This morning, I was supposed to wake up a little after 7:00 to participate in a service project at the sand dunes. My roommate, Megan, woke me up as promised, but I remained conscious only long enough to give her the stink eye. I got out of bed about an hour later, ate some Lucky Charms, and decided to hop on Wii Fit before people came home and began the regular Food Network marathon. I did a series of hula-hooping, lunges, running in place, and downward facing dog for two hours. Then I ate some of Natalie’s potstickers, impatiently scorching the inside of my mouth, as I waited for a shower vacancy. Then I pigged out on Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips while I watched Natalie take her turn struggling with the yoga poses and cursing at her “trainer.” Throw in a lot of school, a dose of Kate Nash, and the occasional trip to Wally World for the bare necessities, and this about sums up my life.
When I was a little girl, my ambition was to one day become a dolphin. I even dreamed in dolphin-vision on a regular basis. I had this recurring dream where I would meet my human friend who would always be waiting for me on the dock with her toes dangling in the water. I would let her cling to my dorsal fin and ride on my back as I leaped out of the water and did the famous tail walk. My psychiatrist suggests that I watched a little too much Flipper as a child. Once I realized animorphing was not an option, I decided I could settle with being a dolphin trainer. (I was so excited when Stuart was considering a dolphin trainer internship at SeaWorld a summer or two ago! I was preparing myself to live vicariously through him. I still wish he would have done that.) Since my dolphin obsession days, I have wanted to be everything from an ice cream man to an astronaut, and in a little over six months, I will have a degree in Professional Writing.
If you would have asked me in 2003 (the year I graduated from high school and began my five-year BYU-Idaho career) where I imagined myself in the year 2010, my response would not have included a mission, and, I’m ashamed to say, possibly not even a Bachelor’s degree. I would have been married to a tall, handsome, and charming dental student, and I would probably be carrying around a screaming baby. Ask me today, and I would say that I don’t really make a habit of predicting my life beyond the end of the semester. Every day, it becomes a little more obvious that the future isn’t something that can be planned. This time next year, I will be working. That’s all I know. That's not to say I don't set goals or have an idea of what I would like to see happen in my life; I have just finally accepted that things don't work according to my schedule.
But I’m happy! I have absolute freedom! Yes, it would be great if there were some fun guys to date who weren’t preemies or who didn’t just return from their mission last week, but I have learned to be content with my single status. I can do whatever I want! I can go to Europe and live out of a backpack for a month, which I did; I can drop everything and go on a cross-country road trip, which I will do; and I can move anywhere in the world after graduation. I’m thinking about teaching English in Korea. My furnished apartment and airfare would be paid for, and I’d have a salary and something impressive to put on my resume, so why not?
The only problem with my chronic bachelorettehood is that I recently had an interview with my Stake President:
“How long have you been home from your mission?”
“Almost two years,” I respond, the muscles in my face tightening as I prepare for the obvious follow-up question.
“Are you dating?”
“Not really,” I say, feigning shame.
“Do you want to be?”
“Sometimes yes; sometimes no.”
So now my Stake President, whom I love, by the way, wants me to make myself available through “mature flirting”—a touch of the arm, a witty joke, etc. I agreed to try, although I considered his challenge most inconvenient since I had just resolved that same day to never worry about guys again. Unfortunately, there is still the issue of no one being around that I would want to maturely flirt with. Maybe I’m too picky. Maybe I need to get out the apartment more often. I'm just too busy with editing projects and reading long, boring articles and essays to be super social.
So the moral of the story is that life never goes according to plan, but you probably already knew that. The good news is that life is still good.
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