Harvesting Better Tomorrows One Small Handprint at a Time

I just realized my blog “Something Worth Leaving Behind” didn’t really have an ending.  When I originally started writing it my intention was to incorporate my experiences volunteering for the Habitat for Humanity.  Somehow my thoughts just weren’t connecting the way I had originally anticipated.  Instead of fighting the internal battle to get the words to flow I decided that piece would be a precursor. 

Habitat for Humanity is one of my favorite volunteer organizations.  Not only is it one of the most structured and resourceful organizations I’ve ever worked with, the organizers truly make a difference and have an immense impact on lives and the community.  They strive to make housing affordable to all, promote dignity and hope, and support sustainable and transformational development (Habitat for Humanity website).  Much of the labor and materials are donated—the volunteers are essential to helping their vision come to fruition.  

I feel great pride being a small part of the Habitat for Humanity.  However, I would be remiss if I didn’t admit this small confession. My motivation for becoming a Habitat for Humanity volunteer wasn’t completely selfless.  I was certainly driven by the capacity to provide a helping hand and make a difference, but the opportunity to learn building tips, play with power tools and meet cute boys also cultivated my motivation.  Hey, I’m 41 and single, it’s only natural and I never proclaimed to be Florence Nightingale.

I vividly remember my first Habitat for Humanity volunteer experience. It quickly dispelled the myth in my mind that the houses were practically built overnight. I don’t know what I was expecting, it just seemed like they came together so quickly in the 3-minute video we were shown during the orientation session. During my first experience I learned construction is hard labor, building codes have to be followed, and no job is too small.

I am always amazed how the foremen on the jobs have always been so patient and understanding. They have to be to orchestrate a job of that magnitude with the revolving door of volunteers with varying abilities and knowledge.  The houses are ultimately built through their expertise, experience, wisdom, guidance and passion to make a difference.  They direct the volunteers—nail-by-nail, board-by-board, inch-by-inch, square foot-by-square foot until the houses are finished and new dreams are a reality. 

I joined Habitat for Humanity with my friend Irene.  Before we could even sign up for a construction site we had to attend an orientation.  It took place in a little library near our office after work.  We couldn’t help but laugh at all of the women who showed up to the orientation. They were all dressed up in their Sunday best, make-up, hair and outfits perfectly finished.  Of course, we weren’t laughing at them, we were laughing with them because we certainly didn’t show up in potato sacks.  There was one man who really stood out, looking like he just stepped out of GQ magazine, we couldn’t help but notice his eye popping gaze at all of the women.  He was clearly in good company and on a mission of his own. 

A few days after our first orientation in preparation for our first day on construction work, we went to Lowes to buy safety glasses.   We discussed all of the logistics, what we should wear, what we would pack for lunch, and our expectations and anticipations. Irene kept reminding me more than meeting cute men she was really hoping to play with power tools.

The entire morning before we were scheduled to arrive to help out we were texting each other, we both felt prepared.  We had our safety glasses, work shoes, long pants, sunscreen, packed lunches, and water.  We arrived early and were ready to serve.  I was on a mission to make sure we were assigned to the job where we would be able to play with power tools. 

That morning when they were assigning jobs for the day we had a choice between hanging siding or plumbing.  I quickly raised my hand for the plumbing project. I didn’t know what to expect, I just knew that we would have an opportunity to use the jackhammer and the tamper aka “wacker.”  

Our duty was to dig a trench, 16 inches deep (or maybe 18 or 24 inches deep, I can’t remember exactly) and roughly 3 feet long, insert a pipe, and fill the trench back up with dirt.  Sounds so easy as I write it, but I can’t lie, it was a long hard day of backbreaking manual labor. 

Our foreman Mike walked us through all of the steps. He handed us shovels, showed us how to use the jackhammer and left us alone for a while so we could work. Irene was the first one to try out the jackhammer.  I was a little nervous at first, but then quickly got the hang of it. There was something empowering about using a jackhammer to dig into the earth.  Empowering that is, until I got a little over zealous and got it stuck.  I felt like a complete dork digging the jackhammer out of the ground with my shovel.  Fortunately, Irene was the only one who witnessed it. Everyone else was busy doing his or her own project. 

