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Gym Rookie: Humbled Under the Barbell
My doctor told me women my age should lift weights. Pause right there. “Women my age?” One perk of moving back to suburbia is living within a few miles of my former gym. Since I took my membership card to Mexico twelve years ago, and then brought it back, I figured I’d take a shot and see if I still existed in their system. Week One: I opened the glass door in a slightly self-conscious manner and approached a young, over-bubbly staff member. “Hi! Can I help you?” “Uhh, yes… are there a maximum amount of years you’ll hold a frozen account?” “I don’t think so. Let me…
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Post-Vacation Blues: How to Deal with Going Back to Work and Reality
Though I’ve always thought Post-Vacation Depression was a real thing, most psychologists now agree that “Vacation Hangover” is a more accurate term. Cue the lime and celery. “Post-travel depression is not a legitimate mental health issue,” said Jeroen Nawijn of the Centre for Sustainable Tourism and Transport. “In my own study that dealt with post-trip effects, I found no proof of post-travel depression.” But in my research I learned that for some people, experiencing Vacation Blues is a very real thing and may result in tiredness, loss of appetite, strong feelings of nostalgia, and in some cases, depression. See? I’m not loco, I’m nostalgic. But I’m also feeling slightly…
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Adjusting the Scales of Honesty: Do White Lies Count?
“Hey, boys—throw this blanket on top of the sacks. And make sure you get the corners.” I cringed in opposition. Did he just involve our children in a hidden importation? I turned my head to the west and spaced out while he drove. Lest you feel the urge to judge, think about this: if you were taking a twenty-dollar item across the border, would you be willing to pull over and pay a six-hundred-dollar fee for it? Behold, one of my most humbling posts ever. Thoughts of a corrupt government, two years of paying 16% taxes, border agents who charge whatever they’re feeling like that day, and insane importation…
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Gossip: Loose Lipps Sink Ships
“Some say our national pastime is baseball. Not me. It’s gossip.” ~ Erma Bombeck When he welcomed us into his rad classroom, we eighth graders knew we finally made it to the top. To be in Mr. Lipps’ class meant we got the cool English teacher. Of all my junior high classes, this particular one simultaneously thrilled and unnerved me. The middle-aged, borderline hippie spoke with authority and sauntered between our desks with an abundance of confidence. His “Loose Lipps Sink Ships” poster spanned the width of one wall and sat higher than our heads when we stood. It struck me as deep… forward-thinking… high school-ish. And I had no idea…
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8 Things I’m Teaching My American Pre-Adults in Mexico
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Dave’s Daughter, Corky’s Chica, Micah’s Mom: Finding My Identity in My 40s
He leaned sideways against our crummy lockers, tilted his head and flashed his crooked, pearly whites. “So when are you gonna sleep with me, girl?” His casual offer made me blush, but inside I hid my shock. And then a speck of pride crossed my heart. He wanted me. He wanted me? The tall black jock pursuing the tall white jock in the middle of a normal school day made for such great gossip and bragging rights. Good grief, Carrie, snap out of it. You don’t want to be wanted like that. Well, duh. He had no idea who I truly was or where I came from. Never mind…
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Not Your Grandma’s Kind of Ghost: Writing and Editing for Someone Else
We stood in the aisles of the gigantic dining room, huddled in a loose swarm, chatting and anticipating the afternoon. Ropes course? Zip lines? Creek walk? Yes. Two groups of friends from the Temecula Valley were all at Mount Hermon’s family camp together but had never met, so a common friend did the introductions. “Carrie, this is Becky… and Mike.” “Hi, nice to meet you.” “They’re the ones with triplets.” My eyebrows shot north without warning and I smiled. “Ohh… I’ve heard about you guys. Have you been here before?” “Nope,” said Becky. “First time. We actually don’t know why we’re here. God told us to come so we came.”…
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Your Grass Looks Greener: Stay at Home Moms vs Working Moms
Two Moms, Two Letters, Two Countries Dear Missionary Mom, I see you down here, with your hair pulled up and your patience falling down. Doin’ that missionary thing can drain, I know. It all looked so quaint from a distance, didn’t it? Needy people, corner sweet bread shops, hammocks in palms. Did you move for the life the promo video promised? I’m glad I’ve been your neighbor. Living in Baja has felt attractive, mostly. It’s been a place where those old roots I planted could get some fresh air and be replanted. Our kids probably won’t be graduating with yours though. We’re all scattered around and therefore…
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Juggle or Battle? Not Comparing Pain or Circumstances
Renewed inspiration! Fresh starts! Excellent intentions! Or not. For numerous people the idea of making big changes in January usually conveys feelings of, “Why bother?” or “It didn’t work last year,” or my personal favorite, “Tomorrow. Yeah, definitely tomorrow.” When we started our student-based ministry eleven years ago I wondered if my structured life might ever return. This mainly irritated me because I’m a bit of a perfectionist by nature – organized, systematic, color-coded, logical, and… tired. Even with our students gone now I still err on the side of weary and bitter, but not purposely. Between juggling marriage, motherhood, housework, exercise, neighbors, newsletters, blog posts and a 25-page…
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New Year’s Disillusion: Taking Action When Motivation and Resolutions are so Dang Hard
If looking ahead to the next 358 days makes your head spin… welcome. I’m pretty sure the majority of the planet is hoping twenty-seventeen holds more hope, less violence, higher joy, and lower prices. Of course thinking globally is admirable, but if you’re anything like me you also think about the first few weeks of January in a personal way. The years I tried to keep a resolution always started out with Dick Clark on the tube and a night full of renewed enthusiasm. “Yeah, baby—drop that ball and watch me change!” “Count it down, brother; I’m about to detonate with motivation.” “Three… two… one… HAP-py New Year!” Kiss kiss, clink…
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8 Things I’m Teaching My American Pre-Adults in Mexico
Don’t Wear Red to a Chinese Funeral In some cultures it’s downright rude to wear certain clothes to certain events. Even if they never end up at a Chinese funeral (where they should only wear white or black), there are some things my American kids need to learn about clothing. Please don’t wear a fancy white dress to a wedding. (Unless you’re the bride.) … or a baseball hat to church. … or Crocs to a party. Or ever. (Unless you’re a nurse or you’re creek walking.) … or a tube top to a business luncheon. … or a mini skirt after a certain age. (ahem—39?) If you feel you must break this…
