Paint and Soul Mates

    Target sells paint now. Not a big paint section, but I was surprised to see it there along with the brushes and rollers and trays that go with it. It's really only that they're featuring this particular brand of paint called Devine Color, a fairly expensive one at that, sold in the store in these odd little 2.6 quart containers (a clever way to avoid the sticker shock of one gallon). Nevertheless, the very limited selection of colors were all pretty and I was interested enough to look up the brand online and their website.

    I nerded out enough looking around on the website that I watched this little one minute video explaining something Devine Color calls Color Discovery Cards. It's basically a white card about the size of printer paper with a square hole or as they say, window, in the middle surrounded by 10-12 dots of paint around said window. You're supposed to look through the hole at the things in your room and look at the different colors from the paint collection around it, seeing what works and what doesn't. Oddly enough, the things said in this little one minute promotional video work strangely well if you think of it as dating advice. You are the room full of your own colors trying to find the right paint, so to speak.

    From the video: "Go back and forth between what you see through the window and the colors you see on the card. You will see colors that easily connect to one another. You will see colors that will emerge that you didn't see before. Or you might see colors on the card that are not in the room, but will surprise you by choosing you."

    I think there's something to learn from these Color Discovery Cards, and from thinking about color in general. Many people like to think about choosing someone to marry as the search for their soul mate, that one perfect person. Instead, I think we should look at it more like finding a paint color, primarily with this point in mind: there's more than one option that works, they just work differently. Different colors bring out different things in a room, and accentuate some things and downplay other things, just like different people bring out different aspects of your personality, and will help you grow or hinder you in different ways. Yes, some work better than others. Some are truly horrible together. But in general, there will be strengths and weaknesses about each choice, not one that is far and away better than the rest.

    And just like with color, whether you're painting, putting together something to wear, or matting a picture,  sometimes things work together that you never thought would work. Not only do I think people believe in the myth of the soul mate, but I also think they get a little closed minded about what will work and what won't. This isn't to say we shouldn't have standards or non-negotiable things that we avoid because they aren't healthy for us, but we need to be open to being surprised. Girls and guys like to create lists of what they want in a perfect mate made up of things that are not really that important. This list, in turn, often fuels the search for the mythical soul mate that will fit the qualifications. These same people will then marry someone completely different from the list because they met someone different from what they thought they wanted and fell in love with them anyway. To go back to paint, you may think you always wanted to paint your dining room a mossy green, and then you hold up the paint samples and you're not that into green. You consider other options, and surprise yourself when the room ends up a vivid teal, and it works!

    Instead of a puzzle piece just waiting for that one other piece that will perfectly fit you, be a room finding a paint color! Or if I quit being so annoyingly/humorously metaphorical, be a person who realizes there is more than one kind of soul mate.

Forging My Path

    The path- the obvious metephor for life. It helps us understand how we're feeling about where we're at, and reflects our anxiety about where to go next when it isn't clear. Familiar phrases and ideas show it's significance. A fork in the road. The pathway to success. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. The straight and narrow. We come to points in our lives where the familiar questions, "am I on the right path?" and "where do I go next?" become very relevant.

    In my own life, I remember very well feeling like the path had run out when I was in junior college. I went there for different reasons, but one of the reasons was that I wanted time to figure out what I was doing next. I hadn't decided on a major, I didn't know what college I was transferring to, and I didn't know how I would come up with the money to transfer. When I was in grade school, junior high, high school, I sort of knew what was coming next. I knew what was ahead on that path. I didn't know the details, but I had a basic idea what it would look like. After high school, I felt like I had wandered into a strange new land wondering how I got there. Sometimes during that time at junior college, I felt a little like the single path had run out and there were about 10 other options ahead of me and it was confusing trying to get the information I needed to decide which was the right one. A lot of the time, though, I felt like I had come to the edge of a cliff and there was just nothing. I had come to the end of what I knew and I couldn't even conceive what the other options were. I think it was mainly because I didn't know what I wanted and it took some time to figure out what that was. Finally the pathway formed and I knew what was ahead the next couple of years. I was focused on transferring and enjoying my new school and finally getting my Bachelor's degree.

    It seems like when we have big goals up ahead, like getting a degree, we get so focused and anticipate such relief when we get there that having to move past that point in the path and keep going, like we all must do, is destined to feel strange. It's like the movie kept going past the satisfying ending. Now what? For me, I got that degree last year, and life afterward was not as strange as I anticipated. Summer, after all, is when you're supposed to be out of school. Fall, I felt a little sentimental not going back but enjoyed not having to go. Birthdays and holidays gave me something to think about and plan for and do at the end of the year. Even more, 2013 was not kind to me and put me in crisis mode. Life is more day to day in such times. You're not looking ahead down the path very much because it's too scary. Now things aren't quite as dire, the holidays are over and I have started a new job, and so I'm starting to feel that strangeness. I think the feeling was just delayed.

    Saying that life is weird after we graduate college isn't an original idea. It's anticipated. It's written about. It's given a name: quarter-life crisis. I don't know if the concept of the quarter life crisis is the best explanation of where I'm at, but I am definitely in unfamiliar territory and what's next isn't so easily predictable. So if I want to have fun with this metephor game, and give a picture of where I'm at right now, I'd say that I've wandered out past the distinguishable path and it's just dry dirt under my feet in open territory with no distinguable landmarks. And I'm feeling some anxiety at the thought that I'm walking in the wrong direction going nowhere. Is this even the right metephor? I also feel this burden to form my own path, like if I don't start creating something for myself, I'm just going to be on a formless path in formless surroundings. I have to put time and effort into the relationships in my life. I have to make an effort to meet new people. I have to insist on doing what I want career wise and not let life just sweep me along. I have more say-so in what that path will look like. Some of it will form itself, and it will tumble along once I have my own family, but right now I've got to start building. I've got to take shapeless land and draw two parallel lines. I've got to plant the plants and build the structures along the path.

