Reflections

Reflections by Brandi Lynn David Have you ever looked in a different mirror for the first time and thought, "Oh my God, it's lying!" Then, in a panic, wonder if it's your old familiar mirror that's way off and this is what you really look like. Are my wrinkles really that deep? Is my hair thinning that bad? Why didn't anyone ever tell me that my makeup makes me look like a 50 year old hooker? Suddenly, you start to wonder, "What do people really see when they look at me?" It's so easy to obsess over those "problem areas," whether it's weight, the size of your nose, freckles, a crooked tooth, or a pimple. Not long ago I went to dinner with my sister and her husband. One of our favorite conversations always revolves around what we hate about ourselves. This particular time, it was my forearms. I know, who in the world has ever complained about their forearms? We had already covered everything else, and I legitimately was getting uncomfortable with the unnoticeable change in the shape of my forearms formed from a new workout routine. When every photo shot is hit or miss for a “good picture,” every scale reads a different weight, and retailers like Old Navy tag their clothes sizes two numbers smaller than the average size, how do we really know what we look like? Do others see what we see? I don’t mean to come across as self-loathing, because I’m not, but we’re all a little guilty of being our own worst critics. The FX series Nip/Tuck opened with the line, “Tell me what you don’t like about yourself.” Plastic surgeons, cosmetic companies, and the trendy new medical spas love that we don’t like things about ourselves. I’m all for self-improvement. I endorse exercise and healthy living. I even partake in the occasional med spa visit. I sincerely find nothing wrong with whole body rejuvenation. If you have the money to splurge, then more power to you. So after you’ve frozen your forehead or increased your cup size, what’s next? What is that mirror, mirror on the wall showing you now? It reminds me of the old arcade game Whack-A-Mole. As soon as you knock out one problem area, another appears. In one scene of the movie, “Eat, Pray, Love,” Elizabeth’s friend is ashamed of her figure and turns down a sweet treat in order to stifle a growing “muffin top.” Elizabeth has her reflect to any time she disrobed in front of a man. Then, she asks if any of them left because of her “muffin top.” Of course they didn’t. No man is looking at a naked woman’s lower abdomen when there’s so much more they’ve aspired to see. Who we believe we are is often determined by images that portray perfection. The bar is set by magazine publishers and make-up artists. Let’s not forget these people are just what they say, “artists.” Photoshop and other such programs are miracle workers when it comes to the texture of skin, waist lines, hair volume, eye color, and even breast size. They can change any image for the good or bad. Sometimes we also see ourselves through the eyes of others who don’t have a clue. Kids can be cruel and scars can remain from childhood. Being called a “freckle face” as a kid could cause you as an adult to obsess over getting rid of those brown spots, even when others call them cute. Many of us have at least one person we worry about seeing, because we know they are going to find that one imperfection you haven’t corrected or have no control of and mention it. Maybe, it’s an aunt with no verbal filter, an abusive spouse, a jealous friend or sister, a taunting brother, your mom (because if she won’t tell you, who will). Those kinds of people are everywhere- the workplace, school, our family. Some of them we can’t completely avoid. So how do we change what others see? First, change what you see. You are a child of God, created in His image. You have been perfectly and wonderfully made. God makes no mistakes (though I’m pretty sure I was supposed to be blonde by nature). How can anyone look at His marvelous creation and think He somehow messed up on you? Look how perfectly he painted the tiger and stretched the giraffe. He knew what he was doing when he shaped and colored every creature. Yet, you are special, after his image, with his very breath breathed into you. Know who you are. Most of the rest of the world doesn’t see what we consider imperfections. In fact, more than likely, while you’re worried about how big your forearms appear, other people are looking at your pretty eyes. Photoshop the images of yourself in your head. Chances are the person you’re looking back at is afraid you’re noticing something about them that you don’t see. And, if they do see you as flawed and pick you a part, know that it’s their own reflection they don’t like. Of course, I still encourage you to take care of your skin, wear your make-up to brighten your beauty, eat healthy, and always work off the goodies. I’m guilty of watching The Bachelorette this season. My favorite “character” or bachelor was a pro sports trainer out of Atlanta named Ryan. While Emily continually tried to trap him into saying the wrong thing, since he seemed to always have the right words, she antagonized him as an athlete saying she doesn’t work out and may gain a lot weight one day. I love his response. “God created you to be a beautiful woman. So be a beautiful woman.” I agree. Be beautiful. Feel beautiful. Know it from the inside, so it radiates on the outside. Let your reflection reveal how beautifully you were created no matter in what mirror your looking.

