advertising, the list

[Part 3 of an interesting debate. Links to Part 1 and Part 2.]

Having spent the last weekend with a few of my girlies - some single, some engaged, some married - I was made to remember one of the main sources of my elongated single phase and the near-cause of a breakup between Andrew and myself in our early days of dating: The List.

My particular version of The List had several incarnations, the first being one that I wrote when I was 19 on a train from Pune to Delhi during a trip to India. It consisted of exactly 47 calculated questions designed to snare potential suitors in a trap of their own making (The List can be found here...because I'm feeling extra generous and self-deprecating today).

#15: "Do you like cats?" (This was added because I myself like cats, and was aware that many men did not.)
#16: "Do you like polka music?" (Added directly after #15 to ensure that He Who Was Being Questioned was not absentmindedly answering "yes" to all questions in a sly attempt at winning me over.)

The second draft came about in my early 20s and was an attempt at spiritualizing The List. I wanted characteristics such as loyalty, prophetic inclination, leadership skills, an ability to mentor, and a strong testimony. In addition, I wanted him to enjoy dancing, playing piano, have interesting eyes, be a good hugger, and, of course, be fond of cats.

By my mid 20s I decided The List could do with more editing and I narrowed it down to three top points:

1. Ability to hear God's voice and follow it.
2. Big.
3. Can make me laugh.

Before anyone gets the wrong idea about #3, let me explain. I had, at the time, a penchant for what I referred to as "teddy bear guys". Tall, yes, but more importantly sturdy. Beefy. Pudgy. My family came to know this phase in my life as my "inFATuation" with large men and would routinely compete to point out men bearing the greatest resemblance to the Koolaid guy.

"Sarah! Look - it's your boyfriend!"

My obsession with writing, rewriting, editing and agonizing over The List made it nearly impossible for me to see the potential that was right in front of me, which is where Andrew sat for six years before we dated. Consumed as I was with designing an ideal husband I hadn't given thought to how ridiculous The List was, how unattainable, and how restrictive.

When Andrew and I began to date, The List took on a life of its own - not unlike Jabberwocky deriving the power to terrorize Alice from her own imagination - haunting, taunting, and reminding me of the prerequisites I had established. "He's great," I thought, "but he doesn't really dance, he's not a teddy bear guy, he hasn't technically been to India, and HE DOESN'T LIKE CATS."

God had to arrest me in order to keep us together. "Sarah," he cautioned, "Andrew, the man you are falling in love with, is more than the sum of his parts. He is more than the accumulation of check marks off The List."

Recently I came upon this delicious little controversial article: right here, and, consequentially, the true meaning behind The List.

Bad experiences and damaged trust are often catalysts for rule-making, says Evan Marc Katz, the Los Angeles-based author of Why You're Still Single: Things Your Friends Would Tell You If You Promised Not to Get Mad . It's a natural defence mechanism, he says.

The List was designed to keep the bad guys out but I hadn't realized it had acted to keep me in. Looking over those 47 questions I recognize the frightened 19 year old who had already known Those Scary Guys who hooted and hollered at other women (#5), were too clingy/needy (#13), were serial daters/players (#23), who punched girls (#31), who ran to alcohol/women/other when they were upset (#32), and told me how to dress/behave (#43). I was so busy protecting myself I hadn't realized the purpose to a REAL relationship was to extend myself, to expose myself, to make myself available to Andrew, who needed me to assure him that I, also, wasn't one of Those Scary Girls.

And, yes, by the way, you caught the title of that book correctly. OMIGAH, right? OK, I just want you all to know: I did not write this book although I kind of wish I had. It's available on Amazon if you'd like a pick up a copy. You know, for "a friend". It includes such tasty tidbits of wisdom such as:

• Don’t be the "men are pigs" woman. She’s boring. She’s unhappy. And the good men don’t want her.
• Don’t demand the right to set arbitrary rules, let alone change them every five minutes. Act like a crazy person and you’ll be treated like one.
• Realize when he doesn’t want to talk and give him that space. Men don’t usually feel the need to share as much. Respect that or watch him shut down even more.
  

Get the healing you need to move on. Once you move on, don't look back. Make yourself as available as you would like a partner to make themselves available to you. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and warmly. Replace The List with non-negotiables: values that you have seriously thought through and prayed about; the ones that you know you could not spend a lifetime without. A word to the wise: a fondness for cats shouldn't be one of them.

And then, date. GO OUT AND DATE. He's out there, hoping that you'll be soft enough to let him woo you. She's out there, hoping that you'll pursue her.

Despite her single status, Ms. Di Bari sticks to her regulations. They help keep her standards high and maintain her dignity. But most of all, they protect her from heartbreak. Sometimes, she feels a little like she's missing out.

