terms like this and comments to people can be extremely damaging and can work in people through their entire lives. Freaking stop it!