Free At Last! Free At Last?

Free At Last! Free At Last? By Brandi Lynn David When you're stuck in a place that seems to have no exit it's easy to just resign to the walls that surround you. You become accustomed to the routine of going to the same job that makes you unhappy day after day. You stay chained to the same people that stifle your growth and keep you from moving forward. You lock the door to your dreams with a pad lock that has a combination even you don't know. When the Civil War opened the door to free slaves, it seems odd that so many opted to stay right where they were. It wasn't necessarily because they were "comfortable." Certainly that wasn't the case. It was the fear of what happens in that transition between bad and good, unhappy and happy, mediocre and successful, complacency and thriving. How does a person start over from scratch? Can you survive the transition? Today, I was watching a documentary about the last days of WWII. As the Third Reich saw its last days, Jewish prisoners that managed to escape to freedom had a hope, but that was all it was. They wandered directionless through the Central European streets in the striped garb the Nazi's made them wear. If they could find a new beginning, if they could get through starting from nothing-no clothes, no food, no family, then they would have a bright future of mere life ahead. Think way back to the Hebrew slaves in Egypt that headed to the Promised Land. It was the 40 year transition that nearly did them in. In fact, they thought getting to the place of peace and prosperity wasn't worth it, after having to wander and walk for so long. They begged Moses to take them back to Egypt so they could return to slavery. Every time I hear the story, I think about how crazy they were to lose faith while visually, tangibly receiving every bit of what they needed straight from the sky-food, shade, a pillar of light. I don't mean to liken myself to a slave or prisoner in the way these terribly victimized people were. But many, or most, of us are slaves to something. I am speaking about all of us that are in a, "I wish I would have…," stage of life and leave it at that, never forging on to our own peace and prosperity. The work of getting out of the muck and stepping onto higher ground takes a lot of sweat, tears, and totally blinded faith. We stay trapped in careers we never intended to pursue. We stay in relationships that we know aren't healthy, whether it be romantic or just friendships. We dream of financial freedom, but refuse to take the steps necessary. We complain about being 20, 30, 40lbs. overweight, but never put down the Doritos or work up a good sweat. We blame the economy, marriage, children, genetics, race and our parents for our setbacks. But let's face it, even the most successful people living in this economy have marriages that have failed and succeeded, children they've raised, and parents that couldn't spoon feed the opportunities so many have thrown away. So if they can do it, so can you. So can I. I had to decide this year, just like the past several years, whether I wanted to continue running on the hamster wheel of a job that only paid half of what I needed. I liked to call it a ministry, which was fine when there was a double income, but even then it wasn't ultimately what I wanted to do. It's where I got comfortable and settled. So year after year when I saw that contract with a poverty level salary offer, I cringed, thinking, "Well, what else can I possibly do?" There were some perks. Since I couldn't be the stay-at-home mom I dreamed about being, teaching at the school where my child attended was a huge plus. There was health insurance assistance and dental. There were 10 weeks off in the summer. So, even though I wasn't a stay-at-home mom, anytime my child was home, so was I. And, I can't discount the friendships built over the course of time in the small community where I taught. It all sounds good, right? Let's go behind the scenes. Every month I still depended on my parents to help pay the bills. Every morning I was driving 45 minutes to work and an hour home. Because I was always short on funds, I couldn't get ahead to relocate (and honestly, I didn't want to...because I was comfortable in this inconvenient, distant, financial sinkhole of a house). Continuing to work there meant forking out more money in continuing education. And that, in essence, was the push I needed. Would I stay a slave to a career I never really wanted? Making that decision was like going through that break up you know should happen, but why go through the short term pain for the long term gain? That person, that job, or that weight isn't going to just disappear. You have to do something. My favorite quote from P90X guru, Tony Horton, is "just press play." I'm a strong advocate of not just healthy living, but extreme health. I still know what it's like to have no desire to get off the couch, put on workout clothes, get sweaty and have to work hard. "Just press play." On days when I have no energy, no motivation, limited time and a million other things to do, I know putting on my workout clothes will get my mind moving in the right direction even if my body doesn't want to. I even tell myself that just half a workout is ok for today. When I press that play button and start moving, I can't be stopped. Don't bother me, don't get in my way. I'm working out! My new venture of freelance writing is me “pressing play” on my career. You want to lose weight? Press play. You want a stronger marriage? Make it happen. You want to be closer to God? Open a Bible. Quit wandering through the barren desert just because you're afraid of the successes and failures on the other side. Even the chicken crossed the road, and it was just to get to the other side. Being displaced isn't failure as long as you don't settle in that place. You're not too old. You're not too busy. You're not beyond hope. God designed us to live abundant lives. If all He wanted for us was mediocrity, He wouldn't have gone to such great lengths to prove His love for us. I want an abundant life. I'm pressing play. I'll wander in transition, knowing that's all it is-a transition. This big chicken is crossing the road, knowing that if I settle in the middle of it,...well...get the picture?