“There were times when having the rules actually hurt me because I might've missed out on an opportunity because of them,” she says. “I guess I'm a glutton for punishment.”

crouching tiger

Andrew, asleep, is one of my favourite things in the world. I've mentioned it here, here, and here. Anyone asleep is pretty much adorable, but it's the juxtaposition of Andrew's daytime persona and his asleep persona that charm me the most.

My husband is a strong, assertive, firstborn alpha male. He has a preternatural gift of leadership. He is as quick with his opinions as he is firm with them. He oversees a youth group, a cell group, a band, an album, our finances, and the strict training of our 4-month old lab all while drawing up blueprints for the future. He loves innovation. He loves intentionality. He loves intelligence. He's the character in the story that you want to be on the same side as. For many reasons.

Where Andrew goes, action follows. Whether it's social or strategic or creative: he is kinetic energy. That's not to say that he's frenetic because his actions - internally and externally - are always deliberate.

This confidence, which Kris Vallotton says "always looks like arrogance to the insecure", has carried its share of woes including misunderstandings, assumptions and intimidation. Somehow, those who misunderstand, assume and are intimidated (including, on occasion, yours truly) are invited to eat humble pie when it is proven that he had, in fact, nothing but the best intention and outcome in mind. And, oh! the outcome. The boy has a touch of genius about him.

He wears sleep well. It is his state of uncoiling and unraveling. It is his time of peace and safety. My little heart melts because who am I - me, with my bad moods and barbed words - who am I to share this bed? Who am I to see him so poufy-haired, so slack-jawed, so utterly like his six year old self in weathered, matte, 4x6" photographs displayed in his grandparents' basement?

What is my shoulder that he would touch it in the middle of the night to see if I am cold and then, because I am, to pull the duvet over me?

"And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?"
(The Tiger, William Blake)

"Greatness lies not in being strong, but in the right use of strength."
(Henry Ward Beecher)

erase and rewind

A funny sort of feeling, a familiar feeling, romanced me the other day as I was waiting for the subway after work. One of my favourite songs, "Reign of Love" was chosen at random by my iPhone.

The piano chords, like little waves, rolled over and over as I visited happy memories from a year ago, two years ago, five, ten... I remembered a time when I wasn't a wife, when I didn't have Andrew to confide in, to grow with, to hold. I remembered the eve of my 20th birthday, in India, when I was in a foul mood because I couldn't control time. I knew would turn 20 the next day no matter if I wanted to or not. I remembered the exact view of the white topped Himalayas the next morning from my tent flap door. I remembered the smell of the thin air. The taste of yellow curry. The dense fog in the valleys.

C.S. Lewis' theory, that "humans are amphibians - half spirit and half animal" and "as spirits they belong to the eternal world, but as animals they inhabit time" speaks sense to the lurching sensation I sometimes feel from being thrown into the future or being dragged from the past too soon for my liking. Or not soon enough.

Let me visit the Himalayas again with the understanding that my 20s would be far superior to my teenage years. Let me explore my 20s again with the understanding that the man of my dreams would be patient, kind, not envious, not boastful, not proud, not rude, not self-seeking, not easily angered, would keep no few records of wrongs, would rejoice with the truth, would protect me, trust me, hope and persevere for me.

Those of you who have seen Click will share with me the shock experienced at the end of the film when, somehow, Adam Sandler makes you cry. More ridiculous than the concept of a universal remote that controls one's universe is the idea that he fast-forwarded and slow-motioned his way through life. But, given the chance, wouldn't we all?

Is it any wonder that we worry, as I did on my final day lived as a 19 year old? Do we not all spend the greater part of our lives under the shadow of an event that has not yet come to pass?* Is it any wonder that we desire to freeze moments in time and revisit them on occasion? Is it any wonder that we think longingly about our past and wish we had the perspective that we have now?

As the subway screeched into Dufferin station and the force of air hit me I felt doused in hope and, more than hope: joy. Joy that life has turned out far better than I could have imagined, has never been as dire as I predict, and has only big, open arms for me in the future. As long as I am forced to inhabit time I will make a friend of it.

* Maurice Maeterlinck

'Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button now
(Anna Nalick)

Reign of love
I can't let go
To the sea I offer

This heavy load
(Coldplay)

dream a little dream

At the risk of alienating my male readers, we're going to talk about DREAMS and FAIRIES and MERMAIDS today!

I stumbled upon this fantastic photo shoot and loved the shots of girls underwater. I guess it has something to do with The Water-Babies, which I've discussed before. I used to have reoccurring dreams that I was able to breathe underwater - one was so real that I immediately felt the urge to go visit my grandparents' swimming pool to test out my newly discovered skill. Thank goodness I didn't drown myself in those early years.

