Levity
The painful (and sometimes funny) discovery of blind spots
When the irony fell on us all at the same moment, we dissolved into gales of laughter.
Fourteen of us sat around the conference room table in Chicago. It was an opportunity to gather with colleagues; most of us had never met in person.
On the first morning of our two-day confab, we encircled that table, sharing what we hoped to glean from our time together. I voiced my desire to identify blind spots in my role as a trainer and facilitator; that desire was written on the glass-covered pink wall alongside the hopes expressed by my cohort.
And then we dug into the work: learning, discussing, asking questions, practicing, and receiving feedback. It. Was. Awesome. I am a better trainer because of the insightful comments of my colleagues. Our day’s efforts were rewarded with a hearty meal and an evening outing. My night concluded in a smaller group, waxing philosophical in oversized chairs in the hotel lobby.
When I made it to my room around midnight, I fell into bed exhausted and wholly satisfied.
But sleep didn’t come quickly. My introverted nature got the better of me after a full day of activity. Like an overstimulated toddler who didn’t get to nap on time, my nervous system was in hyperdrive and I laid awake until after 3am.
Read MoreArduous or Awesome?
It took 2.5 hours in a local department store.
Seriously. 150 minutes of running from one part of the store to another, all in an effort to secure complimentary clothing for our bi-annual family portrait session. In a fairly uncharacteristic move, I’d left this chore to the day before the shoot. Nice. Must have something to do with how much I deplore shopping.
To coordinate clothing for five different bodies and tastes doesn’t seem like it should be that difficult. It’s not like there are 12 of us or anything. Read More
4 Lessons from Lip Surgery (Spare Yourself the Trouble)
I was afraid.
In May I shared with you my diagnosis of skin cancer and my fears around the location and removal of it. My surgery was July 14th and I’m now on the mend. Not surprisingly, I’ve learned a few things during the last 10+ days of recovery. Spare yourself the skin cancer surgery and just learn these nuggets vicariously through me, okay?
Why I break dance (or something like that)
I did something dumb the other day. Really dumb.
The consequences might have been far worse; I got off easy with merely a sore back. Read More
Singing Unhindered (Why we should sing in church)
This kind of embarrassment went way beyond the social undoing caused by wearing the collar of your polo shirt the wrong way in the early 1980’s.
It was the beginning of a new quarter. I dutifully arrived in the choir classroom for the first day of the required class. I’d already completed the other 7th grade required quarters of shop, home economics, and art.
Familiar with piano after several years of lessons, I understood what she meant when she instructed the class to sing back the arpeggio she would play for each individual. This was, apparently, the means by which she would determine vocal range and placement in the choir. Read More
Feet
I’ve spent the week walking in Job’s sandals as I prepared to teach his story to two classrooms of high schoolers. (Check out Launch Ministries Christian release time Bible classes.) It’s a tough book to immerse one’s self in, so I’ve been on the hunt for some levity. Perhaps you, too, will get a giggle out of this snippet of my life from days gone by. (If you need another laugh, check out one of my most popular posts ever here.)
My second daughter has two different sized feet. Yes, this is common, but hers are dramatically different sizes. Prior to moving to Boise where Nordstrom is conspicuously absent, I was willing to shell out the extra bucks to buy her shoes there because they’ll sell you two different sized shoes as one pair — as long as the feet measure more than 1.5 sizes different. And hers did. Read More
The Most Hazardous Shopping Trip Ever
By now you know that I take God’s Word seriously. I want you to also know that I don’t take myself too seriously. Life in a fallen world can be heavy and painful, which must be answered with Defiant Praise. I think it also warrants purposeful seeking of laughter and levity, so we interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to bring you this message:
I was scheduled to attend a special event and had bought an outfit to wear to it. The new clothing warranted some more ‘substantial’ undergarments than I currently had in my wardrobe. Off I went to the nearest department store and surveyed the vast array of options to lift, slenderize, and smooth my lumpy self. It appeared that all the marketing adjectives were just euphemisms for ‘squeeze’ or ‘squish’.
I selected several tank tops and camisoles in my size and ducked covertly into the dressing room. As I pulled the first candidate over my head, it required some rather exaggerated movements to get it into position.
I think I stood a few inches taller in that narrow mirror: the sausage casing had redistributed my volume into a longer but narrower profile. My breathing was shallower, but not so much so that I felt lightheaded. Surely these were indications of the efficacy of the not-your-grandmother’s-girdle? The fluorescent lights seemed to offset whatever bulge-reducing benefits the apparatus offered. As a gal who really doesn’t enjoy shopping, I was eager to draw this escapade to a close. No need to try on the others; this one would suffice.
I crossed my arms, grasped the hem of the camisole near my hips and started to pull it off. I was successful in my effort until I reached the bottom of my ribcage. I couldn’t get it up any higher, much less all the way over my head and off. These garments should come with warning labels like toddler pajamas that aren’t flame retardant: caveat try-er on-er.
In the last year I’ve been suffering from a shoulder injury: an inflamed rotator cuff. Raising my arms more than 60° from hanging at my sides results in sharp pain. As a result, I’m extremely weak on my left side. The ugly truth set in: getting out of that camisole was going to require strength I simply didn’t have. I actually began to panic as I realized the gravity of my situation:
I was stuck.
In shapewear.
In a fitting room.
What does one do in such a situation? Rational thought escaped me. Was it oxygen depletion?
LifeCall commercials from years-past flashed through my mind: “Help, I’m stuck in some Spanx and I can’t get out.” I wasn’t wearing my necklace.
Dressing rooms, unlike hospital rooms, don’t have an emergency call button to page the nurses’ station.
Dial 911 on the phone and help is on the way for life-threatening circumstances. What’s the number for emergency underwear extraction?
Suddenly the thought of help arriving to deliver me from the fashion flames was more frightening than staying in the dressing room eternally. Generations of mothers have warned their children to always change their underwear in case they’re found in an unfortunate predicament. Well, this yet-unpurchased underwear was definitely clean, but I had absolutely no desire to be found only partially in it. Some sausage had escaped the casing and its’ bulge was exaggerated by the tourniquet-effect of the shapewear sitting mid-midriff.
No, I’ll just stay here. In the dressing room. Surely after a number of days without nourishment it won’t be so tight and I’ll be able to get myself out. I clearly wasn’t considering how the lack of nourishment would also affect my strength. (I told you rational thought had escaped me.)
Minutes passed as I sat on the narrow bench under the fluorescent glow, deliberating on my predicament. I decided to make one more attempt having rested my shoulder briefly. This was my Hail Mary: everything depended on it.
I made it out. A bit unconventionally (think down, not up), but nonetheless out. It was like wrestling a crocodile. Steve Irwin (may he rest in peace) ain’t got nothin’ on me. No, siree.
Is this why women go shopping together? To prevent accidents such as these? We need to have an ECT (Emergency Clothing Technician) with us when we brave the dressing room?
By the time I’d paid for my goods and made it to the car, the whole situation was hilarious to me.
Perhaps it was oxygen circulating properly again.
but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.