Education is important. Hard work pays. Exercising your right to vote is important. Men wear suits and ties and go to the office. Women stay home with their children. Almost everyone in the world loves Jesus, and the few that don’t are going to burn in hell unless we repeatedly remind them that they should love Jesus. Summer vacations are the norm. Someday you will get to retire and enjoy the fruits of your husband’s hard labor.

Now that she’s an adult, she thinks most of that is a crock of something she’s not supposed to say.

She still thinks education is important. She just can’t get any. She tried to go to college, but working full time and nursing between classes wasn’t working out so well. Now that she has a mortgage and two kids there’s no way it’s happening.

Hard work – doing more than is asked of you, doing whatever it takes to get the job done, excelling at your tasks, continuing to educate yourself and take on more responsibility – gets you nowhere. It gets you taken advantage of. Mediocrity is the way to go. Of course, it’s too late for her. She’s worked hard and now people expect it of her. She sees the way other people barely do the minimum and no one seems to care. But if she tries to do what she’s supposed to do and not go that extra mile, she hears about it.

Voting is still important to her. She worked hard on a presidential campaign and is tears up when she votes because she feels fortunate to get to do it. Of course, she cast her vote for the “wrong” guy as far as her family’s concerned, and things got ugly. They told her they wished she hadn’t voted. Apparently it’s only important to exercise your right to vote if it’s for the right side.

The only men who wear suits to work are preachers and sales people. Enough said.

Only one of her friends stays home with her children. The rest of them can’t afford to. And not because they live some crazy gotta-have-it-all lifestyle, but they just want to make ends meet. No one works for fun.

Most people in the world do not love Jesus. A majority of people love Allah. They think Jesus was an ok guy, but not THE guy. And she’s not convinced that they’re going to burn in hell. She’s completely confused and conflicted about the topic of religion and it’s led to a great amount of anxiety and depression. She’s pretty sure people just die and turn into dirt. And that upsets her.

The only summer vacation she took was on someone else’s dime. It was a lot of fun, but it was probably the only summer vacation her children will ever take. On the upside, she’s discovered the fun and financial acceptability of camping, something her family did only once, and failed at, while she was growing up.

She will never retire, unless you consider death retirement. Her savings account sits empty, and she’s never been able to afford to contribute to her retirement account at work. Nor has she had health insurance in the last 5 years, but that’s an entirely different topic. She will work until she’s in the ground.

She still has freckled skin and curly red hair, but she is wiser than she once was, and markedly more angsty than teenaged her could have hoped to be. She just wishes someone would have told that little girl that life was hard, that nothing was as it seemed. She wouldn’t have avoided all the hard knocks…she just would’ve been braced for them.

Some of my life experiences have been more of the ton-of-bricks variety. We all share birth, death, illness, marriage, and divorce as life-changers. But there are less-common sorts of these. Take, for instance, my American Idol-induced epiphany several years back. I was watching the “Idol Gives Back” special, in which Simon and his merry band of shiny compatriots head to Africa to, well, give back. There were montages of some of the awfulness that takes place there, things of which I was already aware and horrified. Ryan Seacrest was explaining how malaria medication is so cheap by our standards, but that many children died because they couldn’t get it. Depressing, but knowledge I already had. This sad fact of life and death in Africa did not bring about my epiphany. The catalyst was the commercial they cut to. A Kohl’s commercial featuring the song “Fabulous” by Fergie. For those not in the know, the song is about how fabulous it is to be fabulous and to look fabulous and to own fabulous amounts of fabulous things. I burst instantly into tears. Not because I don’t enjoy Fergie’s music (although I don’t). Not because the malaria thing just hit me. But because we live in a culture where we can switch between the suffering of our fellow human beings to the point of pointless death and the wanton commercialism that has seeped into our brains telling us that we want more, we NEED more, and must get it, damn the kids in Africa. I realized right then and there that I could no longer insulate myself from that suffering. Every decision I make has to consider the others…the people I have never met whose suffering I help to perpetuate through both my actions and inactions. I gave up buying new things, unless they were consumable (no second hand toothpaste), and I encouraged people to do the same. To make a short story long, that stupid commercial changed my life. It raised my awareness, changed my lifestyle, and sparked a newfound passion for social justice in me.

But the life-changer that happened today is not exclusively the result of a process or an epiphany, but rather some kind of fusion. Today I learned that over the past few months I have inadvertently caused a great deal of confusion in a relationship. While this has been building process-style, the words from my friend hit me like a ton of bricks. I had no idea that my actions were causing such stress, and I feel awful about it. I know that our relationship cannot continue like this. I have to change the way I behave, at least in this particular circumstance. I feel compelled to rethink things across the board as a result. In the hours since our last interaction, I can already feel the difference in myself…the cautious measuring of my words and deeds, a self-awareness I did not previously possess. I think this is a good thing. But it’s too soon to tell.