I also recall having many flying dreams. Not flying very high (although, I could, if I wanted to, shoot up like a rocket straight into the air) but rather coasting along at my regular height, along with my regular perspective, but horizontally instead of vertically. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world: lifting my feet off the ground and almost breaststroking through the air.

Again, these dreams could also have been the outcome of reading fiction as a child. I was mildly obsessed with the illustrated children's book Flower Fairies of the Summer for a lengthy period of time, and my brother will probably remember being forced into my imaginary game of "let's pretend we're fairies". True to my researching nature I chose a suitable fairy for him to pretend to be based on physical similarities, as well as one for myself when I was younger and one that I wished to be when I was older. I'm not kidding. I had it all worked out. Our house became a forest-hidden fairies' hideaway and the patio umbrella in the backyard was a giant mushroom.

(It's nothing compared to, again, the underwater phase I went through after seeing The Little Mermaid in theaters when it came out. We were merpeople. And our family car was a fish. And the four doors were gills.)

Come to think of it, the pictures from this fairy book are so ingrained in my memory that this one came to mind when I saw Andrew the other morning, who had just gelled his hair in little, upwards spikes.

I think I originally wanted this post to be about dreams. I must have diverted somewhere.

Actually, I'm just stalling time while I prepare yet another controversial post on singlehood. You have been warned.

advertising, revisited

Good! Responses! This is exactly what I love to see, and what I desire this blog to be about: conversation.

Although anonymity leaves me at a disadvantage to address particularities (not to mention making the conversation more like Catholic confession) I figured I'd respond to the few comments left by those who disagree with "advertising".

Anonymous #1 said:

This blog leaves me questioning what we teach on our youth and young adult encounters. I don't really like it.

I am assuming, Anonymous #1, that what you "don't really like" is my post and not what we teach on youth and young adult encounters. Based on this assumption, I will continue. First, let me explain to those of you who do not know that an "encounter" weekend is a retreat provided by our church for people to receive solid, Biblical teaching, healing from life's hurts, and experience face-time with God. They're brilliant and I highly recommend them. Having lead a few myself, I can assure you that what we deal with on encounters is God's view on sexuality, healthy guy/girl friendships, and soul ties. Unless I am very much mistaken, the teachings do not include anything about advertising and relationships. If anything, what is MOST emphasized on an encounter (throughout all teachings) is that God loves you the way you are, AND LOVES YOU TOO MUCH TO LET YOU STAY THAT WAY.

Anonymous #2 said:

"Ask your female friends which area(s) of your body require less hair." i am a male of the hairier verity and this actually offends me i have strangle with getting teased and insulted about the amount of hair i have since i puberty. it has taken me years to accept that God didn't make a mistake when he made me hairy.

I married an Italian so I know ALL about body hair. If it was insinuated that I recommend guys submit themselves to full-body waxing, I apologize. In fact (this is personal preference and all girls are different), hairless men give me the willies. I prefer my hubby's chest to all others I have seen and I tell him frequently. Since you have accepted that God didn't make a mistake when he made you hairy it surprises me that you would still be offended. I doubt that there is a person alive who has not been teased relentlessly about one physical attribute or another, but a healed wound should no longer register pain. If a loving friend's recommendation to make two eyebrows out of a unibrow caused instant offence and resentment, I'd wonder if the issue was properly dealt with.

NEXT!

Anonymous #3:

Sarah,

I'm worried that articles like this will create a group of "perfectly" weighted singles, trying to practice the not so subtle art of advertising by deceiving themselves and others into thinking that if they can weigh in, shave in all the right places, and look sexy, their insecurities will disappear.

Anonymous #3, I appreciate that you view me on a first name basis. I wish I had the pleasure. I loathe deception so I am very glad that you brought it up. In our culture, the "body image" argument has become popularized - however, that was not what my original post was addressing. If all young adults came as they were, I'm almost positive no one would find anyone else attractive. I am not arguing that people change what is inherant about them, only that they embrace the BEST REPRESENTATION of themselves. No one's best representation of themselves is to be 30 pounds overweight, or unhygenic, or ignorant, or rude. We ask ministry team members to wear deoderant and have breath mints on hand before ministering to people at close range; how is this any different? My beef is with those who vehemently desire a partner who will love them, "warts and all", and are surprised and disappointed when the only coffee dates they're asked on are with toads.

