I’m not really religious. I’m sort of muddled when it comes to choosing a name or a face for what I believe in, but I do believe in something. And I believe that believing in something makes me feel better.

But that’s not the point of this ramble. This is about Lent.

I have a friend who practices Lent and I’ve always been intrigued by the idea of ‘giving something up’. Will power has never been one of my strong suits, but that’s because I hate the idea of giving something up forever. Forty days of sacrifice? That’s something I can do.

It’s been explained to me that deciding what you give up should be based on what you like. Since it’s about sacrifice, it should involve giving up something you enjoy. (This point was made clear when I heroically declared I would give up folding my own laundry for the next month and a half). Apparently, a lot of people give up a favourite food. I dismissed this quickly. When you’ve already had to give up your favourite foods (and most food in general), and find that you actually dread having to decide what to cook because there are so few options (think celiac’s disease and not a zealous food watcher)… the idea of giving up more food just doesn’t seem right. Maybe that’s selfish but until you’ve ate a green pepper for dinner because nothing else in your pantry is safe… do not judge.

I was explaining the idea of Lent to a friend who got me to re-summarize what criteria people used in deciding what they gave up.

Something they enjoy.

Something (in a lot of cases) that isn’t healthy.

Something that they eat or use or experience often.

Then it hit me. I know what to give up.

I just have to figure out a way to tell him.

First of all, let me preface by saying that I love that I’m writing this post directly after writing one about being ‘an adult’. It would appear, that my membership to the youth club is still very active….

Friday night a good friend was in town and it seemed vital to celebrate and catch up over drinks. I went out glossed and sparkling, a blur of high boots, the perfect jeans and a red leather clutch. I smelled fantastic and felt that every single eyelash was magnified. (And for the record it was, new mascara makes my heart skip a beat).

A group of us met for drinks and while commenting on how adult I felt sitting at a bar, holding my clutch drinking a martini, I almost spill the sugary concoction all over myself.

This should have been a warning.

Five martinis later we moved on to yet another watering hole. More laughter, political discussion and marvelling at the ‘adultness’ of having just been invited to a trunk show (hooray!) I was in good spirits.

I was smart. I was beautiful. I was drunk.

Then someone re-introduced me to my old friend tequila and the night starts to get hazy. Suddenly I’m really hot and there isn’t enough air. Suddenly I’m having deep talks about the future, feeling hot tears (yes, I’m that girl) and stuttering. Suddenly I’m home. And suddenly, I miss my bed by two feet and with a loud thud make a bed on the floor.

I wake up raccoon eyed and confused. My mouth tastes like I licked a dirty kitchen floor. I lay on the cool ground and close my eyes as the tequila shivers begin. I thank God for a nearby water bottle and then nuzzle into the floor anxiously awaiting the escape that sleep will bring. Then I remember I have to work.

With children. In an hour.

I’m not proud to admit this, but I actually felt tears in my eyes. I washed my face, throw my hair in a ponytail (brushing it hurt) and change into the first things I can reach in my closet. I get sick, brush my teeth and then attempt to wash off the club admission stamp of last night. Evidence of my evening isn’t something I want to display to the kids, or more accurately- to myself. It takes an impressive amount of scrubbing and I find myself actually mumbling ‘out damned spot’. It’s then I realize that it’s a bad sign when you actually find yourself identifying with a murderer.

I drive to work stopping outside the local KFC to get sick on the side of the road. At first I consider just laying in the ditch for a few minutes to clear my head but then notice all the cars slowly down to watch me. Because apparently, in my town projectile vomit is worth a second look.

I guess sometimes you need to watch the train wreck jut to feel good you aren’t apart of it.

It will start without you knowing it. It will creep up on you in tiny increments until there is no turning back. And you realize now it’s smart that it happens in tiny steps, because if you knew that it was going to happen, you’re not sure you would think yourself ready. You would find an excuse to dislike it, look for a way to prevent it.

