Quite Quiet and Proud Of It

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I sometimes almost convince myself I’m a people person some days at the library, small talking and schmoozing with the best of them as I work the front desk. I think that maybe I’m finally overcoming the shyness that was my trademark in high school. I almost convince myself that those tests that labeled me “quiet,” or “introverted” can suck it.

But then there are days like this weekend when I remember just how much I don’t like people sometimes and that when I’m done playing the extrovert, I want to punch anyone in the face who tries to talk to me.

I don’t. But it takes vast amounts of self-control and chocolate to prevent such behavior.

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I'm in the hood; don't talk to me

Myers-Briggs got it right; I’m an introvert. I am not some loner just because I hide out in my car on my lunch break so I don’t have to talk to people for a blessed hour so I can recharge and watch BuzzFeed videos. I get all moody and gassy when I have to go into a new social setting where I don’t know anyone, my mind unable to put coherent sentences together because I’m too busy worrying about how I look and how everyone can surely tell I feel like I’m about to pee myself from fear and self-consciousness. And pretending to be Mrs. Outgoing for 8 hours for work can be exhausting, remedied only by a marathon of “The Big Bang Theory” while wearing PJs and eating Cheetoes.
That’s just who I am, and I’m learning to love it. Now, leave me alone now so I can read.

Love,

Sarah

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Facing My Fitness Fears

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Yesterday, I filled out an application for getting a personal trainer at my local gym. Today, she called me. And I’m terrified to call her back.

Gyms always have scared me. I feel like the shell-shocked look on my face betrays me as the newbie I am at getting fit. I much prefer spending time with a pint of chocolate ice cream, but that is how I got a badonkadonk larger than some small countries. I hate feeling tired and achy, and I am no longer in love with my love handles. I want to change, but I have no idea what I’m doing.

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I think I may be stuck....

Hence, I looked into the personal trainer. I’m sure they’ve helped fatter people than me, people who are so not flexible they can’t touch their toes and jiggle like Jello when they run. But, I am still afraid. I have almost called Dezareigh back like 50 times, but I keep putting it off.

It’s probably too expensive.
I’ll never be able to stick with it.
Work will probably get it the way.
I don’t have the clothes for it.
I want to hide under the blankets instead.

But can I really let fear control me? Am I really satisfied stuck in this rut, feeling crappy and knowing I’m not taking care of my body like I should? I might actually be able to break free of failed diets and two day exercise marathons that only end in tears and pulled hamstrings and be healthy for a change.

And so, I dial her number. The phone rings two times before a cheery voice answers.

I’m doing this. This is going to happen.

Love,

Sarah

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10 Heartfelt Sentiments for National Grammar Day

sarah9188:

I have been out and about with the hubby today and did not get a chance to post on the blog today. But as a self-proclaimed Grammar Nazi, I couldn’t pass this up. :)

Enjoy!

Originally posted on The Snail on the Wall:

Today marks an important day for word users and language speakers everywhere. It’s National Grammar Day! There are all kinds of ways to celebrate this special occasion: Proofread an e-mail message before you hit “send.” Show some Facebook friends you care by correcting their grammatical mistakes in the comments section of their posts. Read a grammatical page-turner, like  Woe Is I or  Eats, Shoots & Leaves.  Try your hand at a quick Facebook editing contest hosted by Grammarly, called “Edit This.”

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An Ode While Snowed In

I’m not going to write about snow, I’m not going to write about snow, I’m not going to write about snow.

Who am I kidding? It is the happening thing to talk about these days, along with taking #snowselfies and complaining about school closings. Yearning for summer and wishing death threats upon winter are what all the cool people are doing these days.

Which is why I am going to proclaim my undying love for our unusually snowy, cold winter here in the South. Why would I do such an awful thing?

I’ll give you 3 reasons:

Snow Is Pretty

I know it sucks to shovel or drive in the snow, but snow is gloriously beautiful in the moonlight and sparkles in the sun light. There’s something peaceful about gazing on a plot of untouched snow.

Never mind the fact that snow provides plenty of childhood entertainment. I remember snow ball fights in the back yard, my mom yelling, “No faces!” as we pelted each other with the inch of snow we’d get once in a blue moon. We’d flop around on the ground making snow angels, trying to get up without disturbing our creations. We’d work forever on a snow man and watch to see how’d long he’d withstand the rapidly warming temperatures.

Warm Food Soothes On A Cold Day

Is there nothing better than Winter’s comfort foods? Piping hot chili and homemade chicken noodle soup are worth a couple months of freezing temperatures. You just can’t appreciate a warm cup of hot chocolate on chilled fingers without a couple nights of below freezing temperatures to mix things up.

Winter Wear Is Unbelievably Comfortable

It isn’t until spring and her warmer weather exposes our ghastly pale skin that everyone realizes how many “just one more cookies” you ate when it was colder. Winter clothes – with its bulky layers and soft, fluffy fabrics – cocoon our bodies to keep us warm and disguise the winter pounds we’re packing on. In addition, scarves, hats, ear muffs, and mittens are welcome accessories missing from the summer wardrobe.

Winter also gives the excuse to pack on those pounds in the name of self-preservation and warmth. At least, that is what me and my badonkadonk are going with this March.

Those are just three off the top of my head. Winter also boasts Christmas and a host of other awesome holidays,  music specifically dedicated to its amazingness, and as a September baby myself, an encouragement for a host of lovely inside activities. ;) Winter may have its dark moments (literally), but it is really a beautiful, exciting time of year.

