Thursday, March 29, 2012

C-ville - Phase Two

Fair warning to all reading: I have just finished my second helping of frozen yogurt, the yuppy version of ice cream, and have been imagining myself on tour with Luke Bryan all week. This may be a bit more internalized than some posts. Proceed at your own risk.

I had a plan once. I was seventeen and entering college. My high school sweetheart and I had just rekindled our mildly tumultuous relationship, and this time, it was different. I loved him, he loved me, and we were going to be together. We were young and in many ways naive. But for a fleeting moment, that decision was real.

Our relationship followed the path of many first loves in that at some point, we realized we needed to experience the world, discover who we were outside of one another. Perhaps that exploration would bring us together, although we knew our paths would more than likely grow further apart until we were but distant memories faintly harkened by a particular song.

Indeed, our paths led us different directions. I would be lying if I said I did not have a moment of sweet nostalgia every time I hear "When the Stars Go Blue", but he is not what I miss. Our relationship was wonderful in its time, and I have been more than happy to leave it at that for many years. I do, on occasions such as these, post froyo and ensconced in country music, miss that brief period during which I had a succinct vision of what life would be.

Now I simply ask, "What is a five year plan and does anyone actually complete one?" Five years ago, I had a plan to go the whole nine yards with a young man. Three years ago, I anticipated getting a job in Cleveland and hopefully still living the small town dream with some lucky man to be determined. Instead, I was prompted to move to a foreign city for a job with a thriving marketing company. I had learned my lesson, though, and was going to be very conservative with this timeline. I would be satisfied envisioning myself at the company for two years - no guy in the equation, just working toward the top of the marketing world and enjoying my early twenties. The job was ideal. It was in my field of interest, office dress code included jeans, and the employees were young.

Last Friday, I quit. Reasons were plenty, but the most pressing was that of God's prompting. It was clear and unavoidable, and ironically, it was twenty months from my date of hire - not twenty-four as planned.

I am making a deliberate decision to let go of plans, as they seem often to go awry. I do struggle with the idea that in six months, when I am tired of serving at a restaurant and juggling whatever other part time gig I find, I will wonder what the next step is. When people appear to be following the illusive road of upper middle class idealism, I am guilty of momentary envy.

Mostly, though, I feel liberation and hope. Liberation from the burden of having to know where I will be in five years, next year, or even next month; hope that while I have absolutely no idea what God has planned for me, He does, and He will bring it to fruition despite my many attempts to seize control. And throughout that mess of a process, He will find a way to work through me and touch someone's life, if only in a small way.

Thursday, March 8, 2012

Grandpa Tippit

My muse prompted me to write the other day. (Yes, I have recently acquired a muse, but that is for another post.) He told me to write about an eccentric fellow of whom I once spoke, my grandfather. He was intrigued by this man who came to Christmas dinners in red and green plaid pants and a ridiculous Christmas tie, and he encouraged me to record my first memory of him.

Truth be told, he is not the only one intrigued by Grandpa Tippit, as he was an enigma even to his own grandchildren - or at least this one.

To the ear of an eight year old girl, the man was a myth. He was quoted as proclaiming, "C students rule the world." I had very little idea of how he earned his millions; I vaguely remember medical supplies mentioned a time or two, perhaps insurance. I heard legend of his first intimidating meeting with my father. Dad knocked on the door of the mansion in his beater with a One Way Jesus shirt to match his shaggy hair and cut-off jorts. Grandpa answered - and if I am imagining this correctly, he was wearing a suit and a glass of vodka. Dad offered his praises on the small castle, and in a very austere and self-assured tone, Grandpa replied, "We like it." He was extremely attentive to to table manners, and even made one cousin cry because she did not hold her fork correctly. According to hearsay.

If I could offer counsel to my eight-year-old self, I would tell her to stop being so self-absorbed and cherish the times I spent with my grandparents and those who gave so much for me. I do find comfort in the fact that while I do not have many succinct memories of us, some of my fondest childhood memories were provided by his generosity. Cruising around on a golf cart for hours, trips to Disney World, summer dinners provided by Tony Roma's, Christmas envelops filled with veritable treasures.

