So, as I do with all things I love, I will now mimic it in a way to get cheap laughs. Because, as an adult, I’ve learned there’s a lot of gray mixed in between the black and white. A middle-ground between the extremes. But what fun is middle-ground? So here I present, Goofus and Gallant, in the workplace.

Goofus stands around at other people’s desks, giggling and gossiping.
Gallant works so hard that he doesn’t even know the last names of his co-workers.

Goofus plays with his co-worker’s hair and doesn’t understand personal space.
Gallant has never made physical contact at the workplace.

Goofus takes personal calls on the speakerphone in his cubicle.
Gallant NEVER takes personal calls. That is why he missed the birth of his first three children, who were born between the hours of 9 and 5 on weekdays.

Goofus calls in sick when he needs a vacation.
Gallant has 8,000 unused vacation hours. And he has never called in sick. He actually had his appendix removed at work while completing spreadsheets.

Goofus steals paperclips, pens and printers from the supply closet.
Gallant recycles toilet paper at work. That’s stewardship there, folks.

Goofus takes three hour lunches that he charges to his company.
Gallant purees his food so he can drink it through a straw while working.

But today, they had this NBC correspondent on there who, when she was in college, gained 40 pounds. Okay, that’s not too uncommon, but, whatever. And when she realized how HUGE she was (really, she was not that big) she took those pounds right off. Went from a size 4 to a 14 in 11 months. And, she was on the Today Show to share her secrets with a world full of fatties.

Here’s the part where I started to get really agitated. I’ve always struggled with my weight. And I am fully aware that when I gain weight, it’s because I’m making poor decisions when it comes to eating and exercise. But, for me at least, it’s so much more than a physical thing–eating and exercising are very related to emotions and state of mind for me.

Which is why this woman’s “secrets” annoyed me so much. Here they are, with my snarky responses.

-Cut back on unhealthy foods: Oh. My. Gosh. I never thought about that! She should totally write a book about that. Because I always heard you should eat MORE unhealthy food to lose weight. I guess I should mark the all-cheesecake diet off my list.

-Work out three times a week: Wait. You mean, working out helps you lose weight too? Seriously? I thought that treadmill in the basement was just a moving buffet.

-Drink a lot of water: Water, huh? I could have sworn my doctor told me that Coke was the key to weight loss. And sugary juices. And milkshakes. Especially milkshakes.

Great skinny one. Your weight loss tips have changed my life. I’m so glad you were brave and strong and came on tv and showed one picture of your fatty self. That must have taken so much courage.

Oh, and then she held up her “fat jeans.” Y’all. They weren’t fat jeans. They were ugly white tapered leg jeans, but they were not fat jeans.

I’m not diminishing her weight loss. It’s great that she recognized unhealthy patterns in her life, visited a personal trainer one time, then dropped ten sizes. Bravo. But I hate how she only addressed, in my opinion, one very small side of weight loss/weight gain/healthy living.

But maybe I just don’t get how easy it is!

In the small rural town where I grew up in Virginia, the Dairy Queen was an important part of my social upbringing. It was not only one of the few eating out options, it was also where everyone gathered after high school football games and when the weather got warm we often went there after school for a 62 cent ice cream cone.

Oh, the stories from the Dairy Queen. When I was growing up, our Dairy Queen was local run, so we had lots of food items there that aren’t on your typical Dairy Queen menu. We had pizza burgers, which, to this day, I’m not quite sure how to describe. There was some mozzarella cheese, cooked inside of a burger that was tinted red by…pizza sauce? I don’t know. It hurts to think about it too much.

At the Dairy Queen, there was a group of “regulars.” Most were retired, and they always sat in the same hard plastic booth. When I was a child, they often ordered me a “kiddie cone” which is the smallest ice cream cone known to man. Seriously, it’s basically the size of my thumb. But it was free, and I thought it was the best thing ever. Free ice cream! Come on, who does that anymore! They were simpler times.

When I outgrew the kiddie cone, I moved on to the blizzard. Ah, the blizzard. There’s nothing like cracking your tooth on a frozen m&m nestled in soft serve ice cream at the Dairy Queen.

My cousins and I often frequented the Dairy Queen after youth group volleyball games. Otis would drive his sister, Amanda, and I around in his little S-10 truck, with Amanda squished in the middle trying to avoid knocking the gear shift into reverse. I was usually in charge of holding the Blizzards, and I would tuck them between my knees.