One day your feelings will get hurt and instead of sending an angry email you will decide to sleep on it. You will say sorry first when it’s your fault, and you will mean it when you say it. You will wear more sunscreen and a little less sparkly eyeshadow. You find that you give as many handshakes as high fives. You will find that life suddenly begins to eat up your time and daily two hour phone calls about every detail of your best friends life no longer happen. All of a sudden not every lip gloss you own will be named after a berry. You will learn that sometimes people are better off not knowing, and you will be able to keep your secrets secret. You won’t apologize for leaving the party early, for not dating someone who uses large stacks of pornography as a nightstand or for things out of your control.

You will floss more.

When your friends talk of their houses, they are no longer referring to the ones their dad built them in a tree. They own their own. They drive cars without rust, wear high heels without teetering and tell you they love you at times other than 3am. They will have offices and responsibilities and suddenly you will know that you can count on them to be there not just for the party, but for the funeral. They will not always know what to say, but they will know that they need to be there. And they will know that is enough.

Suddenly you will know more married people than not- and it doesn’t scare you.

You will find yourself a part of a club that you didn’t know existed. A club where people talk about 401k’s and wine and all the excellent television found on a Friday night. And at first you are reluctant to join the club, but you know you can’t go back. So you stay, not always knowing what to say or how you fit in but then you realize being here is less stressful, less dramatic. You find that you feel… relieved, happier to know that there is a life outside the world you knew. You realize this new group also talks about goals and the future and they say things like ‘when we do this’ not ‘if we can ever do this’- and that comforts you. They own plants that don’t die, ideas that are theirs and pots that have matching lids.

But sometimes, you will feel wistful. The great stories of dancing all night and drinking from contraptions held together with duct tape will feel over. You will miss the late nights but can now recall the painful mornings. You will fondly remember spending all your money on shoes and clothes but now like the idea of a home and savings accounts and pots with matching lids. You will miss knowing every single detail of your closest friends lives, but then you realize, you are starting to learn the details of your own.

One day without realizing it, you will have become an adult.

Does anyone else ever imagine what the six Jeopardy categories they would most like to have if they were on the show? I think about this regularly and think I have mine narrowed down:

1. Books (preferably books by Melissa Banks or Bob Woodward)
2. Scrabble ( I really think I would do well in this. Probably because when I can’t sleep I chose words and try to calcuate their scores. Wow. If I wasn’t so awesome I would be a huge nerd.)
3. The Bush Administration (I’m not a fan, I just like reading about it)
4. Sex and the City or The Office (it feels wrong to have tv consume two categories, so I would be happy with either one.)
5. Places that start with “R” or movies starring John Cusack
6. Usless celebrity knowledge

Does anyone else feel that the Barack/Hillary debate is dangerous when people say things like “It’s time a woman was president” or “it’s time a black person was president”, without saying a single comment about where each of them stand on important issues facing the States? Don’t get me wrong, although I don’t live in the States, I see myself more of a Democrat than Republican, but voting for someone because of what they look like seems just as bad as not voting for someone because of what they look like.

Also, does anyone else feel that there are backup singers on American Idol who should be contestants and contestants who should be back up singers?

And am I the only one who feels just really sad for Britney now? And then, sad that I feel so worried about someone I don’t know?

I’m just curious.

I just read this and felt the need to comment.

For the record, “extremely poor judgement” is when you wear shoulder pads or give a thumbs up review of Speed 2: Cruise Control.

Driving drunk and then leaving your teammate who you think is dead warrants something a little worse than the term ‘extremely poor judgement’. It’s like saying Britney is currently experiencing a “personal blip”. It’s just not enough.

To show my outrage, I think I’m retiring my University of Illinois t-shirt this year from March Madness, even though I really rock the orange.

Thanks for nothing Jamar.

I’m tired. Not in the “I just ran a marathon and feel so ALIVE but yet so tired I need a good nap and a bottle of gatorade” way but in the “I woke up today counting all the things I had to do before I could go back to sleep” sort of way.

It feels like it’s a bad sign when the idea of a life exhausts you.