Did I mention ditch digging is hard labor?  Mike let us work independently, but he closely monitored our progress.  He would look at our work, tell us we were doing a fantastic job, and then he would take out his tape measure and tell us keep digging. His first words of advice to us were; dig deeper and longer, not wider.  Irene and I had a Beavis and Butthead moment.  We giggled and smirked every time we said it.

Little by little, or I should say inch-by-inch, we reached our goal.  Mike would stop by, pull out his measuring tape and tell us only 2 more inches.   I swear his definition of 2 more inches and our perception was very different.  Nonetheless, through teamwork and laughter using our shovels and the jackhammer we dug the perfect trench.

Or so we thought.  Once we thought we were finished digging the trench we were tasked with putting a PVC pipe into the ground.  Mike was very contentious, the pipe needed to be set at the perfect depth and it had to lie flat in the hole.  A little more digging and we were finally ready to place the pipe into position. Add Mike’s magical assistance and the pipe was set and ready to be entombed in its new home.    

I thought it sounded like an easy job, we would just put the dirt we dug back into the hole.  If only it were that simple.  The pipe had to be covered with dirt that was the perfect consistency.  Not too dry or too wet.  Mixing dry dirt with wet dirt from the job site and adding a little water when we needed was a little nostalgic.  It brought  back fond memories of making mud pies during my childhood years. 

The dirt also had to be compacted very tightly.  This is where the wacker and the manual tamper enter

the story.  I quickly discovered the electric wacker, the beast, 157 pounds of pure machine and power, was a lot more fun to use than the manual tamper.  Irene and I filled the trench inch-by-inch or what felt like centimeter-by-centimeter with the perfectly mixed dirt, then we patted it down until it was flat and firm.  We repeated the process for hours until the trench was level with the ground again. 

The finished project...the Rock Street House

Once we were finished with our project we helped put all of the tools away and cleaned up our area.  Physically we were beat, sweaty, and exhausted, but we felt a sense of pride and accomplishment for our work and opportunity to leave impressions our small handprints and big hearts on the house.  We knew the family, the father who had just recovered from brain cancer, would never know our names, but they would appreciate our efforts.   

Something Worth Leaving Behind

Whenever I stop and think about my life post-ED it is hard to imagine how I ever had the time to fit him in.  I am very appreciative and grateful for the beautiful world I have discovered since I escaped his wrath. Today I rejoice volunteerism, one of the things I have filled my newfound time with. 

The words of Leeann Womack’s song, “Something Worth Leaving Behind,” really strike a chord in my heart.  I can’t help but wonder out of the 7.046+ billion people on Earth, what is our purpose, what is my purpose?  Thoughts of people dying in the civil war in Syria, children starving in third world countries, families starving even in my own back yard fill my mind.  Images of violence in every form depicted on the news, mass shootings, terrorism, and so many broadcasts about sadness and destruction that could easily fill 1000s of pages of description leave me feeling hopeless and broken hearted.  

All of these thoughts make me question what I am leaving behind?  What is my lasting mark on this world?  I know I can’t solve all of the problems I hear about, I know I will never be nor would I ever want to be famous, but I certainly hope I am able to make a tiny difference in my little corner of the world and perhaps some will remember my name.

Professionally I believe I have left a small handprint on the academic world with my contributions to the study of teaching and learning and multicultural and diversity education in higher education at least one person has quoted me in his own writing; I’ve certainly quoted myself.  I feel as though I have touched the lives of some of my former students.  The letters behind my name could be used to make a pretty hearty alphabet soup.  More importantly, daily in my role I try to provide guidance and a helping hand to faculty and administrators who are trying to navigate through the tangled maze of the curriculum development process.  I admit at times it is a balancing act walking the fine line between faculty desires, student needs and compliance, but at the end of the day most of our goals are achieved. 

Personally I believe I have given a lot of love and support to my friends and family.  I try to be loyal and dependable.  Although I don’t always have all of the answers, I am always there to listen or offer a shoulder to cry on.  Sometimes I can’t help but feel a little regret and sadness that I don’t have what sociologists define as the traditional “nuclear” family … the wife (me), husband, kids, and the white picket fence.  Mercifully, the sadness quickly dissipates when I think about what I define as my “new normal” family.  I know I am the world to three beautiful beagles that greet me at the door every night for hugs, kisses and of course their dinner. 