One day, as we were leaving the Dairy Queen parking lot, Otis pulled out in front of a car that was moving faster than we thought. We all screamed and then…there was a blizzard of Blizzards. I guess I squeezed my knees together as we peeled out of the parking lot, and blizzard shot out of the cups. There was blizzard dripping from the ceiling and coating the windshield. Otis’ truck smelled like soured milk for weeks.

The Dairy Queen is different now. The regulars have mostly passed away, and kiddie cones are no longer on the menu. There’s a drive-thru now, and the booths aren’t nearly as full as they used to be. I miss the old Dairy Queen.

But I still have my memories of the Dairy Queen. Sweet, ice creamy memories.

Six years ago, I was living by myself in a small basement apartment in Nashville. One night, I woke from a sound sleep with a raging case of the flu. Like, sleep on the bathroom floor because you can’t stray that far from the toilet flu. It was, in a word, horrible.

This was the first time I had lived alone, so the next morning, I realized I needed medicine, gatorade and jell-o. And there was nobody who was going to buy those things for me. I managed to get dressed, and set off for the grocery store. Where, I couldn’t find anything. Every few steps I would lean my head against the bar of my shopping cart, not sure if I could keep moving. I may have even cried when I realized that the jell-o was on the other side of the store.

When I arrived back home, I realized that if I died that day, nobody would know. It was a Friday, so my employer wouldn’t even be concerned until Monday. My landlady wouldn’t know until she started smelling something funny. So I called my mom, and told her to call me every six hours to make sure I was still alive. She thought I was kidding. I wasn’t.

In case you were wondering, I did survive. I color-coordinated my meals (red Popsicle, red jell-o, red Gatorade) and I created a Thera-flu creation that I’m pretty sure is illegal in 43 states.

I’m relieved to have friends now who offer to bring me soup when I’m sick. Even if they don’t color-coordinate.t

Friends who have tried for years to get pregnant.

I spent the weekend with one, talking about the nursery, offering to babysit.

I shared a flurry of emails with the other, first of congratulations, then of grief.

One can’t talk about it.

The other can’t stop crying.

They are beautiful women.

One day, they will be beautiful mothers.

But right now, their bodies are broken.

Their spirits are failing.

And I have nothing to offer them.

My words of comfort can’t penetrate their grief.

My words of comfort can’t penetrate MY grief.

They will mourn.

They will cry.

They will hope.

They will wait.

Okay, so, when I was in high school, I didn’t have my own car. I would use the family car. The Ford Aerostar Minivan. You know the one I’m talking about. I swear that every person in my community owned one at some point. And I was so cool driving that thing around town. It’s one reason I was as popular as I was in high school. You totally wish you were me right now, don’t you.

So one Saturday evening, I was headed to a youth event at church with Amanda. As usual, I was running late. And, I might have been driving a little too fast on the windy backroads near my house. I came flying around a sharp curve, only to realize that…we were only on two wheels. Yes, you heard me. I got a  minivan on two wheels. I’m sure the moment only lasted a second, but there was no mistaking the angle, then the thump as all four tires safely touched the ground again.

I slowed to a stop at the end of the road and glanced over at Amanda. She gripped the blue velour arm rests and her face was as white as the pages of her Bible that had slipped out of her lap.

“Amanda,” I said. She slowly turned her head toward me. “You must NEVER tell anybody that just happened.” She nodded, too afraid to speak. I eased the van forward, not topping 25 mph for the rest of the drive.

We didn’t speak of the incident for years.

When I was 13, I traveled to a conference with a neighboring church (my church was too small to really do a lot of big, out-of-state conferences). Anyway, at said conference, I was put in a room with a bunch of people I didn’t know. Let me be more specific. I had to share a bed with someone I didn’t know.

Not a big deal, I thought. Girls don’t mind doubling up in hotels. I had done it on a ton of youth trips.

But this girl…let’s just say she had some issues. The first night, she’s telling me she had surgery just before the trip. I nod politely, until the moment she flops her leg on top of the flowered comforter and showed me her staples.

Dear. Lord. Staples are gross! They do not belong in human flesh! I thought I would throw up, but I managed to hold it together. But, dear readers, things got worse.

The next night, just as I was dozing off, my “friend” decided to share with me that when she had her surgery, they took her off her meds. The meds she was taking for some mental issues. Um, that didn’t sound like the best idea to me. I turned over and tried to feign sleep. I was just dozing off when she started shaking my shoulder.

“Brandy,” she whispered urgently. “Do you think God forgives every sin?”

Y’all. I thought she was getting ready to kill me. And then ask God to forgive her for it. So I answered accordingly.

“I don’t think He forgives murder,” I whispered into the darkness.