Maybe it’s the month. Valentines Day sends a jolt of love soaked fuel to coupled people. Since I am single, I used my energy in deflecting all the conversations of love, lust and “I can’t believe how much we are meant to be together” talk. Right now, I feel I have nothing to add to any conversation that includes the word love. My body is starting to physically convulse when I see yet another happy couple shopping at Safeway. It’s not pretty and I’m not proud. Maybe I’m suffering a Valentines Day hangover?

Or maybe it’s the weather. I’m a scarf whore but I’m getting tired of the 26 layers of long sleeves and fleece zip ups and warm socks that I must don before leaving the house. I’m tired of walking slowly, planning every step in advance, searching the sidewalk for a glorious patch of raw pavement not glazed with ice. I’m tired of thicky icy roads that become a deathtrap when your truck has tires that are more bald than Britney. I drive nervously, hunched over my steering wheel like a grandmother and feel my neck muscles get angry.

It could be my job. I love my job. I love working with kids and putting on plays and listening intently as they describe the color of icing they had on their birthday cake. But sometimes pretending that each of their new discoveries is as exciting to you as to them can leave me searching for tylenol. I’m not talking about learning how to read a challenging word, or memorizing a difficult monologue- that’s the good stuff that’s easy to get excited for. But showering excitement every class over new shoes or pet iguanas can be difficult and draining. Realizing that sometimes you just don’t care about Roddy the iguana can make a girl feel bad.

Or maybe it’s nothing so easily defined in one group- maybe it’s a cluster of little things. Thinking of unreturned phone calls, unanswered questions, not understanding how to file my taxes, searching for my favourite pair of mittens I lost , or sweating under a looming deadline I set for myself in regards to a project I started for fun. Maybe I’m tired because I keep making the same mistake- missing the same people I told myself I do not miss. Maybe I’m tired because I don’t understand what’s happening on Lost or because today it feels like I’m the only person at work having a bad hair day. Maybe it’s all of those things, or none of them. Or maybe I just need a nap.

In heaven there will be applesauce, high top sneakers and duvets. You won’t need to give explanations, or apologies or change for a dollar. There will be no alarm clocks or tube socks or allergies to gluten. Friendships and milk will never sour with age. You will never lose the reciept, your sanity, or a bet with your brother. Stamps will be free. You won’t have the same argument, with the same person, in the same way for years on end. In fact- you won’t argue at all.

Oh, and green gummy bears? They will fall from the sky like raindrops.

I saw this here, and was ridiculously curious what mine would say. I have to say, the results really boosted my ego. I like the idea of being addicting… like a legal version of crack.

Your Candy Heart Says “Cutie Pie”

You always seem to have a hot date, even though you never try to meet anyone. A total charmer, you have a natural appeal that keeps you in high demand. Your ideal Valentine’s Day date: multiple dates with multiple people Your flirting style: 100% natural What turns you off: serious relationship talks Why you’re hot: you’re totally addicting

I read about this here. And loved it because 1) who doesn’t love thinking of all the things they love (?) and 2) I’m a sucker for lists.

Things That I’m a Sucker For…

- Accents. Sweet Jesus, accents!
- the smell of the bookstore
- someone else washing my hair
- tequila
- Ikea
- guys who cry, but who also you know… chop wood and build stuff.
- handwritten letters
- corn in anything I can figure out a way to add it to
- Jon Stewart
- any food that comes on a stick (carmel apple- with nuts, kebob, corn dog…)
- Scrabble
- the George
- 3am phone calls that aren’t an emergency
- black and white photography
- puzzles. Not Sudoku, puzzles from a box.
- rootbeer in bottles
- dodgeball
- making lists
- the perfect quote
- fort building
- Aveda shampure
- duvets
- “The Hills”. Damnit.
- cotton candy ice cream
- men who play guitar
- toques
- the sale rack
- fat, glossy fashion magazines
- Julie Andrews’ sing-a-longs
- snow days
- drink specials
- my bed
- Bob Woodward books
- white tanks tops (can you ever have enough?)
- roadtrips

Man. I love this list.