splattered.

An evening not too long ago, I was standing on a polished and waxed white linoleum floor, near an array or colors in the form of cosmetics. I stood there at midnight twirling a bottle of bright orange fingernail polish between my unpolished fingers. To picture this color, picture the sun at its brightest spot of the day, or the vests worn by road worked to avert being hit by a vehicle speeding down the highway. 

There was a People Magazine staring at me, providing me with more information into the life of a stranger than I should have been privy. Perhaps this added to an already present sense of nervousness, amplified by an unnatural glow emitting from the floor. 

One, twirl; two, twirl; three, slipping from my grasp; four, yikes! dropping!; five, dropping still!; six, crash. Seven: Neon orange fingernail polish spilled and splattered all over the glossy shiny reflecting revolting linoleum floor. Eight: Me, feeling like such a clumsy and careless fool.

Thankfully, the lady working, who didn't really have the time to deal with my clumsy and careless mess, was so very kind and gracious. She assured me it was no trouble, calming my angst with the ease of a seasoned kindergarten teacher. In the midst of the disaster, the two of us looked up at a woman running back in, searching for a phone and yelling something about a "crash at the intersection" and "911".

It's a dangerous and confusing intersection. There are four lanes, and also signs cautioning no left turn. All of the entrances to all of the businesses around the intersection are extremely awkward to access. And at midnight that evening, someone crashed into someone else. I don't know the specifics of the crash, but in the moment when I was feeling like such a fool, I realized that my crashing bottle of bright orange polish paled in comparison. A little splatter of orange isn't such a big deal when thinking about life. I thanked the lady for her kindness, and carefully drove myself home. 

why I don't love walgreens.

I spent my evening rearranging my living room slash bedroom and also, purchasing necessities. Soap, shampoo, toilet paper, etc. This is a very difficult task for me. I have been without shampoo for over a week. I haven't had the gumption. It is not because I am lazy. Well, not entirely. I think it's because the trip becomes about so much more than shampoo, toilet paper and nail polish remover. Choices are necessary, and I am not equipped with enough information. Do I spend more on Shampoo because it's in the designer shampoo bottle and claims to make my hair shine enough to inspire romance, or do I even need shampoo? Tonight I was faced with the light bulb's moral dilemma. Do I purchase the energy efficient bulb that's also twice as much and toxic if broken? Or do I purchase the cheaper soft white bulb that threatens to sink the state of Florida each time I switch on the light? I am in need of a calculator each time I face the little Charmin guy, as I must not simply trust the advertisers' claims of two-ply double roll goodness. I have to see how many feet each roll actually is, divide the square feet and the ply by the price, and then decide. I would not sleep well it I discovered I had been swindled by the toilet paper industry of America.

The whole exercise leads to emotional exhaustion. I usually have some color of eye-make-up amongst my purchases that I, in no way, need. Because of this, and the "necessities", I also have spent what I make in a day, in a painful and agonizing forty-five minutes. 

When I returned home, to the coziness of my living room's new arrangement, I took the time to put things away. The silver bar in my bathroom became un-bare. I placed my pretty red bottles of shampoo (that happened to be buy one get one free) in my shower, and looked forward to my hair smelling clean once again. I twisted my light bulbs into their appropriate places. From that came more light. I am reminded while typing this that pushing through those unenjoyable tasks almost always leads to something sorta worth it. Tonight, it's the joy of having toilet paper within reach.

In other (exciting!) news, my fortune this evening cautioned me to not be surprised by the emergence of undiscovered talents. What could they be?!

exposed.

One of my favorite classes in college, because of my professor, was Christian Life. Some of my classmates were annoyed at its lack of structure, or open-ended nature. Those were the parts of it I loved. I was challenged to move outside of routine and legalism in my approach to God, and this was an invaluable lesson. On the first day of class, we were instructed to gather in a circle, and share with our classmates our name, and also one characteristic that is true about us, that also starts with the first letter of our first name. In case we are strangers, my first name begins with an M. I chose the word messy. My roommates throughout the years, who have tended toward the type A uber-organized side of the human spectrum, can vouch for this. I didn't let my messiness move to their side of the room, but it did, on most days, fully inhabit mine. 

I think about that game still. I think because I tend to abhor circle centered activities aimed at getting to know complete strangers, but due to my love for language and words, this particular one made it to the positive pile of "getting to know you games".  So here is round two. 

Throughout my life, my friend modesty grew to know both messy and Meredith really well. When changing in my messy room, I kept my clothes on. Do not ask me how this is possible. I do not know. I am reminded of one of the classic Arrested Development characters and his "never nude" syndrome. I wore high necks and long shorts and sometimes sweatshirts in the summer. I had an inaccurate and insecure view of my own appearance, and this tragedy fed the modest beast within. I had a deep hatred for summer, as I could not layer or wear a coat or a scarf. I also hated this time of year because the majority of the population chose to take off the comfort off clothing, and get naked in front of strangers and friends, covering only the necessary parts with some insane and quite alien-like stretch sort of material.