I try to make the world a better place by following the golden rule, treating people with respect, putting things back where they belong, and minimizing my carbon footprint.  I also try to give back to the world and show my appreciation for the blessings in my life by volunteering whenever I can. 

Crash—When Two Worlds Collide

Today started out like all others.  My alarm went off and I hit snooze once (okay maybe twice), the light of the autumn sun peaked its way through my window, the beagles scarfed down their breakfasts like I hadn’t fed them for three weeks, and I walked mindlessly through my morning routine.  My morning Facebook post revealed a small hug and snuggle time with Hannah.  My lunch was packed, I had everything I needed to get me through the day except my morning caffeine.  Let’s not talk about my really bad habit of stopping at the local gas station for a super duper sized Diet Dr. Pepper—it’s just been too hot for coffee lately. 

Everything was right in the world; just a short 15-minute drive and I would be at the office. Traffic wasn’t horribly crazy as it can be during the morning commute.  The only bottleneck was the intersection from Scripps Poway Parkway to the 15 freeway.  I was caught in the middle of it, stopping briefly as not to get stuck in the intersection when the light turned red.  Being cautious and alert I was ready to move forward and secure my space in line.  I don’t remember what was playing on the radio, just the flashbulb second of the loud crash and the stunned feeling that went through my body as I realized I had just been rear-ended.  My Diet Dr. Pepper splashed about, landing in the almost empty cup holder…Mr. Siri, my iPhone happened to be sitting there. 

Startled, dazed and confused about what had just happened I immediately stopped. It took a few seconds, what seemed like light-years, for me to think clearly. I couldn’t just stay in the intersection.  I immediately pulled over to the side of the road.  The man who hit me followed my lead.  He sat in his car for a minute, I quickly texted work and my friend Jen and let them know I had just been in an accident. Jen immediately offered to come rescue me.  I probably should have taken her up on that because I wasn’t really thinking clearly.  Hindsight is 20/20, but I really need to have an accident checklist in my car.  I always do all of the wrong things. I took pictures of the registration information the man handed to me and his drivers license, but I failed to realize his registration was expired, he didn’t give me any insurance information, I forgot to get his phone number, and I didn’t look at the damage on his car.  Lumen (the name I gave my only 6 month old Honda Accord) was bruised a bit, but not as bad as I had first imagined and Mr. Siri was all jacked up from the unexpected swim in Diet Dr. Pepper. 

Information exchanged, the man drove away, and I sat in my car for a few minutes still in shock and dismay. I calmly called the office and let them know I would be late. I needed to go back home for a minute. For what reason, you may ask? I couldn’t find my insurance information (it turns out it was exactly where it was supposed to be in my little folder with my registration).  I also needed to feel the safety of something familiar. 

Driving the short distance to my house the feelings from stress hit me hard. I just started crying.  It’s moments like this one when it briefly hits me that I am single and would have to deal with fixing my world alone.  Of course, that was silly thinking.  Jen would have been there in a heartbeat, well wishes from Nebraska, Missouri and New York poured in. Madlyn and Robin were immediately checking in on me after I posted the picture of the not quite so luminous Lumen on my Facebook page.  They were concerned about the headache I was complaining about. They urged me to see a doctor.  Then my boss’s assistant called me and told me to stay home. I immediately argued I couldn't possibly stay home.  I was getting ready to come in, I had a meeting with my boss that morning and the Chancellor’s Forum to attend later that afternoon. She insisted I stay home and take care of myself and all of the issues that accompany a small accident. 

After much persuading and coaxing I agreed to stay home.  I immediately went inside my house hugged the beagles and called my insurance company; the woman who helped me was very kind and understanding, she walked me through all of the steps.  After I finished talking with her I made an appointment with the body shop, Lumen was in desperate need of a makeover. 

I was in luck, they had an open appointment in 20 minutes.  I quickly changed out of my business suit and heels into a pair of workout shorts, a tank and the most comfy pair of flip flops I own.  I grabbed my phone, my iPod shuffle and headed to the repair shop.  My plan was to drop off Lumen and then walk the few short miles home.  It would give me the time I needed to decompress and process all of the thoughts that were racing through my mind. 

