Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Nips Navs*

It was a cold November day, and another fall sports season had passed, my final one as a Hilltopper. That night was the semiannual sports awards ceremony, an opportunity to showcase one's stellar accomplishments in the competitive arena to the entirety of the Chardon High School athletic community. The most important part of this ceremony - the outfit. As a strong candidate in the senior best-dressed preliminaries, I had a reputation to continually cultivate, and this decision was not one to be taken lightly.

Unfortunately, my appearance was having an unusually rough day. My hair was falling haphazardly, and I had a large zit on my left cheek resembling a small volcano. As any competitor knows, one cannot cower in the face of such adversity. Following my afternoon workout, I showered and surveyed my options for the evening. I had plenty of short skirts and fancy dresses, but my theme for the evening was simple, classy, sophisticated. I chose an asymmetrical black skirt that hit beneath the knees, lined tastefully with glitter. I paired it with a shimmery, light blue cowl-neck top and black boots. In order to combat my unruly hair, I finished the look with a flowered clip. The outfit covered approximately 87% of my body while subtly calling the attention of spectators.

There was but one problem. The shirt was a bit tight, and the lines of a bra could be seen. After standing in front of my mirror for two minutes, I decided it best to go without. After all, the school gymnasium was always stifling so I would not have to worry about potential hardening, and it would be embarrassing to stand in front of hundreds of people with my bra line apparent to all. I strutted out the door in my pink and gold coat, certain my outfit would proclaim, "This young lady's athletic prowess is matched only by her style."

For some reason, even though you spent every day with these peers, the awards ceremony was a big deal. Athletes, usually dawning jeans and a t-shirt were instead wearing suits, dresses, and the occasional pant suit (a fashion trend which I will never embrace). Because they fell short of the playoffs and did not have practice that night, even the football players were able to grace us with their presence, looking exceptional as always. Rather than sweat, the gymnasium smelled of cologne and perfume. Proud parents and siblings filled the upper tiers of the bleachers, and as I walked to a seat amongst my teammates, I realized the side door had been opened to encourage air circulation. Hoping this would not be problematic, I did not remove my coat, and the ceremony began.

As I listened to the athletic director pontificate over the importance of athletics and the fortitude we all exemplified, I realized the cold was penetrating my coat. Indeed, it was spreading throughout my body; I had goose bumps, and there was one part of my body which was a cause for particular concern - my nipples. I did not have much time to worry as it was time for the first set of awards, honoring four year varsity letter winners. I certainly could not walk down with my coat on, so I removed it, walked confidently to the podium, received my award, and took my place next to the other lettermen, attempting to hide the offensive display. The massive zit on my face was the least of my worries, and I do not believe "classy", "subtle", or "sophisticated" were anywhere in the audience's minds. We were able to return to our seats, and having a resilient personality familiar with utter humiliation, I was only mildly mortified.

Realizing this problem was not going to subside on its own, I did what I could. I began rubbing as discreetly as possible, attempting to warm the area and alleviate the hardening. In retrospect, this may have been counterproductive, since the rubbing was also stimulating said area. Regardless, the hardening remained. And so my name was called again - for first team all conference, for sportsmanship, for conference MVP (an award my overzealous coach had simply created, and I desperately wish she had not). Finally, the night was over.

My mom casually mentioned the fashion faux pas, but the subject was left at that - until the following day. Fifth period, I entered the cafeteria to be greeted by a host of football players shouting, "What's up, Nips Navs?" I forget my response, although I can imagine the hue of my face was a bit redder than usual, and I probably laughed, because there is nothing else to do in such situations. Comments were made by young gentlemen that I will refrain from posting to avoid offending the readership. My mother bemoaned the fact that this happened despite her parenting. My brother-in-law informed me a fellow coach had declared, "If I ever let my daughter walk out of the house like that, slap me" upon seeing me. The spectacle was immortalized through parents' home videos. And I still occasionally answer to the nickname Nips Navs at a local bar.

Why am I writing about this, over five years later? It is a cold December day, and the company Christmas party is this evening. It is an opportunity to peak through the window of co-worker's lives outside of the office. As I will not have a gorgeous gentleman adorning my arm and have recently attempted to reestablish my reputation of best dressed, the most important aspect of this evening - the outfit. This morning, I looked in my closet to find an outfit representing the epitome of sophistication. One option was a hand-me-down dress from my chic sister. I tried it on and realized that a bra would not work well as the dress would not fully cover it. I stood in front of mirror for two minutes, contemplating possible routes my evening wear could take. Then I took the dress off and moved on to my next option. Everyone, I am maturing.

