23

It feels strange to be another year older, though I admit I often forget how old I am in the first place. Age does not seem important. I’m still invincible. And I already have enough numbers to remember as it is. It’s more alarming to think about what I should be doing in this brief time before 30 hits and life dead ends at a pile of children, bills, and marital obligations.

I have passed into the brief segment in life where birthdays are no longer thrilling but not yet devastating. Instead, it is just an excuse to eat cake without guilt and collect money and gifts from relatives. I am indifferent to the actual celebration; no one cares about anyone else’s birthday unless there is free cake. It’s almost awkward. I’m especially wary of adults recalling the actual day of delivery. Birth has always seemed terribly violent and frightening, and I would rather not hear about the pushing, screaming, and placenta.

I do admit I love balloons. They are much more exciting (and cheaper) than flowers. When my sister and I were kids, we would beg our parents for a pack of balloons to blow up, draw faces on, and use to play house. In the end, this was probably cheaper for my parents than procreating and giving us more siblings. Mine always had such large eyes, with long thick eyelashes and a pencil thin eyebrow. Kelly’s were much simpler; I wonder what that says about us now. Helium ones were the best, but always too expensive and too tempting to ingest. Mom told us that breathing in that air would make our brains explode, but we did it anyways, and here I’ve made it, all the way to 23.

Dancing leads to sex. And God is God.

Tomorrow is AJ Jacobs’ birthday. I know this because of my trusty stalker friend, Señor Facebook. Though AJ and I will never meet, I will still wish him a happy birthday on his wall and browse through what I expect will be other fans’ salutations and birthday wishes.

Jacobs is best known for reading 32 volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica and then writing about it in The Know-It-All: One Man’s Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World. His new book, The Year of Living Biblically: One Man’s Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible, records his endeavor to live for an entire year following all the moral codes in the Bible.

This impresses me, and by that I don’t mean the feats themselves. Reading the Encyclopedias is certainly not something I would do, but I think there are plenty of speed readers in the world capable of the same thing. Living the Bible isn’t impossible either, especially if you do it as comfortably as he did. It is the writing itself I’m impressed with. Few people can make the act of reading the Encyclopedia sound exciting; much less the Bible.

Whenever people argue the existence of God, I find myself trying to doubt Him just to see what it feels like. But it has proven hard to shake. The sky is blue. The grass is green. Dancing leads to sex. And God is God. Everyone is born into absolutes, these just happen to be mine.

My beef is not with TL (the lord) himself, but with those who claim Him. Most sermons sound like commercials to me, and I can’t make out whether God is the sponsor or the product. Moreover, all the phony fluff glossed over Christianity today has left a sour taste in my mouth, especially the overemotional supplements used as a feel better medicine. Jacobs’ Year of Living Biblically makes God sound less confusing, more interesting, and His followers only moderately annoying. But I still don’t feel anything.

I’m pretty sure this is normal, or at least I reassure myself that it is. I’ve grown up in a culture and generation that does not discuss such things. We will exchange political preferences, sex positions, and eating disorders much easier than we will our religious beliefs. God is personal. Ask us who we’re voting for, but don’t ask why.

This morning one of my best friends informed me that he had been unwillingly subjected to a mid morning meditative chapel focused on the nails of the cross. Lots of reading, candles being blown out, and hammering into a cross is how he described it. To top it off, when the final candle was extinguished they had a loud crash of cymbals. Though I poked fun of him for having to endure such an uncomfortable and dramatic service, I was relieved I wasn’t there to take part in it. The crucifixion story makes me nervous. Jesus in general makes me nervous.

The Old Testament I can handle, which is odd considering I’m an enthusiastic pacifist. I enjoy the primitive and simple nature of the old stories. The sex, the gore, and those natural disasters don’t hurt either. God exists there, but he doesn’t walk around in the flesh trying to forgive me. I thought I would outgrow this discomfort with TL once I reached adulthood, but it’s only grown worse. I don’t doubt his existence; I just doubt his modern day implications.

Americans like to treat God like Santa Claus or a product to sell. I see him as more of an inventor whose product malfunctioned. Now he’s just sitting back and watching us spiral downward, killing ourselves, each other, and our home one cigarette, handgun, and gas tank at a time.

I realize that sounds a bit bleak, but if you really read the Bible, God is reasonably pissed off a majority of the time. Jacobs highlights many of these inconsistencies between God’s love and God’s wrath throughout his book. But what I found most interesting is his response, he just accepts it. Though he doubts and grapples and wanders, Jacobs eventually just accepts it and moves on. By the end of the book he considers himself “a reverent agnostic,” which “isn’t an oxymoron, I swear. I now believe that whether or not there’s a God, there is such a thing as sacredness. Life is sacred. The Sabbath can be a sacred day. Prayer can be a sacred ritual. There is something transcendent, beyond the everyday” (329).