Together!

I have to admit although I was (am) very sad my 6 month old car with less than 10,000 miles is already damaged, I am not bitter. I am grateful the destruction was not worse and no one was seriously injured, I have insurance to help me take care of it and I have a backup car (the Highlander will be happy to be driven for awhile).  Although I appreciate my material possessions, I try not to put too much value on them.  It is only a car and it can be fixed. So much worse has happened in the world, in my world.  Dropping off Lu was nothing compared to the moment I had to decide to put Gillian (pronounced Jillian), my beloved beagle of 12 years, to sleep.  It was nothing compared to the loss of my dear cousin Michael or my most cherished friends Peter and Julie. 

I spent the 3.8 mile walk home thinking about my blessings and all of the positive things in my life. I took pause and enjoyed the world around me.  I took pictures of all of the beautiful sights in nature that

Unexpected beauty in the world

crossed my path.  Wondered curiously about the story behind the various discarded trinkets (pieces of trash) I noticed along the way: Pepsi cans, a spring, candy wrappers, an Avery label, an empty box of Lubricant Trojan condoms, a red piece of paper, and so many other random things. I wish I would have taken an empty trash bag and a pair of gloves with me so I could have picked them up and put them in the trash where they belonged.  Oh and my poor feet wished I would have opted to wear a nice pair of running shoes instead of flip flops.

Lesson learned…life doesn’t always go the way you plan.  Although it sucks when two worlds collide and it is an inconvenience and unexpected expense, it isn’t the end of the world. 

Crossing the Rubicon—My Journey to the Other Side of the Mountain

Today I invite you to walk along beside me as I reminisce about my journey to the other side of the mountain.  Join me on my expedition to a world free of ED (eating disorders). Free of his insatiable demands, his criticizing voice, and relentless requests for perfection. 

Recall I am not going to go into a lot of the specific details about my long battle with ED.  It’s not because of shame or a need for privacy. It’s out of respect and sensitivity for anyone who may come across this blog who is struggling with ED or close to crossing over that line. I know I personally learned my best practices and tips from reading similar stories. Truth be told, there is nothing glamorous about ED. 

While there are certain aspects of my path that will need to be explained to completely understand them, I will try to be as descriptive yet vague as possible.  The intention of this blog is to provide a safe environment for those who read it to heal, process their own issues, just realize they are not alone in their journey, and discover the beautiful world we live in.  Are you ready?  Here we go….

At the risk of sounding cliché there comes a time in a person’s life when they reach a fork in the road, a crossroad where a choice would inevitably have to be made whether they would turn left or right. This is the position I was in when I sought help to conquer ED. I could have taken a turn to the right, which would have led me down the long dreadful road I had been traveling with ED or I could turn left and take the trail completely foreign to me, something entirely different. 

There were so many aspects to be considered.  I had lived with ED for so long, I could have easily continued on the similar path of destruction and challenged how long I could fight and survive the internal battles of his demands.  At least it was a familiar world, ED was all I had identified with for so many years. I knew exactly what to expect.  The other, unknown path was so mysterious and I wasn’t exactly sure where it was going to take me.  I could only tell it was at the bottom of the tallest mountain I’d ever seen.  Looking up, the top seemed so high and unreachable.  The trail looked desolate and scary. It was filled with rugged terrain that would have to be battled before I could make it to my destination.

Knowing it would be the biggest challenge of my life I decided to risk it all and take my first step to the left and up the pathway to the other side of the mountain.  It was the point of no return and at that time I didn’t know if I had the strength to battle all of the obstacles that would block my journey. I can’t help but wonder now if that was how Julius Caesar felt when he first led his army across the Rubicon River. I knew after I took that first step it didn’t matter how scared I was I could not turn back. Although I was terrified, I felt like I had to do it because I could not risk losing an opportunity to discover life without ED’s anchor. Especially if that life was going to be as beautiful as everyone had promised it would be. After all, even if I only made it half way up to the top I would be farther ahead than when I started. 