*I apologize for the title, but I promise it is appropriate. And it probably caught your attention.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Thursday Nights

Well, dear blog, apart from a silly story about the loss of sunglasses, it has been awhile since last we spoke. Of course life has been filled with embarrassing moments and humorous anecdotes you would enjoy, but I have not been inspired to write. The truth is, the past couple months have been scattered.

For some time, I have looked at my life in year time frames, and points of progress throughout said year. The year 2010 was a good one - I graduated, dominated my puny Division III tennis conference, coached tennis in Europe - I even beat a video game completely unassisted, a lifetime goal of mine.

The month of August marked my one year anniversary in Charlottesville, and during that time, progress was not as evident as a goal oriented girl may like. Admittedly, part of the problem may have been the lack of orientation of goals. The mere act of surviving the transition from the life of a student near her family to the life of a professional apart from them was a personal feat. However, a year into establishing myself in a new state, that no longer sufficed. I craved significant life changes so when I talked to family members during the holidays, my answer to the classic question, "What are you doing with yourself?" would exude sophistication and maturity.

I pursued professional and personal advancement, and, measurably speaking, fell short. Although disappointed, I was able to rebound, as I do believe that while doors may be closed, windows are usually cracked; I just always hope these windows are on the first floor and do not have screens. What affected me more was the growing resistance that seemed to be palpable every Thursday night. I have referred jokingly to the youth group with which I assist as "Changing Lives." A humorous exaggeration emphasizing my impact, perhaps, but since moving, this has been the one area of involvement I never doubted. And I had begun doubting. The girls did not seem as responsive, and other factors in my life were affecting my patience during each meeting. I questioned my disciplinary methods, as well as the example I was setting. In other arenas, I could accept failure; however, the weekly frustration in an area I was quite sure God wanted me was beginning to weigh heavily on my heart.

During my vacation and the weeks following, I have been convicted. In my relatively short stage of extreme self pity and angst, the proverbial depths of despair (which for me, merely means I no longer engage in five minute conversations with cashiers), I focused only on perceived problems and failed to appreciate the strong relationships cultivated throughout my time in Charlottesville. I was reminded of the strength of one such relationship this weekend.

Since beginning to work with the Charlottesville Abundant Life program, in an environment where girls do not automatically trust their leaders, one young lady took a particular fancy to me. The past eleven months, we have spent many nights sitting in her driveway, talking about everything from food to boys to high school girls to work. This Friday, I was finally able to have the sleep over I had been promising.

We ordered takeout Chinese and our favorite frozen yogurt. I picked up a couple Christmas movies, and we headed back for a lovely evening in front of the Christmas tree. We watched Home Alone 2, both in hysterics when Marv was electrocuted, happily eating our sundaes. Upon the movies end, I put in Elf, only to realize it was a blu-ray and my ten dollar DVD player was not going to facilitate the viewing. And so we sat. And she began talking - about everything and anything, asking me questions and divulging her unusually perceptive thoughts on the world in which she lived. I responded with the wisest words I could muster, attempting to empathize and provide guidance, as was usually the case. And as usual, I sat there wondering if she realized the extent to which I admired her strength.

When I was sixteen, the largest tragedy I faced was failing my driver's test twice (perhaps a foreshadowing of things to come). My sheltered youth in white suburbia pales in comparison to the trials she has weathered, yet, she neither pities herself nor makes excuses. Rather, she is constantly examining herself and those around her, telling me ways her actions may not be pleasing to God. In a culture where it is normal to find security in the loose arms of a male, she stands her ground firmly, although she readily admits it is a struggle. She is not afraid to admit her insecurities, while I have to force myself to say that yes, I do sometimes wish I were as skinny as I was in high school. She is transparent, removing all walls, despite the differences others may see between our worlds.

The trait I appreciate most, however, is her love. She constantly lets me know how much she cares about me and how grateful she is to have me in her life. This is a boost to my ego, yes, but more importantly, it gives me hope. For it is during those times when I question life the most that she says, in an unusually quiet and simple manner, "Maybe God brought you here to be my mentor," or, "Maybe you don't have a boyfriend so you can hang out with me more." It is in those moments that I know I need her as much as she needs me.