As much as I try to accept God’s apparent eternal love and forgiveness and His anger, hell and damnation existing in the same reality, I cannot. It doesn’t make sense. It’s as if He’s schizophrenic. I envy Jacobs in his new found peace, though I suppose if I tried to follow the Bible for an entire year, I might find a similar conclusion.

Maybe next year.

Alfalfa Biscuits

Time to Put That Gorilla on a Diet. That’s the title of a major headline in the news today. This irks me. Besides replacing what should be many other more important news stories, it just reminds me how obsessed we are with weight.

There is no doubt that America’s obese. In 2004, the CDC reported 66.3% of adults in the US were overweight or obese. That was four years ago, I can only imagine the pounds we’ve put on since then.

It’s a shame, and I say that completely selfishly. Whether you’re a man or woman, your weight automatically puts you in a class of people. And it’s even harder for women, anyone who tries to argue that should fear for their life. And really, I’m not suggesting we need a makeover. The fatter everyone else gets, the skinnier I look. (Should I not say that out loud?) I just wish it weren’t so definitive or so publicized. You can’t turn on the TV, drive down the road, listen to the radio, or have a conversation without a commercial, billboard, or freakishly thin aunt announcing you could afford to lose a few pounds. Conversely, you can’t turn on the TV, drive down the road, listen to the radio, or have a conversation without a commercial, billboard, or pudgy uncle offering you a flame broiled 5 pound cheeseburger, triple chocolate meltdown, or some tater tots (gross!).

I’ve been on both ends of the spectrum: much too fat, much too thin. It seems the gorilla has been too. Before zoo nutritionists became commonplace, the animals often got food similar domestic livestock or pets which resulted in malnutrition. Then they got too fat, feasting on marshmallows and hosts of other fattening foods that visitors threw at them. Now the Gorillas are on Weight Watchers, polar bears are slurping sugar-free Jell-O shots, and Giraffes are nibbling on alfalfa biscuits.

The growing focus on diet and nutrition in zoos parallels the fitness craze in humans, except theirs will be much more successful. The zoo tigers cannot run down to the local 7-Eleven and pick up a six pack of beer, a gallon of ice cream, or a box of donuts. Their diet is monitored beyond their control, which will be entirely to their benefit. Humans don’t have that luxury, unless they enter into exclusive fat camps or sell their soul and bank accounts to Jenny Craig.

One of my biggest pet peeves is the massive amount of women who enjoy vocally expressing malcontent with their bodies for attention. A great example of this would be one of my good friends from college. She insists on announcing just how fat she will be before every meal, highlighting specific areas of her body which will be especially chunky. It’s impossible to go more than a day without hearing about her thunder thighs, floppy arms, bulging love handles and cankles. The unfortunate part is, she weighs about 120 pounds and has abs of steel.

At first, I felt sorry for her. I wanted to help fix her self image, restore some self worth and show her how beautiful she was. This lasted all of a week. Now I’m just continually agitated, especially when she broadcasts her false obesity in front of people who are actually overweight. My latest response is to agree with her, which has proven to be both effective and entertaining. She says, “I shouldn’t eat anything today, I’m such a fat load. Look at me in these jeans. They barely zip up.” And I say, “You’re right, you are looking a little tubby lately. Maybe you should starve yourself for a week and do us all a favor.”

Too harsh? Maybe. But it always shuts her up and makes me giggle.

Many zoos help animals avoid couch potato-style eating by hiding bits of food around their enclosures to encourage food foraging similar to hunting in the wild. I picture Karen the Rhino, once kicked back on the couch in front of Judge Judy with a large bag of Ruffles, now jumping through an obstacle course to find food. Poor thing, at least she’ll look good in a bikini this year.

Maybe I should tell my friend to join the zoo.

Snakes, Squatters & Booty

At work this morning as I was eating dry Life cereal out of a plastic cup and browsing YouTube videos of baby bears, I realized that 1) I do not actually enjoy Life cereal and 2) I should find a more earth shattering job.

This is not, by any means, a new or terribly exciting epiphany. It seems I cannot go a day without complaining about my mediocre office job, post college boredom, and lack of adventures. The jury is still out on whether or not the problem is credible or simply generational. Perhaps it’s unreasonable to expect great things, I’m still not sure.