My journey up the mountain proved to be every bit as challenging as I had imagined it would be.  It took every ounce of strength and courage in my body.  The bright side that I didn’t realize when I started my journey is I wouldn’t be traveling it alone.  I was pleasantly surprised to find there were many friends, old and new, to help me along the way. 

Making peace with food was the first challenge I was faced with.  As a child of the 80s I was all too familiar with all of the fad diets.  Back then it was what we were taught. If we weren’t happy with our physiques there was always new diet to try.  (I guess this really hasn’t changed much in our society, only now I choose not to partake in them).  Following my mother’s lead and her mother before her, I never learned to substitute unhealthy options for healthier ones, rather just to reduce my intake or simply not eat.

The infamous words of Wallis Simpson were ingrained into my head “you can never be too rich or too thin.” Food was considered the enemy.  For so many years it was my crutch, my emotional release and my instrument for control.  Countless hours obsessing and categorizing it and labeling it as good or bad, sanctioned or forbidden.  

In order to make it to my destination I had to let go of those ideals.  During my journey I eliminated any form of dieting and unlearned my food related perceptions.  I admit there are times when I still cut back on certain things, particularly sugar because I have such a sweet tooth, but I know my boundaries and I know I can’t take anything to the extreme. Although I can appreciate a paleo pancake or gluten free scone, I don’t subscribe 100%.  I don’t juice, cleanse or fast.  I know as a good Catholic girl I am supposed to fast on certain Holy Days, but as a survivor of ED, for the sake of health I just can’t do it.  I continue to do whatever it takes to maintain my peace with food, eat to live, but also enjoy it for the celebration it can be in our society.    

My truce with food meant I would inevitably start gaining weight.  That was the next major challenge I faced.   I have to admit it was a very hard concept for me to grasp and embrace.  I had hated my body for as long as I could remember.  Thinking back to myself as a little girl, I could not recall a time when I was complacent with my figure. I remembered stories about how I only weighed 5 pounds 6 ounces when I was born, but I quickly made up for it. I remember being told how I was a little chunky 3-year old.  To make matters worse, it didn’t help that I grew very quickly.  I was taller than my sister three years my senior by the time I was in first grade.  I always felt awkward and couldn’t help but compare myself to her and all of the other petite girls in my class. 

I still vividly recall the first time I was weighed and understood what that meant.  I was in 5^th grade and we were all called down to the nurse’s office.  We were asked to step on the scale, a number was written down and comparisons were made.  I was horrified. That moment marked my association with the value of the number on the scale.   

When I was entrenched with ED I was obsessed with that number.  Weighing myself more than 20 times a day because I could never lose handle of it.  Ironically, that number could never be low enough.  During all of my years with ED even when I was at my thinnest weight, I wasn’t happy with the image that was looking back at me in the mirror. Of course, ED never would have let me be satisfied with that reflection. 

As I was climbing the mountain I quickly realized I was not able to carry all of the things that tied me to ED.  One of the first things I had to leave on the path along my journey was my scale and the number it represented. I haven’t stepped a foot on a scale since that moment. Letting go of that number helped me accept my body and allowed it to evolve into its current healthy state.   I still refer to the first few pounds I gained as “five pounds to freedom.”  Once I was able to embrace them I was able to slowly free myself from ED’s claws.

Of course, gaining weight meant my body was changing, which meant my wardrobe would no longer fit.  Those who know me well would probably describe me as somewhat of a fashionista.  I love collecting beautiful pieces of clothing, mixing and matching everything into my own “Shelly” style. I definitely have the “gathering” part down of the female.  We’re talking about years of collecting suits, designer jeans, sweaters, pants, skirts, dresses, shorts, etc.  None of which would no longer fit.  Although I was very sad at first, I knew I would have to leave them all on the mountain. I didn’t care if it meant running from ED naked and afraid, they had to go.  Keeping them would have been a constant reminder of my life with him, a torturing souvenir of what no longer could be or should be. Letting them go was liberating another step farther away from ED. I even wrote a blog about it “The Grand Purge” which I will try to find and post here.   