She seemed satisfied with my answer. I knew I had just lied to her. But I could ask forgiveness later. This girl had staples in her leg, no meds in her system, and I wasn’t about to take any chances.

I believe in grace and all. But what’s a terrified 13-year-old to do?

It’s hard for me to say “I love you.” Because I have issues.

First, I shall tell you my childhood issues that have formed me into the warped human being I am today.

Growing up, there was a person in my family whom I often talked to on the phone. This person and I had a strained relationship, at best. I was not a priority in their life, and I was often hurt by this person. They were terrible at expressing real love and affection. I am still dealing with the repurcussions of that relationship today.

But at the end of every phone conversation I had with this person, they would say “I love you.” And I automatically said it back. Every single time. Even if the moment I hung up the phone I would dissolve into tears. Even if the last emotion I felt towards that person was love, I still said it.

Soon, the words “I love you” began to taste heavy and metallic in my mouth. It was painful to spill them out, only to see them trampled underfoot. So I began to guard them closely. I still spat them out to end those strained phone conversations. But the real “I love you’s” slowly began to disappear from my vocabulary. I had to trust you with them. When people told me “I love you” I squirmed awkwardly. Did they mean it? Were they just parading those words in front of me, taunting me?

It became harder as I grew older. There were people in my life I deeply loved. Friendships that got me through some incredibly hard times. But anytime I would toss out a flippant “love ya” I felt sick to my stomach. I couldn’t separate those words from the memories.

But sometimes, the “I love you” breaks through. A friend demonstrates their faithfulness. A family member loves sacrificially. Out pours the “I love you.” And, oh, when it does, I speak it with abandon! When I reach that point in a friendship when I trust the love, when I trust the words, when I trust the motive, I can’t say it enough. My heart sings it, shouts it. It becomes rich with meaning, sweet and warm in my mouth.

So yes, I have issues. “I love you” may not trip easily off of my tongue. But when I do say it, you can believe that I mean it.

Looking back on that time in my life, it cracks me up that I was basically a door-to-door salesman. Because y’all. I do NOT have the personality for it. I was even more shy as an awkward 10-year-old than I am today. But I really wanted that black and white TV from the prize catalog for my room. So sell cards I did.

There is one particularly vivid memory that I’m pretty sure was the beginning of the end of my sales future. You see, we had a neighbor. That neighbor had a teenage son. I was in love with that son. And one day, I walked through the woods to their house, armed with my catalog of cards, and bravely knocked on their door. The son answered. My knees turned to jello. And my winning personality paired with his sullen teenager one was a dangerous thing. We stared at each other. Neither would speak. So I decided to just walk into the house.

Where I promptly fell on my butt in their foyer.

Is there anything more embarrassing than that? It makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it. I jumped up and walked into the living room, where I sat with my crumpled catalog firmly clutched in my sweaty hands. My crush walked in, stared at me, then said the only words he would speak to me that fateful day.

“My mom’s not home.”

I nodded, carefully walked back through the foyer, where the rug I had fallen on lay crumpled on the floor, and left. Never to return.

That black and white TV was simply not worth it.

To Whom it May Concern–Weekend Edition

Dear Couple in the Car in Front of Me,
Seriously? You think a red light is an invitation to make out? When I’m at a red light, I normally change the radio station or check out my zits in the mirror. Making out seems like a rather lofty goal for a 30 second stop at a busy intersection. And if you’re going to play tonsil hockey, at least keep one eye on the light. Because I will lay on the horn as soon as it turns green. Because you annoy me that much.

Sincerely,
Irritated at the Intersection

———-

Dear Pet Owner,

I’m not an animal person by nature. Part of that is the fact that most animals contain copious amounts of dander that make my eyes swell shut and my lungs take a vacation. But, I can usually deal with pets. Some, I even like. BUT, I don’t like them when they’re jumping all over me with their evil claws and their drool. Seriously, keep your pet away from me. And if not, don’t be shocked if I kick it. I’m one of those people.

Petless in Colorado

———-

Dear Parents of my Sunday School Kiddos,

FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT’S HOLY, PLEASE STOP FEEDING YOUR CHILDREN SUGAR BEFORE THEY COME TO CHURCH. YOU’RE KILLING ME.

Happily Childless in the Springs

———-

Dear Alton Brown,

You make me happy. You are delightfully nerdy, and you provide more information about food than I’ll ever need to know. But I have a habit of providing too much information about things too, so I think we’re kindred souls. And this weekend, I made your individual peach cakes, and if you had been in my kitchen, I would have hugged you. But alas, you weren’t, so I just ate peach cake.

Your Friend,
Peachy Keen