And besides, if you disagree with me, take heart in knowing that whenever I cheer for a team, they usually lose. So, we’ll probably have spring weather soon and I can commence sneezing the next three months straight.

You’re welcome.

Love,

Sarah

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(Wo)Man vs. Machine

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Last night, Ryan woke up in the middle of the night to buy batteries.

Despite your hopes, batteries still cost an arm and leg even at 3 AM at 7-11. This is no super secret saving tip so move you Pinterest – hungry cursor away from my blog post. This shopping trip was borne out of desperation, nearing insanity resulting from inhumane torture by a machine.

Okay, fine, we couldn’t sleep because our smoke alarm had low battery. Just take all the fun out of it, why don’t you?

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You're dead to me, smoke alarm

The smoke alarm already had a tenuous relationship, due to its insistence of wailing when I burn toast while chanting, “Fire, fire!” in between beeping. I know that it’s really saying, “You’re a hopeless oaf in the kitchen.” While it may be right, I don’t like being reminded by a tiny, armless machine.

So when it picked 3 AM to sound out its alarm, not saving our lives from a fiery death but rather beeping and chiming out, “Low battery!” every ten minutes, it made itself my lifelong enemy. Ryan and I tried to ignore it at first, but it’d begin beeping again just as we’d start to doze off again. So Ryan made himself useful and tried to mute it or find a proper battery for it.

My response?

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I know, I’m useful that way. The last thing I remember is Ryan putting on a pair of pants and heading out to find the pound of battery it required in order to be silenced.

And he did. And the only reason that blasted smoke alarm gets to stick around is on the off chance we ever do get a real fire and need its warning for anything else but announcing that I burn food for a living.

I’m watching you, foul smoke alarm fiend. Your day will come.

Love,

Sarah

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The 2 AM Rage Email

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You can’t sleep. The glaring evil of what the other person did to you or someone you love causes you to toss and turn. You practice telling them off in your head in the most brilliant and completely convincing way ever.

Emboldened by your own flawless rhetoric, you grab your laptop, log in to Gmail, and start typing ferociously, your eyes lit with passion and LED lighting. Gone are your inhibitions. Gone is your correct use of grammar and punctuation. You are creating the Mona Lisa of email arguments while the world sleeps.

You are finished. Your mouse hovers over the “send” button ready to release your masterpiece.

Don’t.

The satisfaction of telling that person off will most likely wear off in the morning when you reread your Magnum Opus and think, “What the heck was I thinking last night?” followed shortly by, “What have I done?!?” Most rage emails end in remorse and usually result in Facebook blocks – the ultimate diss, y’all. It usually makes a bad situation worse to make your in-the-moment anger permanent by sending it into the World Wide Web.

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What have I done?!?

I know it feels good to write it all out, to release those feelings, but tuck that sucker away in the draft box not the sent box. Let it marinate there and sleep. Everything seems clearer once your coffee IV is prepared and the sun is shining.

At least, that’s how I feel now. Crisis averted.

Love,

Sarah

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Not Kidd Friendly

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I would like to thank the random Googler who found my blog by searching for “evil orthodontist,” and bringing back bad memories of my 8 years in the chair dislocating my jaw to give me straight teeth.

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Yes, I had braces for 6 of those years, a two year gap between 3 year stints to turn Crooked Tooth into Cherub Smile. Every six weeks I’d make the 45 minute drive with my mom to see Dr. Kidd in his mint-perfumed office. As years passed, my file got heavier and the list of mouth torture devices grew. Rubber bands that attached to hooks on my teeth were wound in a cat’s cradle pattern to drag my wayward teeth into place. Head gear that resembled a horse’s bridle that I had to wear around the house and to bed every night caused me to whinny in pain every night; it was so tight that I had to have help attaching the device to my head. I even had to have 6 baby teeth and 2 permanent teeth to make room in a small mouth. (Five years after the braces came off, my mouth said, “Screw you for stealing my teeth,” and blessed me with 8 wisdom teeth.)

The medical assistants would call your name and hook a bib to catch the blood, drool, and other gross bits. They’d grab lengths of wire and pliers to tighten up the torture devices called braces. You’d sit there for 30, 60, or sometimes even 90 minutes at a time with your jaw dislocated while they scraped, glued, and tied everything up. And then you got to choose what color rubber bands to put on the wires to make them “pretty.” I used to always choose festive colors for the season because I’m just that nerdy, though I learned quickly white or black looks like food caught in your braces and should be avoided under pain of death.

And then the orthodontist would come and survey the damage, sticking his purple latex glove fingers in your mouth and tempting you to bite him. He wouldn’t let me tell people how long I had been going, lest the other inmates realize their fate. My orthodontist was Dr. Kidd, and he was a man of fifty or so with dark, beady eyes and a smile that seemed genuine yet unsettling at the same time. As I wasn’t the model patient, he never ceased to make me feel bad if I didn’t wear my head gear or retainer enough. And I always felt like I got one over on him when he saw improvement when I knew hadn’t worn my rubber bands or head gear enough.

And while my teeth have since moved around a bit, I guess I do have something to show for the pain and suffering.

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Still working on not being bitter about the lost childhood years of no Snickers, bubble gum, or corn actually on the cob, but I’ll manage.

Love,

Sarah

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