The other day, I was reading this passage from the Message out loud to Andrew:

But Jesus said, "Not everyone is mature enough to live a married life. It requires a certain aptitude and grace. Marriage isn't for everyone. Some, from birth seemingly, never give marriage a thought. Others never get asked—or accepted. And some decide not to get married for kingdom reasons. But if you're capable of growing into the largeness of marriage, do it." (Matthew 19:11-12)

That's right: "Others never get asked - or accepted." I'd love to see that demographic shrink as much as possible but, in order to do that, there must be a realization that the maturity required for a married life is death. Death to your comfort eating habits, death to the clothes that "define you", death to a self-indulgent existance. If you're dead, it won't matter if a mentor takes you aside and gives you some tips on how to be more attractive to the opposite sex, will it?

Keep the comments coming! And, if you're really brave, sign your name.

huggy bear

I love hugging. There are few things less tantalizing to me than crawling into bed with my husband, either at the end of a long day or at the beginning of one, and snuggling with him - be he lucid (evening) or barely conscious (morning). I can recall spending my single nights alone in my double bed crying not because I was unmarried, getting older, or overarchingly lonely but because, at night, the bed seemed so big. So big and empty. I missed something I had never had.

The young adult phase is a difficult one for those of us who communicate through and are comforted by physical touch. Sandwiched between childhood (where it is your duty to submit yourself to the smothering affections of parents, relatives, family friends, and most members of the church) and marriage (insurance against empty-bed-syndrome), young adults often work, play, eat, and sleep in a hug-less void.

Even for those who claim not to be physically affectionate (first of all, you lie: you just haven't been taught yet), studies show that hugging is actually therapeutic and increases overall health and well-being. Psychotherapist Virginia Satir stated (and is now quoted in one of the cutest/most annoying kindergarten songs of all time):

"We need 4 hugs a day for survival. We need 8 hugs a day for maintenance. We need 12 hugs a day for growth."

But what about those who don't get their recommended dosage? In the stiff-upper-lipped city of London, England, artist Keetra Dean Dixon has erected an anonymous hugging wall (seen here). The New York Times visited a New Jersey high school to interview the students on the specifics of social hugging, while middle schools in Alabama and Illinois are giving DETENTIONS for hugging (NBC News covered the trend in Onion-like fashion).

Here at TACF, we practice the Christian-approved art of side hugging which definitely has its advantages: contact without conception. I'm horrible at these because I keep forgetting protocol and throwing my arms around people.

I wish all you who are surviving a hug-free season safe passage. In the meantime, get out there and start hugging others - be it side hugging, A-frame hugging, bear hugging, or otherwise. Just don't get detention.

*hug*

e-i-e-i-o

I've been startled by ChooseVeg.ca's new bus ads on the TTC, brought to me "by concerned Toronto citizens and Mercy for Animals". Mostly due to the fact that the dog they used in one of them, above, could be Solomon in a few years.

Why love one and eat the other? they ask the public (which is rarely a wise marketing strategy, since it begs an answer: "I'll tell you why I'd buy a mattress anywhere else...") and, so, I thought I'd answer them.

Because meat is murder. Tasty, tasty murder. For one.

Secondly, I am not like most of the target audience that ChooseVeg (I assume) is attempting to reach: those who eat meat, but cry at the thought of eating house pet. I lived in Korea and very well might have injested cat and/or dog and the thought doesn't make me squeamish. I have also eaten snail, grasshopper, fertilized egg, ostrich, and raw octopus so apparently I'll try anything once. I wouldn't eat my OWN dog, however, since he cost us a fair bit of coin and Andrew would, most likely, kill me. Oh, and I love him.

I suppose if I had grown up on a farm, picked a calf out for myself, named it, raised it in the house, fed it every morning, bought medicine for it when it was sick, played fetch with it, let it lick my face, and nap on my lap then, yes, I suppose I would have a hard time eating a hamburger made out of it. But I didn't.

I live in the city where I don't see the animals I eat cooped up, abused, injected with hormones, clipped/sterilized without anesthetic, or butchered. I just eat my meat. AND I LIKE MY MEAT.

Since we've lived in our neighbourhood, which also is a meat packing district, I've seen transport trailers filled with cows and, just this morning, chickens. There is part of me that feels sad when I catch a peek at those big, dumb, brown eyes of a cow about to be slaughtered through the metal cage its kept in, the same part of me that feels ill after having caused the early death of three dozen baby convict fish, but not enough to turn vegan - which is ChooseVeg's answer.

I guess we are still aware, even if it's vaguely aware, of the way things used to be. In the Garden. When we were at peace with animals and ate the way we were originally designed to. Before the curses.

I guess, in heaven, the vegetarian food will be so good it will make up for the lack of meat. Until then, we're stuck with tofu.