Skip to main content

the waiting game

I keep waiting for the better version of me to finally make an appearance.
The one can fit back into her size 8 pants, flosses, isn't insecure or jealous, pursues her dreams rather than just blogging about them, serves consistantly rather than in random spurts, thinks before she speaks, shaves above the knee and doesn't have so many typos.
That girl is there I'm sure of it.
She just gets so distracted.

I used to give myself a break. Jesus didn't start doing much until he turned 30.
30 came and went, and all I really have to show for it is another tattoo.
Well, that and a beautiful strawberry blonde baby girl.

I keep finding reasons to postpone this new and improved version of me's debut.
like, I can start working out more consistantly this summer...or after school starts.
I can start really serving at the Mission Center when my kids are bigger.
I will email her back next week when I'm not so busy.
I'll track my spending next month when we don't have to fix the ________.
I can go to that writer's conference next year when I have more money and more sick days stored up.
But when my excuses run out I only manage to find new ones.
This improved version of me is going to waste away waiting for the most right and convienent time that will never be.

What if I stopped waiting or making excuses or trying to do it all at once.
What if I just started becoming slowly but surely that girl that I want to be.
Not all at once mind you, but so very gradually. Little by little. One thing at a time. Forward and then occasionally backward and then forward again.

So tomorrow I won't wake up any skinnier or any better. My closets suddenly won't be organized, I will probably run late. I won't make any empty promises to eat healthier and memorize scripture and change the sheets at least every other week.
But I will stop waiting. And start becoming. And cut the fatter, messier version of me some slack in the process.

Comments

michelle said…
plagarism alert! Oops just realized this post is somewhat similar to the first chapter of Cold Tangerines by Shanna Niequest. Unintentional, but wanted to give credit where it is due. Her book is amazing.....and obviously inspired me.
Sarah said…
I am so there...
samskat said…
**sigh** me too...

Popular posts from this blog

pace yourself

Tonight I went running with a friend ten years my junior. I asked her how far she was running and when she said only about 1.5 or 2 miles, I teased her that I could go at least twice that far. And to just let me know when she needed to stop. I have been running pretty regularly for the last few weeks. It isn’t long but keep increasing my time and distance. I’ve stopped getting blisters. I don’t suck wind after five minutes anymore and I was feeling pretty good about myself. Thinking I might even be able to out run this girl who was so much younger and obviously in more shape than me. As we started to jog I told her that I run pretty slow. Like my husband used to walk beside me while I ran, slow. And she slowed her gait a little bit for me but it was still faster than I usually go. I was a little embarrassed and was not going to ask her to slow down again. So I just ran at her pace. I stayed close. And was fading fast. A little over a mile in I was ready to quit. Again, pride, which isn...

pursue something else.

Americans like the idea of happy. of pursuing happiness. It is even one of our inalienable rights at least according to the Declaration of Independance. But I think maybe we should pursue something else. like love or joy or peace or contentment. and leave happy alone. Don't read me wrong. I am neither bitter nor cynical. Even my problems are good problems. I am positive. Half full. And most days I laugh a whole lot more than I cry. And simple things like a dance party in the living room, an hour alone in Barnes and Noble, the yellow pajama pants my son picked out for me for mother's day, potstickers, clean sheets, someone surprising me with coffee, jeans fresh from the dryer, a good song on the radio, or squeals of delight when I walk in the door all make my heart sing. They make me happy. For a minute. But when the squealing turns to screaming, my new pants are dirty, the sheets are in a jumble on the floor or the coffee runs out....where does that leave me? And happy isn'...

my first dance

My wedding day is a little bit of a blur. And it was a great day. But so many people and so much going on and so many moments that it is hard to remember them all clearly without the help of photographs. But I totally remember my first dance as a bride. And it wasn’t with my husband. Or even my father, or brother. I had quickly kicked off my heels and hid them underneath a table. Said my hellos and hugs and smiled until my face hurt. Someone ushered us through the buffet line and I piled my plate with hors d'oeuvres and headed to a table. But before I could pop a single shrimp in my mouth someone grabbed me firmly by the arm and pulled me onto the dance floor and into a jitterbug before I could protest. It was my husband’s granddaddy. A man I had only met about a few times and heard say about as many words. So I was a little surprised when he spun me around the dance floor. Eventually that night I danced with my husband. And my dad. And probably even my brother. But my fir...