Mirrors

I've always second-guessed myself when pointing out the mistakes of others.  Because, I mean, who am I to criticize?  Who am I, this flawed and uninfluential individual, to draw attention to the shortcomings of a fellow, flawed human?

It seems obvious to me, yet I feel so isolated on my little island of respect for others.

People certainly don't hesitate to criticize one another, to exploit and magnify weaknesses. They seek out fractures in the beautifully imperfect beings that we are and drive their judgmental stakes in deep, creating painful chasms within us. I know they do because I see it every single day at school, at work, and sadly, at church too.

Naturally, conflict arises.  Conflict founded on disapproval in others, founded on the notion that some characteristic or behavior or detail about an individual is fundamentally wrong.  We should engage in conflict because there are, indeed, times when the differences between us are so inexcusably prominent that they scream to be resolved or, at least, positioned in such a way that it no longer trespasses on who we are.  Iron sharpens iron, as it was meant to be.

But people just don't participate in constructive conflict anymore. They fight, quite simply, to bring harm to others.  They compulsively judge, chipping away at the already fragile composures of people just like themselves.  They pervert the very nature of conversation and collaboration by injecting elements of discord into the lives of those around them, and the cycle continues.

When did we, as God's self-sustaining creations, lose the right to form our own opinions?  When in the exact chronological moment in the existence of everything did it suddenly become unacceptable to be different?

"Society" is a joke.  We've allowed ourselves to rally behind relentless, idealist bigots, accepting everything they say and crucifying those who disagree.  Republicans, democrats, homosexuals, heterosexuals, whites, blacks, everyone is guilty of this new paradigm.  There's an invisible exemplar in society today that tells each new generation to follow existing trends and every new pattern of thought for the sake of popularity.  Everyone is striving to find the path of least resistance and shaming the ones who try to break the mold.

If people embraced their insecurities and, just for a moment, start treating their fellow man like something other than a failure in progress, maybe then they could find happiness we all so long for.  Maybe if people started trying, simply trying to see each other like Jesus sees them, maybe then there would be peace.

Growing Pains

Growing up sucks harder than a dehydrated preschooler with a half-empty Capri Sun pouch.

And based on the conversations I've had recently about this realization, the fact that growing up sucks is apparently understood and simultaneously unspoken by everyone over the age of 25.  Thanks for warning us guys.  As if belonging to the lethargic masses of Gen Y wasn't already difficult enough.

I guess, rather than brooding, I could explain where all this angst is coming from.  Recently, Molly and I began searching for our first home together.  We naively assumed that we could acquire a beautiful, move-in ready starter home for about fifty-thousand dollars less than what informed, rational, educated adult people already knew we would need to spend but failed to mention to either of us.

Needless to say, our initial search was quite terrifying.

We started looking with the first agent that listed his number on a hand-written realty sign (red flag #1) in the yard of a property which we now refer to as the "fight club" house.  The smell inside the home was so toxic that I'm fairly certain it would disintegrate a Febreeze can on contact.  Without a doubt, the fetid odors leaking from that house are responsible for the growing hole in the ozone layer and should be dealt with by the U.S. government accordingly.

There were rotting wooden boards nailed haphazardly to random walls throughout the house, and the doorways were latched with rusty locks, most likely to keep out (or in) whatever animal had previously lived there.  The carpet was stained in what appeared to be some combination of blood and stomach bile, and the sheetrock had deep, Freddy Krueger-like claw markings from floor to ceiling.  We didn't even make it past the living room before abandoning hope and fleeing the house to prevent further lung damage.

The best part of the story?  Our so-called realtor, after it was all said and done, informed us in an almost hopeful tone, "It might need a little work." A little work.  The house that could cause cancer if viewed in direct sunlight and has no living plant life around it in a half-mile radius "might" need a "little" work. Really.

But hey, at least things could've only gotten better from there, right?  Sadly, no.

The next showing was a pile of ashes. The house had literally been burned down shortly before we arrived.  Embers glowing.  Wet smoke billowing from an empty lot.  God made it clear to us that it was time to change tactics.  That or He really didn't want us buying a house.

Thankfully, He had a plan.  We ditched the dunce and hired a wonderful Christian friend I've known and loved for years.  With her assistance and a few weeks of pleasantly odored showings (for the most part), we found "the one," the house we wanted to start our lives together in.  Before we knew it, we were sitting crosslegged in the floor of our soon-to-be living room signing paperwork.

Agreements, offers, disclosures, some stuff I wasn't even sure what it meant (don't kill me, Mrs. Shoffner). Every piece of paper I initialed, I mistakenly thought, got us closer to the romanticized outcome in my head where Molly and I would soon be picking paint colors and placing furniture in this flawless house of our dreams.