It's possible that I came out of my mother's womb wearing a one-piece. I have not asked her, and she hasn't mentioned it, but if she did, I would nod, and say, "oh, yeah". Once I popped out, in between screams and first breaths, I likely reached over to the nurses station and wrapped the burp rag awaiting my arrival around my waist. 

As I grew up, and matured and changed, this part of me did not. Post college, and instead of Seattle (a rainy, less bathing suit friendly patch of Earth) I moved to Florida, a state that's practically circled by coastline and henceforth beach. I still remember my agonizing first beach trip there as a resident, and I can still feel and summon those feelings of anxiousness and insecurity. I have since moved back to land, and have been asked if I went to the beach a lot while I was there, or if I miss living by the ocean. I usually cite the fact that I don't miss the beach near as much as I missed the changing seasons, and that I would have gone more often if it was a little closer to where I lived. I knew when I was there that I didn't want to be missing such wondrous creation that I would not always be so close to simply because of insecurity and extreme modesty. But that's exactly what happened. 

Last summer's stint in South Korea kept me out of a bathing suit, and also out of a place of insecurity. If I was going to make it through the experience, I would have to choose confidence. Because of that, I came back to the Oklahoma landscape with much more of that confidence stuff than I had left with, and because of the soul searching that comes along with being alone in a foreign place, I also came back with a stronger sense of self.

For the first time in my life, while riding my bike to work in a sleeveless shirt in the middle of 105 degree heat, I realized that I was really enjoying the summer. And because of a conversation I had with friends that, too, broke free from the unhealthy and extreme side of modesty, I knew I couldn't, as a self-proclaimed risk taker, go back to the safety and security of a one piece. As Liz so eloquently put it, "the only people that wear one pieces, Meredith, are babies and old women". 

I walked on to the beach this summer, the same beach I walked on as a resident, with more ease than ever. I wanted to spend my time there, in the sunshine with the sound of the waves, because it's life giving, and the insecurity that used to overwhelm me was no longer an issue. And as I lounged on my chair in my very first ever two piece, surprised by my lack of concern for the enormity of the situation, I realized the confidence to cover less of myself physically was coming from the desire to cover less of myself in life. 

la la la la la.

Last night, at around ten thirty in the evening, I fulfilled a life-long dream. The previous sentence was a slight exaggeration. But only slight. Though I was not dreaming about performing karaoke in diapers, I did want to be a country singer at the age of five. I have also been practicing Bonnie Raitt's "Something to Talk About" in my car for a few years, in preparation for what took place on the stage. 

The evening began with free drinks and food at a masquerade sort of ball. I dug my heels out of my closet's back corner, wiped off the dust, and threw that dress on. You know the one. I was planning on using my imagination, as if I was walking into the scene of a movie. I tried, but to no avail. The heels and mask were not sharp enough to cut through the thick and cumbersome stuffiness of the other guests in attendance. What do girls do when all dressed up, stuck at a lame party? Karaoke. 

Lenny's is a dive. It's a hole in the wall located inside a Trade Winds Motel. The Bar Back was a feisty Korean woman, that both men and women envy, and fear. Cash is a regular and a pimp, which was mostly just really sad to me. I had been warned about the characters, which made me think that Lenny's would be just the place for my shiny black stilettos. It would also display with much class my sincere desire to perform. This trait pairs well with my excessive lack of talent, making karaoke an ideal Meredith activity.

As previously mentioned, I had been practicing my song for a number of years. Upon reaching the bar with the notebook holding the list of songs, my heart skipped a little in fear that they wouldn't have my tune. I may have actually squealed when I read it on the page. 

My name was on the list, next to song 98-02. I ran to my seat with excitement, still devoid of nervousness. 

After telling someone this story, they asked if I was drunk. The answer is a resounding no, and I was resoundingly sober. After thinking about the question, I began to realize the karaoke is often associated with drunkenness, and late nights. It starts to get crazy fun the longer the evening lasts, as the patrons have gotten a little more tipsy, and gutsy. The crowd has loosened up too, making it more of an interactive experience. 

I went up to the stage in the middle of a lull, and at the beginning of the evening . I gave my intro speech, tore the microphone from its stand, and sang my heart out, attempting high notes, key changes and all. My energizing and gut wrenching performance received a sea of blank stares from the bodies occupying seats in front of me. I was not phased. 

I grew last night. I fulfilled a goal, took a risk and friends, (thanks to Lenny) I have fallen in love. With karaoke. 

Future Song Suggestions?