I still remember the day I gathered all of the items together.   We’re talking Casual Corner, Ann Klein, Ann Taylor, Tahari, Banana Republic, and The Limited suits, dresses, and pants; Seven for Mankind, Citizens for Humanities, and Rock and Republic jeans; beautiful sweaters and cute shirts from Anthropologie, Express, Free People, Hale Bob, Johnny Was and many of the brands listed above; and a bra collection that would have made Victoria’s Secrets himself envious. My treasures were all packed nicely and neatly into bags and delivered to Goodwill. I know I could have taken them to consignment shops or sold them on eBay, but I needed a quick getaway from them.  Donating them gave me a fast clean break and a peace of mind that someone else who should fit into them would find the same joy I did. It was like planting flowers along the way up the mountain to share. 

Even though my load was lighter without all of the baggage from ED that I was littering along the way up the mountain, I wasn’t completely free.  There was still the greatest challenge of all that would have to be conquered.  Peer pressure! As if the images of unrealistic models in the media and advertisements for the newest dieting craze haunting me everyday weren’t challenging enough, I had a few friends who made recovery extremely difficult. Ironically, battling the media was a little easier.  I promptly recycled all of my magazines and cancelled my subscriptions—Cosmopolitan, Glamour, Self, Allure, Women’s Fitness, Shape, and Marie Claire.  Inevitably I always felt ugly after I read them. 

Although most of my friends and family were very supportive of my recovery, there were a few friends I had to limit contact with. Especially in the beginning when I was being released from ED because whether their comments were intentional or reflections of their own personal issues they were damaging for me. One friend in particular despite my constant pleas to avoid certain topics…weight and diet, just couldn’t let it go.  I still hear her rants echoing in my mind about how much she weighed, or she couldn’t possibly be a certain very small size, or she was so thin her bracelet and certain clothes no longer fit.  Oh and then every time we went shopping together she would always want to know what size I was buying.  It’s kind of funny thinking about it now, because even at my lowest weight I never bragged to the world because ED had it ingrained in my mind to be ashamed regardless of the number on the scale.  Nonetheless, when I was still on that slippery slope of sliding back down the mountain, I had to take pause and take refuge from that friendship.  It got easier as time went on and I realized it was her issue, not mine.  Now I just shut her down when she starts making those kinds of comments, I focus on my health and strength or I quickly tell her she should see my therapist.    

I am happy to report although it was not an easy journey, I crossed the Rubicon and safely made it to the other side of the mountain.  Although I made it seem so linear and easy in this blog it was a real struggle, there were a few times during my recovery process when I actually took short quick visits to see ED.  Today, 6½ almost 7 years after I took that first step, I am happy and free.  I look forward to writing about the wonderful life I have found, lived and enjoyed without him.  

The Sunflower Painting

If you read my blog "The Sunflower" you will appreciate this painting. I was searching for a piece of art for my living room and nothing really seemed to fit.   It was serendipitous  I met Mark Jesinoski, one of the most gifted artists I know, at a Junior League fundraiser.  I admired his style so I immediately struck up a conversation with him about his work. I specifically recall asking him if he had any predominately purple paintings.  One thing led to another and the next thing I knew he was at my house checking out the space I where I wanted to feature the painting.

Long story short, I commissioned Mark to develop this piece. My only requirements the painting needed to have a sunflower with a ladybug on it and it needed to match the "purple surf" wall in my living room.  Mark read my blog for inspiration and this is what he created, the picture doesn't do it justice. It turned out to be more beautiful than I ever imagined.


References

Blog:  The Sunflower 

Artist: Mark Jesinoski

I've Got a Crush on YOU!

I may have already said this, but one of the things I love the most about blogging is it’s a place where I can just be me.  I can freely share the daily life of a quirky single professional gal from San Diego.  A girl like most single women I know who is just simply trying to make a difference and find her place in the world.  

I know there’s a sense of risk personally and professionally for me putting my life out there in the open cyberworld.  We’ve all read the articles warning people about posting too much personal information on their blogs or their Facebook.  In fact, that’s one of the reason’s I withheld from writing and posting my story for so long.  I am happy I finally let go of worry and mustered up the courage to write.  Fear is debilitating, if given enough power it hinders our ability to progress and move forward.  Dorothy Thompson explained it best when she wrote “Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live.”

