Rah-Rah-Rah OR The Cheerleading Act

Do you know me a little bit? Have you had a drink with me once or sat in a class with me, worked alongside me, played sports (what?) with me, or ever laid eyes on me?
 
Then you know I'm not the cheerleading type. I don't have the stamina for it - especially when it comes to the "RAH factor" and the flexibility. Also the body type. (Let's not go there.)

The RAH factor

But, guess what? Sometimes, as they say, life happens and you're stuck holding the baton (do cheerleaders have batons? Yes, I am THAT out of touch) - or the pom-poms (there we go) - charged with cheering your heart out, at the top of your lungs, waving your arms, anything to drown out the defeaning cry of the negativity gremlins on the side lines:

YOU CAN'T DO IT

THIS WILL NEVER WORK

IT'S OVER

YOU'RE WORTHLESS

IF ONLY YOU WERE GOOD ENOUGH

BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME

They're loud and they never tire. And they're always ready at a moment's notice to knock your door down and bring you to tears.

Screw the gremlins, I say in my best high-pitched voice. It sounds almost peppy. Almost.

I don't belong here on the sidelines - even in high school, I was the girl in the top left corner of the stands, or way back in the back behind the snack bar (typical). The closest I got to the "action" was sneaking a quick hello to my marching band boyfriend who sat in the stands (again, typical). I have never been an up-close-and-in-your-face kind of girl. I wasn't born with the RAH factor. I was born with the "roll with it" middle child factor.The impossibly-tall-and-yet-shy-and-introverted factor. The walk softly and carry a big notebook sort of quiet observer. Seeking peace, not battle. Never very good at competition.

Peaceful girls play the flute

I made a habit of turning everything into a joke from an early age. My grandfather used to call me "JK" because I was constantly picking on my little sister as he drove us to and from elementary and middle school. I developed a fondness for the nickname and went with it. I learned to hide behind humor, sarcasm, cynicism to cope with things that made me feel threatened, or scared, or alone. I became the anti-RAH girl. I silently hated the RAH girls - and maybe a part of me still does. There's always been something unauthentic about it to me. The fact is, there isn't always something to be RAH about.

This is part of my personal code - in the words of Rocky "this world ain't all sunshine and rainbows" and while I love a sunny day and a sweet rainbow as much as the next gal, I also know part of life is accepting the stormy weather, too. Perhaps that gives context to my one and only tattoo - Donne-Moi La Verite - "Give Me Truth," in my beloved French. It was an uncharacteristically rash decision on my 21st birthday, and I'll admit there was a bit of liquid courage involved, but I've never regretted it. It's true. I want the truth - with all of its cracks and ugliness - hard and fast. Doesn't matter how bad it is. I only like sugar coating on frosted mini wheats (bumper sticker, anyone?).

And this is why I'm not the best at cheerleading. But - listen up - sister has her spanky shorts on, folks. Sister is warming up the old vocal chords and twirling the baton at lightening speeds. And by the time I'm finished, this team will have WON the game, the finals, STATE, and, hell, maybe we'll be the first imaginary team to make it to the gosh-darn Super Bowl. 

V-I-C-T-O-R-Y Vince Lombardi wrote our battle cry: "I firmly believe that any man's finest hour, the greatest fulfillment of all that he holds dear, is that moment when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted on the field of battle - victorious."

Now THAT is something I can get behind.

Because sometimes you have no other choice. Sometimes you're the only one in the stands and you're facing great loss. Victory seems impossible with seconds left on the clock. The team - your team, your everything - is looking to you for reassurance, for support, for encouragement. Sometimes, magically, life finds a way of drawing the RAH out of you. Sometimes the RAH is the only way to get through it - despite all of your own worries, and fears, and struggles, despite your trembling hands. You feel yourself beginning to lean into the pain of it all, finding that buried belief you knew was always there. With each RAH, you feel your words sparking movement, forward motion, and - before you know it - your speed is picking up. You've taken the hits and made your way back to your feet - you're moving again.


So, go team, etc. And in the immortal words of best-ever Friday Night Lights: Clear eyes - Full hearts - Can't lose.

Take 'em to church, Coach.