Instead, here we are a week and a half later, and I'm still signing paperwork, negotiating terms, and asking for repairs on a house I assumed was perfect.  I'm filled with uncertainty not knowing what will turn up in each new inspection, not knowing if the next repair will wind up being the straw that breaks the camel's back (or the seller's wallet, in this case).

I can't pretend that I'm not overwhelmed or scared making one massive decision after another.  I won't act like I don't miss the days when my most difficult decision was Captain Crunch or Fruit Loops.  New expenses are popping up every day, chipping away at my bank account and absolutely terrifying me.  Even now, I find myself just as worried as I was leaving the fight club house almost three months ago.

But in the end, my gratitude outweighs my burden.  I'm so thankful God has brought us so far from where we were.  I'm thankful that we're weeks from closing on a wonderful home.  I'm thankful I have the ability to purchase and afford a home at all.  I'm thankful that Molly, for whatever reason, still wants to marry me after all this.

And most of all, I'm thankful that I'm growing up...even if it really, REALLY sucks sometimes.

Pink Shirts

I don't want to get started off on the wrong foot by posting a melodrama revolving around "engaged life" (as my female peers fondly refer to it) and have everyone who reads this thinking they've stumbled across yet another website for a starry-eyed young couple to gush incessantly over their budding romance.  You'll very rarely see me use the term "soul-mate," and if you do, just realize I'm probably being held at gunpoint.

That being said, however, a good friend once told me to never apologize for writing about things I wanted to write about because, if I wanted to write about them, then they must be worth writing about.  At the moment? I actually do want to talk about my relationship.  Sorry 'bout it.

I'd be lying if I pretended that my relationship with Molly was the perfect paradise of sunshine and mutual, unyielding affection towards one another.  Rarely a day goes by that we don't argue about something.  It doesn't have to be important, and most of the time, it wouldn't even make "The Top 100 Arguable Topics Pertinent to Molly and David's Life" list, assuming that list actually existed.

Take for instance our conversation the other day at Molly's happy place, known as Target by those who don't know her.

Molly, holding up two blouses: "Babe, do you like this one or this one better?"

"You already have enough pink shirts. Why don't you pick out something in a different color?"

"So, you're saying I don't look good in pink?"

"That's not what I'm saying! I'm saying you always wear the same color."

"So, you're not happy with the way I dress?"

That's just one of many examples where a discussion over something completely benign resulted in me losing the right to ride in the front seat of the car. Now, I could go into some spiel about how communication is essential to the health of a relationship, but I'm gonna be straight up.

I love arguing with Molly.  Absolutely, 100% love it.

Before every woman reading this, including my own, grabs the nearest appliance to throw at my clearly chauvinistic head, hear me out.

Arguing with my fiance, to me, means stability.  It means that we've got a good thing going on.  It's the equivalent of her looking me in the eye and saying, "I don't agree with you right now. I even don't like you right now. But I sure as heck love you right now."  You're still thinking I must be crazy, right?  I don't necessarily think so.

If Molly didn't love me and, more importantly, if she didn't think that I loved her, she certainly wouldn't have her hand on her hip giving me one of her infamous laser-guided glares over the color of a $12 shirt.  A woman, or a man for that matter, who feels his or her relationship is on thin ice is going to think twice about picking a fight and think twice more about picking a fight over something so frivolous.

Couples in jeopardy choose their battles wisely.  They argue over BIG stuff, and they hold back while they're fighting because neither really knows if the next thing that comes out of their mouth will be the last thing they ever say to the other.  Molly and I, we don't have that problem.  We don't bite our tongues when the other says something we don't like.  When a disagreement arises, big or small, we make it a point to figure out why we disagree.  And why wouldn't we?  Doesn't it make sense to seize every opportunity we have to get to know more about the thing we love most on this earth?  We strive to learn more about each other every single day.

That's a beautiful thing.

If we're in the car, fuming at one another, we don't conceal it.  We go at it.  Molly dreads car rides when we're in the middle of an argument because she knows I will pull over, lock the doors, and refuse to move until we've hashed it out.  We've always disagreed with the mentality that splitting up and taking time apart to brood is an acceptable way to deal with problems, despite being advised to do so by many older couples.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking anyone's relationship.  Maybe taking time for yourselves to organize your thoughts and come back with a clear, viable argument works for you.  For us, organizing our thoughts, formulating our arguments, that's all part of the process.  Sometimes, we have no idea what the heck we're thinking.

And for us, that's okay.  Our mentality?  "Let's figure it out together."

So yeah, I love fighting with Molly.  I love it when we butt heads.  I love it when she rolls her eyes at me, when she shoots me those glances that could knock a vulture off roadkill, and even when she nails me with a laughably girly punch to the arm.

Because when it's all said and done, she knows I love her more than anyone ever loved another person, regardless of what color shirt she's wearing.