Yesterday evening, one of my dearest friends wrote to me in response to my last post and reminded me that the American dream is not so much about the house and the kids and the dog and the swimming pool as it is about wanting to love and be loved in return. Apparently it’s easier for people to say they want these “things” instead of becoming vulnerable and admitting they just want to be worth something to others. Of course she’s right. She is, after all, smarter and more rational than I’ll ever be.

But still, even after I have someone to love and love me in return, how can I not have a back up plan? Platonic, romantic, and erotic relationships are all, without a doubt, moments away from disaster. It’s the fickle nature of humankind. Betrayal is too easy. So I figure, why not invest in something and not just someone.

This is not new concept; plenty of people bury themselves in their careers to escape reality. Unfortunately I do not have this luxury, as my career is not substantial enough to cover me. I’m left exposed and vacant, susceptible to dependence on my human contacts. Even my parents are a risk. I decide I need a hobby.

The word hobby makes me think of foul baby mice, miniature paper boats inside of glass bottles, and pogs. Whenever I’m asked to list my hobbies, I’m tempted to lie. I spend most of my free time painting portraits of famous musicians, enjoy evenings white water rafting, and I have an extensive collection of Japanese butterfly wings! In reality, I can’t name one. Sure, I enjoy taking the occasional picture, but everyone’s a photographer. Music is just as frustrating. I can sing and play until I’m blue in the face, but I’ll never be Sarah Mclachlan. I need something I can really succeed at, invest in. Something unique.

I google “cool hobbies” and it tells me to ask yahoo. How anti-climactic. So I try again with “list of hobbies” and end up on Wikipedia. Here is a whole list of ways to fill up my spare time. From beekeeping to backgammon to Franco-Prussian War reenactment. I’m overwhelmed.

I click on Herpetoculture and am disappointed when it turns out to be nothing more than caging up reptiles for no reason other than to stare at them. I was never good with snakes, so I move onto Treasure Hunting. Now this sounds exciting. I’ve always been a fan of pirates, and who doesn’t want to discover a chest full of loot. I picture myself in black tights with giant hoop earrings and various weaponry fastened to my belt. Not only do I look awesome, but I’ve just paid off my college debt! Unfortunately treasure hunting is illegal in most developed countries, so I’m out of luck.

Urban exploration is next and proves to be quite alluring. Within minutes, I’m convinced I will be the next urban explorer, “one who examines the normally unseen or off-limits parts of human civilization.” They are also known as creepers, which cracks me up. Apparently there are hundreds of books, magazines, and documentaries on these adventurers, and I wonder why I’ve never heard of them before now. All of a sudden I’m back in black, but with fewer weapons. Instead of a knife I’ll need a respirator. Some explorers wear respirators to protect their airways. Apparently explorers face many risks in abandoned structures including collapsing roofs and floors, broken glass, scary guard dogs, harmful chemicals, and hostile squatters. This is sounding less fun by the minute. My idea of a good time does not usually involve argumentative hobos.

Moving on, I discover that most of the hobbies listed either requires too much money, involve more life threatening danger than I’m currently willing to risk, or are entirely dull. I feel defeated. No wonder Americans are either workaholics or obese (or both). Work and food are much more convenient escape outlets than letterboxing, snorkeling, or wrestling squatters.

I can’t help but think of my countless acquaintances on facebook who have quotes like “You’ll always miss 100% of the shots you don’t take” plastered across their page. Why do I always roll my eyes at such lines? Beyond it being offensively cliché, maybe they are right. Maybe I should start taking a risk once in a while. Invest in something, rely less on someones, replace the mundane with marvelous. Then again, what wonderful things are they doing with their lives?

At 12:35am, I officially decide not to cut off contact with humankind, quit my job, or become a creeper. Instead I vow to take better pictures, show up to choir practice, and complain less about my mediocre office job. I also decide to stop being a hermit. Mondays are the perfect days for such promises, and if I’m lucky I’ll still be half devoted to one by Friday. Maybe I’ll even pick up a hobby, I hear spring is the perfect time for turtles.

Fat, Happy Women

Recently an ex college professor wrote to me and asked what I thought the American Dream looks like for women. Initially I was hesitant to answer, unable to adequately generalize what women want, much less what I want. In an effort to avoid sounding vague and predictable, I tried to upgrade where I saw myself in twenty years, but ended up sounding just as shallow. So I gave honesty a try.

Truthfully, my academic experience spoiled my appetite for such discussions, as my perspective was often overshadowed by overemotional rants by my female peers. Women tend to quickly victimize themselves or aggressively defend their right to breastfeed in public during these debates, so I carefully avoid them. Too often we are stereotyped as erratic and hormonal; when there are just as many men making similar or worse choices (Perfect examples would include government, church, and suicide rates).