Operation: Love This House

Lately I'm overwhelmed by just how much I quietly compare within the confines of my own mind. I scroll through Instagram, through Pinterest, and think Wouldn't that be nice? Even before I get a chance to think, Wow, how pretty...how serene...how relaxing, I jump in with the gimme-gimmes.

Growing up, my mother was constantly saying Don't compare. Don't compare your shoes. Don't compare your hair. Don't compare your family. Don't compare your clothing. Don't compare your looks.

Sorry mom and everyone else: I've never been good at it. I'd like to think I have been an OK sister and daughter. A decent friend. And eventually, a considerate girl friend, classmate, coworker, you name it. I have found the time to speak my mind, or bite my tongue. To work hard with my head down, flexible to jump in when needed. To offer a kind word in comfort, a much-needed hug. But I've always been a compare-er. Sometimes silently, sometimes - as D can attest - not so silently.

Why is it so easy for her? Must be nice. All she has to do is blink and look perfect. I wish I had that life. Why do I have to stand next to her? Why do I always look tired? Why can't I keep my house clean like she can?!

I know it's wrong and that makes it worse. I dive in with negativity and then beat myself up for my automatic reaction. But that's beside the point - sort of.

The house was never ideal.

I found it in a rush, a moment of panicked flight, and would have signed the lease before I even got to see it. It was a house - clean enough - and I could afford it (sort of). I moved in in May of 2009 and have lived there ever since. I spent the first night alone in the house, scrubbing down the filthy cabinets and floors. I was so nervous that first night that I drank a few glasses of wine (read: the bottle) and passed out clutching Marlee with Sex and the City blaring from my TV on the floor.

Again, not ideal.

But engagements, wedding planning, the first few days of marriage, the frightening "What were we thinking?!" hours of a new doggie addition, the first days of new jobs, the long and hard days going to and from a job we hated, very tight financial times, better times, sad times, and hysterical late night dance party times - all have been housed in our little pale blue townhouse on Lancaster Square.

So why do I resent it so much? Why do I look at the small kitchen and pinpoint every flaw: the floors are old and scratched, the cabinets are dull and dingy, the appliances are older than I am, there isn't enough natural light, the faux-wood counters are starting to chip, it's drafty. Why don't I look at that house that I've built myself in - that I've built a family in - and feel a twinge of love in my heart?

Because I compare.

I see the back yard - void of sunlight - and kick clumps of mud and mulch with disdain. I crush the plastic bottle between my fingers as I pick up pieces of trash that have fallen out of recycling bins and trash cans and litter the space. Why can't you be a sprawling green lawn that is perfectly mowed and overflowing with dense vegetation and flowers for which I have the perfect green thumb to maintain?

I stare at my knees - jutting out like soft, round sand dunes - as I slump in a too-small tub. I stare at the chipped walls, inhale the musty smell and try to clear my mind - embrace stillness. I light a candle.

But all I can think of is a jacuzzi tub overlooking a lush, scenic green valley. The sparkle of candles dancing all around the edge as the jets pulse into my skin. The way that life would feel on my skin.

If you know me at all - or if you've ever read this blog before - you probably know I'm "one of those self-improvement kick" people. I can't really speak to whether or not any of the things I try ever actually work, but hey, at least I'm trying, right?

Well here goes another. Due to some indefinite circumstances, we won't be moving away from Lancaster Square for a while as we had hoped. We started a house search a few months ago, but that's been put on hold for a while.

Cue the title of this post - Operation: Love this House. Now, if I compare, I must act - instead of wallowing, I must get to work to improve myself and my situation.

I'm going to do it, dammit. I'm going to shut my comparing mind up and get to work. I'm going to do everything in my power - mind, body, and soul - to love this little 800-square-foot house with a blue door. This house that never did anything to hurt anybody, except just being a little shabby and regular. I don't know what I've been waiting for.

 “Home is home, though it be homely.” -English Proverb

Already this year I've been consumed by the notion that "we can do hard things," and in order to live a life of meaning and purpose, we must strive to dare greatly - in the big things and the little things, too. So, in the words of Kelle Hampton, I'm going to rock this out and see where it takes me.

 

   

 Wish me luck.