    Let me concede. As a Christian, I believe God is ultimately in control, and that I'm not having to build alone. Perhaps hardly at all if I had the big picture. And if we want to have a nice nerdy discussion about free will and predestination and whether we're forging the path, or just appear to be, we could. But whatever the case, I feel like I have more responsibility in what's ahead. I suppose it's a priviledge, though a scary one at times. I will not always get this much choice in my life. And I know better how to trust God along my way. Where's my shovel?

Lying to Your Waitress

    I was presented with a problem. I was trying to eat a pasta dish I had ordered and enjoyed many times before, but this time, it was drowning in sauce. There was far too much pesto on my plate for the amount of noodles that were there. A big green mess. But the problem wasn't just the drowning pasta. It was the dilemma that it presented to me. Do I or do I not complain to the waitress? One might think that the answer should have been an automatic, "Yes! Do complain!" But I've given it great thought and can draw from experience, and the best answer to this dilemma is to lie to the waitress. Let me explain.

    For one, I've considered the fact that we are a society that asks courtesy questions with no meaning behind them. Take it out of the restaurant setting and think of Walmart. As we go through the checkout, we are almost always asked, "Did you find everything ok?" Even if I say, "No I did not find everything ok. I looked at your pasta selection and it was pathetic. I can't buy milk here because it tastes like plastic. I couldn't find that weird brand of soda my dad likes," what are they really going to do? "STOP! This woman cannot find her dad's favorite brand of soda!" And even if they did, I don't want to stand there while they try to find what I couldn't find. I want to leave. If they don't do a frantic search, do they just give you an awkward, "Sorry," while looking down awkwardly when you say you did not, in fact, find everything ok? I've thought ahead and it doesn't look good.

    I've also thought ahead when it comes to these sort of courtesy questions at restaurants. "How is everything tasting?" "Is everything delicious?" Often what the waitress really wants is a quick question and a quick answer to fulfill the duties of her job. It's asked in a quick brisk by the table. It's also what I want most of the time. Leave me alone, and let me eat.  So what is a disgruntled diner to do?

    Now I'm not talking about a hair, or something incredibly undercooked. You have to say something then. Aside from potentially dangerous, unsanitary situations, all other food problems at restaurants are a matter of taste and can be broken down into two categories: the solvable food problem versus the unsolvable food problem. Be bold with your solvable food problems. Your salad could use a little more dressing, ask for it. You want a little more bread, tell them. You think those dry potatoes would be nicer with a side of sour cream, go for it. 

    But it's the difficult to unsolvable food problems that make me nervous. They are the ones that make me a liar. If it was well cooked, but you realize that it's not something you personally like, it's your fault for choosing that dish, not the restaurant's. If it's not cooked well, but it's not egregiously bad, you look picky, and they make a fuss, and you might have to sit and wait while they make more food for you. Even if the food is bad. What will they do? One time I had biscuits that tasted like weird cake. I look ahead. What's the waiter going to do? Tell the kitchen to bring me some biscuits that don't taste like weird cake? I suppose they could have brought me different food, or given me a refund. It was more appealing to suffer in silence than to suffer through the awkwardness of the apologies, of trying to explain what I didn't like, and the fuss that they would make.  

  And believe me. It can be terrible when they make a fuss. I must refer to what my family calls The Great White Bean Debacle of 2009. First of all, be careful who you tell about your dissatisfaction with, or confusion about your food, because your fellow diner may not believe that you don't care, and will want to defend you. This is what happened with me and my dad in The Great White Bean Debacle when my parents and I went out to eat one evening.

    My parents ordered gumbo. I ordered white bean chili. My white bean chili looked and even somewhat tasted suspiciously like their gumbo. I searched my bowl for white beans. I wondered if the restaurant had made a mistake. I didn't feel too uncomfortable asking the waitress about my food at first, but her answers weren't satisfying somehow. I was still confused and told my parents as such, but I was going to let it go. The terrible thing was that my dad, who wanted his daughter to be entirely happy with her food, did not let it go, and brought it up for me to the waitress. I was then put in the awkward spot of having to defend and explain this confusion about beans that even I didn't understand. Now that I look back, I think the confusion had to do with the fact that the beans were puréed and the flavors were just similar to those in my parents gumbo. The details to all of this are fuzzy, but I don't think I will ever forget how it all ended. After profuse apologies, a small bowl of plain cooked white beans was brought to the table. I was very embarrassed. Even worse, none of it was worth it. I liked my food.

    And so now we are faced with the original dilemma: pasta with too much pesto. Drowned noodles. Too little sauce seems simple and unembarrassing enough to bring up, like having an extra side of dressing for your salad. But this? Bring me a little bowl of bare penne to dump on my plate? Too close to the bean memory for comfort. 

    If you are asked how your food is, and you don't want to deal with it, you have three options.

1. Lie: Say, "It's good."

2. Pick a tactful truth-like answer: Answer, "Fine," "Pretty good," or even "Good," for not terrible food (hey, you didn't say it was great or delicious).

3. My favorite: Say nothing and let the answer come from your eating companion who's actually enjoying her food. "Good," she says, smiling. It's on the waitress for assuming that you are also happy. You didn't say it was good, and so you didn't lie. In this case, one must ignore the concept of the lie of omission. 

    Or you (and I...) could be brave enough to tell the truth. But don't blame me if they bring you a little dish of cooked white beans to your table.