With that said, I have decided since I am choosing to live.  Since I’ve been putting everything else out there—I have been so candid with my feelings, life, and struggles of my past, I may as well shout it out and tell the world this little secret too…. 

I have a crush! (Smiles and a giggling schoolgirl laugh).  OMG, I can’t believe I actually wrote that.  (Blushing just a little, another smirk and grin). 

Some of you are going to have to dig way back into your memory, others who may be a little younger, just try to imagine what I am describing in my journey into an 80s flashback. Girls (okay guys too), do you remember sitting in your room listening your Donny Osmond album “Puppy Love” over and over again?  Or The Jets singing out “How did you know 'cause I never told.  You found out, I've got a crush on you. No more charades, my hearts been displayed.  You found out, I've got a crush on you?” 

I know I’m 41, but I am kind of feeling like that young simple trusting, naïve teenager. I haven’t had a crush like this one in years.  Can a 41 year-old woman have a schoolgirl crush? What do you do with that?  It’s not like I can write his name all over my work notepad. Then again posting it online for the whole universe to read is probably a little more extreme than squiggly notes and hearts on my trapper keeper or peechee folder. 

It’s really difficult to completely explain and articulate what I am feeling, but I will give it my best attempt.  Having a crush is not quite like the ecstatic banter between the Handsome Man from Boulder and me.  That had some potential of going someplace (because the interest was mutual) had he not lived in a different city.   My crush is more like being the little band girl secretly eyeing the captain of the football team when I should have been playing “The Star Spangled Banner” or “Fiesta del Torro.”  I knew he was completely out of my league (okay universe) and I was most certainly not on his radar, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off his glistening eyes and boyish smile. Thinking of my crush also reminds me of the girl who was not only listening to Donny Osmond sing “Soldier of Love” or “The Other Side of the Mountain,” but the girl who felt that heart racing rush looking at his posters or the picture I stood in line for hours at a local bookstore to get. (Oh wait, I think I was 33 at the time.)   He also reminds me of the crushes I had on Tom Hanks when he played as Rick Gassco in “The Bachelor Party,” Charlie Sheen in “The Wraith,” John Cusak in any movie, and of course the Duke Boys. Oh and I can’t forget my instant infatuation and admiration the first time I saw Kevin Wong play beach volleyball (once again in my 30s). Ladies, there was a reason that man was named one of People Magazine’s “Most Beautiful People.” 

Oops, I have digressed. Oh such sweet memories….

The initial attraction to my present day crush was of course his bright smile, beautiful curls and overall demeanor.  From my limited observations I’ve noticed aside from being extremely handsome, my crush is musically gifted, artistic, brilliant, giving, caring, some what of a renaissance man.  A breath of fresh air.  The type of man when you think about him you can’t help but see the sun shine a little brighter in the cool blue sky.  What is especially refreshing is thinking about him makes me happy to be me; it inspires me to want to run out in the world and be a better person. Although a little offkey I automatically start singing Cowboy Mouth lyrics “Scream and shout like you were five. Are you glad to be alive?"  He is certainly the kind of crush that raises the bar of expectations for any man I may ever date.

I have to admit I’d be a little embarrassed if he came across this blog. I am sure he would know immediately I was talking about him, actually I don’t think he would even have to read this blog to know I have a little adoration for him.  I don’t think it would be totally awkward. I think after he stopped blushing, he would be flattered. He is the type of man who would find peace knowing he had that kind of impact.  I think he would be touched just knowing I secretly pray for him each night. Not in the sense that I am asking God or the universe to put a magical spell on him. It’s less selfish, more of positive vibe asking God to watch out for him, keep him safe, and provide him with the love and happiness he deserves.

For me, I find bliss being an acquaintance and perhaps some day a friend. I am also enjoying the natural intoxication that comes from within from a schoolgirl crush.The only difference now is hours listening to "Puppy Love" on vinyl has been replaced with listening to the MP3s I found online of the relaxing and beautiful sounds of skill and grace pouring from the fingertips of my crush to the piano keys.  

References (oh wow, the nerd in me is really coming out)

The Jets Crush on You

Donny Osmond Puppy Love

Donny Osmond Soldier of Love

Donny Osmond The Other Side of the Mountain

Cowboy Mouth Glad to Be Alive