I did have one clear memory of Grandpa. He had been sick for quite some time, and my family was visiting my grandparents in Florida. We went out to dinner, and although I do not remember a bit of the meal, I do remember dessert. Because of a choking incident (another G-Tip legend), Grandpa chewed very slowly, no matter the food. This particular evening, he ordered mint chocolate chip ice cream. I watched him take every bite deliberately, slowly. We finished our dessert, the check came, payment went, the check returned. And Grandpa ate. I thought surely he must tire of the ingesting process, especially when Grandma arose and walked to the exit. But Grandpa ate. I will be darned if he left a bite of ice cream in that bowl, even as Grandma grabbed his arm, dragging him out the door.

It is silly sometimes, the memories we have. Perhaps it would be preferable to have a memory of him bouncing me on his lap, playing catch or giving a touching speech, but I like this one. This memory assures me that my grandfather and I could certainly bond over at least one mutual character trait - an unwavering devotion to dessert.

Sunday, March 4, 2012

A New Segment - RAMD

I may have been ripped off. I am not sure, because I will not compare prices for fear of that sickly feeling festering in my stomach. But I have strong suspicions. This segment of "Reasons Anna Misses Daddy (RAMD)" can be ultimately traced to the annoying protrusion of a street curb. Every time I leave my apartment complex and turn right, I have to take extreme measures to avoid said curb, causing potential danger should there be oncoming traffic. After an intense tradeoff analysis, I determined it best to pretend both the curb and the massive bump I felt while making the turn were nonexistent. One con not factored in the analysis - turning in this manner apparently wears the tread*, inevitably leading to a flat tire. I may have reconsidered had I known this, but as it is, I took that turn especially hard Wednesday morning, at which point Maleek's** hind leg crumpled.

After apologizing profusely to Maleek and promising I would begin heeding his moans and groans, I took the vehicle to Sears Auto, recommended by a friend. I will digress for a moment to insert a sports analogy. Every athlete has encountered the ultimate competitive challenge, a proverbial Goliath. For whatever reason, be it the myth of unconquerable strength, confident demeanor of the opposition, or past encounters resulting in defeat, you approach the field battling discouragement. There are two paths the athlete can take:

1) Rise above the mentality that proclaims the challenge too great, the disadvantages insurmountable, and hold your head high as you compete, embracing the results with pride, whether in victory or defeat.

2) Curl up in the fetal position.

I am ashamed to say I did not even consider Path One and walked into the Auto Center already defeated. I plea that I was neither in the physical, mental, nor emotional state to defeat such a foe.

First - Physical. Clearly, a short blonde with soft features and petite build will always lose to a burly salesman on paper. On a typical day, I would be able to muster a valiant fight and at the very least feign understanding of basic mechanical terminology. However, I had just finished a long run; I was withered, famished, and a bit hazy.

Second - Mental state. Thoughts of sandwiches, ice cream, and a hot shower consumed my mind. Any measure taken to hasten my communion with these three was well worth the price.

And third - Emotional state. I had an exceptionally strong yearning to be in Ohio due to the week's events, only intensified by the nostalgic and sentimental tunes chosen by the country radio station. Needless to say, when the salesman told me he also grew up in small town Ohio and, "the Blue Ridge Mountains are nice and the skies are blue, but something about crossing the river just makes you feel home," I nearly broke down at the counter. At this point, all my defenses were down. He suggested an appropriate set of tires and I accepted the offer without question - after all, he is from Ohio and would not lead me astray. When I paid for the repair two hours later than projected, I gave him a riveting review and rolled away.

Here I am, at the end of my segment, tires purchased and Maleek healed, and I think, what message do I want to leave with the reader, other than I wish I had a travel-size dad by my side in such situations? To begin, I will avoid looking at my credit card statement for the next month and will pretend there is a noticeable difference between the old and new tires.

More important, though, is this: at a point when I felt alone in my longing for the humble roots of Ohio, someone was sent to sympathize. It was amazing how comforted I felt following a five minute conversation about high school football and proper punishment for any Ohio traitor who chooses to attend Michigan. Even if he did sell me tires that were only beneficial when navigating the Siberian tundra, I do not mind. Although I will never see him again, I had found a kindred spirit when I needed one most. That was worth the trip.

*What is tread?
**If you do not know who Maleek is, you need to read my blog more.

... For those of you who did not think I was capable of incorporating a near emotional breakdown with a trip to the mechanic, I am.