When I try to visualize what the term “American Dream” means for women, I find it difficult to picture anything but feather dusters and Prozac, which is probably more a result of the media than reality. I suppose some of my own personal “American Dream” has been influenced by my faith, though I’d hardly call myself religious. Growing up in a non-ethnic Mennonite middle class family within in a wealthy Mennonite community affected how I visualized the “Christian” American Dream. I entered college completely misunderstanding the Mennonite faith and its people, assuming all Mennonites were self-absorbed hypocrites who donated money to each other instead of their alleged beliefs in global service and peace. Since graduating, however, I’ve found some clarity and have tried to adopt the lifestyle I preach, visualizing my future without the conventional materialistic lens. I want to: live simply, exist responsibly, become a global citizen.

But let’s be real. Living in the American suburbs does not exactly encourage simplicity. As I grow older, it becomes increasingly more difficult not to want the big house, two and a half kids, and swimming pool. Though I certainly don’t want it now, it’s hard not to want it eventually, despite the fact that I know it’s flawed and highly exaggerated.

Beyond the house and the kids, however; what do women want? I suppose that’s the inexhaustible question. I believe many women want marriage and the lot until the honeymoon ends and their husbands stop kissing them goodnight and start conveniently forgetting to help with the dishes, the kids, and marriage at large. It’s easy to “check out” in 2008. As I mentioned yesterday, we’ve become an increasingly self-involved society. Who has the time and energy to invest in a marriage when you’ve become accustomed to devoting everything to yourself?

Perhaps that’s too dismal of an outlook. More importantly, maybe I should change my tune before I turn into a 45 year old bitty with cats.

After college, there comes a moment when you stop thinking about life in terms of possibilities and begin seeing it as a set of limitations. This is the transition into the real world, one that I grapple with every morning while trying to get out of bed. Within those bounds, I think most women just want to end up as good or better than their own mothers and feel appreciated. Part of the problem is the average woman would rather have beauty than brains, because the average man can see better than he can think. There’s a quote, I think. Something along the lines of imagining a world without men. No crime and lots of fat happy women. That always makes me smile.

Winds-Day

Today is Wednesday, the most productive day of the week for Americans, economically and otherwise. Or at least this is what I’ve been told, though I never trust statistics, make absolute statements, or begin writing with formula attention-grabbing sentences. In Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day, the disagreeable nature of the weather is credited to it being “Winds-Day.” And sure enough, it is windy today. In fact, obnoxiously so.

Don’t be impressed by my knowledge of this well loved children’s tale, I just read that on Wiki ten minutes ago, my favorite overused educational reserve. I also read about the “Land of Ev,” peanuts, and Ted Hankey after hitting “random page” a few times. (Ted is an English darts player and the Land of Ev is located near Winkie country in the Oz books).

But back to today: This is not just an ordinary Wednesday. Today is the day I start putting my thoughts down on paper. Or rather, the screen. (Do people still hand write things? Doubtful.) Today is the day I will not come home, strip off my suffocating work clothes, and lie pitifully in front of the TV while absorbing 90s sitcom reruns, Paula Abdul’s hopelessly unintelligent banter, and The Girls Next Door. Today I will remain positive, vertical, and awake. Today I will do something.

This may sound trite, but how many of us are ever actually doing anything? I surely am not. At home or at work, much of my time is spent wasted. Gmail. Facebook. CNN. StumbleUpon. Facebook. Itunes. Facebook. Weather. Gmail. Lastfm. Facebook. Facebook. Gmail. Gmail. And when I do dare vacate my spot in front of the computer, there’s the phone or TV or radio to occupy me. And when I finally tire of those stimuli, which is often, I am irritable or exhausted and prefer to sit in silence and let my mind wander to what I wish I were doing with my life.

Today: I start doing.

I start with the dishes, which have haphazardly become a small fortress beside the sink in my kitchen. The music is at such a high decibel that I cannot help but half enjoy the chore.

Dishes: done. Wash: folded. Phone calls: returned. Guitar: played. Camera Manual: skimmed. After a while I start to wonder how long this new Kate will last. If I remember correctly, the last instance occurred only weeks ago and lasted a total of a few hours. This time I have more hope. In the “About Me” section on Facebook, I have entered the weak phrase “2008, Brand New Kate” in an effort to convince both myself and others that this year I will be different. This year, I will not waste time, lose sight of my dreams, or let myself go. And so here I go. Yet another valiant attempt at becoming something more than a post college delinquent in a do-nothing world.

Cheers.