A Box of Change

Nine years ago a fellow teacher gave me a shoebox covered in bright wrapping paper with a sticky note labeled "Galations 6:9 Do not grow weary in doing what is right..."  She told me to keep special thoughts, notes, pictures, and cards inside to counter thoughts of giving up on teaching.  Everytime a student or parent wrote a "thank you" or "I love you" I slipped it inside the shiny, light green cover.  After the first year, I put it away in a cabinet.  I hardly ever remembered I even had it as time passed.  Whenever it would catch my eye, I'd smile and imagine all the good thoughts that were insided, but I never looked.

This year has been full of change, but looking back, the past nine years have been constant change.  And, today I sat and wondered if any of the change has been positive advancement.  What do I have to show for the past nine years?  Nine years ago I was scraping for pennies as a private school teacher and newly married.  The future looked bright and life seemed to be settling in perfectly.  We knew every year we would be further along in our successes.  Marriage would bring a family with children.  One day we would own a house.  And, mabye I'd get to be a stay at home mom that kissed her husband good-bye in the morning while I drove in the car pool to school and shopped for window treatments.  As we moved to the pituresque, "Pleasantville" community of Celebration, FL it was so easy to envision dreams coming to life.  Less than two years later our family grew to three with a baby boy.  I was even a stay at home mom in our new house. 

So where did it grow wrong?  Oh, right...it all went terribly wrong the February morning he walked out.  A marriage, a house, a big move, a baby...but that's a different blog for a different day.  Let's skip that nightmare for a second and look at where life has brought me today.  Well, I'm still scraping for pennies at a private school, wondering if I'll ever be able to buy my own house, and dreaming of a husband that I can kiss good-bye in the morning while I car pool to school and shop for window treatments.  So much change, yet nothing has changed, and it's time. 

This summer I've thought over and over about my career.  Is this still what I am supposed to do?  Can I still afford to make a job out of what is really a ministry?  Is this where I need change?  Walking aimlessly around my house as I was thinking, I caught sight of the paper wrapped shoebox.  For the first time in nine years I looked inside.  What a trip...there were cards from parents expressing their overwhelming gratitude for the change in their child's life, and notes from kids that documented I was indeed the "world's greatest teacher."  I laughed out loud remembering each child and how much I loved them.  I found letters from past students that remained in touch with me long after I was gone from their school.  There was even an article about my first teaching year stating that I love to write.  Maybe that was the real reason I was drawn to look inside...to remind me of my passion, my purpose, my direction.

So maybe life hasn't brought much change to me in the past nine years, but hopefully I have brought change to the lives of the people in that box.  And perhaps that box will bring change to me.

The Great Divide

It started happening this year.  I went out a few times with my then husband, my sister, and sometimes friends.  It didn't hit me the first time, but after two or three times of presumptiously handing my ID to the "door man" or bartender without so much as a glance, I realized something...I've crossed over.  Something happened.  I'm not even in the "questionable" category.  I've become a lady that with no doubt in anyone's mind is so far past 21 that the notion to even entertain an ID check is just a ridiculous waste of manpower and time.  OUCH!  It hurts so much worse when your younger sisters ID is practically scanned with laser technology and fingerprint dusting.  Oh my god, and the longer they look over hers, the more anxious I get that they're gonna want to take at least a quick gander at mine.  Because, hey why would she be hanging out with an old maid.  Oh crap, unless they think I'm her mom.  I even take it out and hold it there, so loosely, just waving it about.  "Look at me, look at me!"  Look, I know I look over 21.  I'm not that ignorant.  But the rule is to check if anyone looks up to 31.  That's what hurts.  I'm good with presenting myself as a mature, classy, well-maintained, and dare I say experienced woman.  But c'mon!  Even my sister doesn't get it.  I have less crow's feet and more color in my skin (so she indulges me).  I have long, bountiful blonde hair.  I'm only an itty bitty 4'10".  I'm in better shape then ever.  Throw me bone, man.  I've made the leap.  I've crossed the great divide between questionable and undoubtedly old enough to be the door man's mom. (Barely, of course).  And, thus, I've entered the dirty thirties...five years ago.  Welcome to my blog.