My grandmother lovingly crafted cheery fancy easter dresses for my daughters, one in pink and green flowers, one in blue and white. Pale happy colors of spring. Of the season where all is new and exciting. I dressed for a funeral. Charcoal and black and dark shades. Of the season of death and dismemberment.

I had been on the fence about attending church. From my pit of doubt it seemed false to go and celebrate something about which I am so perplexed. But part of me thought it might tip the scales for me. That I may hear the words I needed to hear, that I may find comfort and rest and release from my torment. And then there was the part of me that thought it was just easier to go with the flow of my past 20-some years and dress up and sing pretty and smile sweetly as if nothing were going on beneath my surface. This was the argument that won.

So at 7:00 this morning, my cheery girls and my melancholy self headed to the sunrise service. Driving directly into an over-sized sun felt much like the bright light people who have almost died or sort of died or really died and then not been dead talk about. Trent Reznor sang my own feelings over the radio as I drove further into the light. “I wear this crown of s**t, on my liar’s chair. Full of broken thoughts I cannot repair.” I started to well up with tears. This was what dying must feel like. Perhaps I was dying. “What have I become, my sweetest friend? Everyone I know goes away in the end.”

I don’t remember arriving in the parking lot, but I found myself entering the doors to the victorious Easter greetings I had warmly embraced in the past. I fought back tears and fought to find a seat. I sat down. The chair felt solid. I did not. The music began and I stood to sing, because it was the thing to do, but I could not issue a sound from my lips. I was paralyzed. I was numb. As the pastor began to talk about the wonder of Christ’s life and death and life again my eyes surveyed the people around me. People I know well and love dearly. People whose sureness and happiness I am desperately jealous of. People whose peace and joy makes me angry, because it exacerbates my lack of such things. People that reflect my former self, and no matter how hard I try I cannot find my way back there.

From the pulpit I hear that while we might find blood sacrifices to be archaic, it is only because of Jesus that we can say that. He rid us of our need for those. And I am confronted head on by my confusion, as the study of those blood sacrifices was a major catalyst for the doubt in which I now find myself. It’s not the only thing that rubs me the wrong way…it just gave license to the other issues to wreak havoc on me this year. I wait anxiously for the pastor to explain that it is a hard thing to understand, that I am not alone in my unrest and that there is an easy fix. But he doesn’t. We don’t talk about doubts on Resurrection Sunday. The pastor says that this is the first day of the rest of our lives. And I know that this much is true.

The service nears the end, with a long line of people waiting to be buried and resurrected with Christ through baptism. The tears I have willed away all morning are not having it, and begin to stream down my cheeks. The nice thing about crying in church is that it makes you seem spiritually sensitive. No one assumes that you are crying because you wish you weren’t there. There are boxes of tissues at each aisle for the spiritually sensitive tears, but I don’t move towards them. They are not for me. No one has said this, but I wouldn’t feel right wiping my godless snot with tissues provided through offering. These people are earnest and sincere and I feel badly about being amongst them, let alone taking their kleenex.

I don’t know how to withdraw from this. Not just the service, but the church in general. I leave the building wilted. And that is how I sit now. In my charcoal and black and dark shades.

We discussed in wide focus the important things, like who will be the guardian of my children, who will be responsible for the house, who makes sure the children don’t spend all of the money on Jonas Brothers licensed crap. After hanging up the phone, I continued to think on the things that will follow my death.

I thought about how happy my children would be living with my little sister (who may not be currently thrilled with her life but of whose life I am extremely jealous). I thought about the places they’d go and the things they’d sew and the indie folk songs they’d sing. I thought about the vegetarian food they’d eat, and about them teaching their cats to get along with their auntie’s cats.

Which was all quite depressing. So I started to think about things I like about life. My children. Their cats. My friends. My house. My bicycle. My family. My owl pajamas and slippers which do not match but are still quite coordinated. Malt vinegar. Men in kilts. Cardigans. Books. Libraries full of books. Bookstores. Sufjan Stevens. NPR. Crab Rangoon. The Gilmore Girls. My tattoos. Buttons. British T.V. shows. Soccer. Guitar Hero. Smores made with marshmallows that are completely burnt. Candy buttons, which should not be confused with regular buttons, which I have already mentioned. T-shirt sheets. My MacBook. Naps.

Consequently, my mind wandered to things I do not like. Pearl Jam. Bad grammar. Sci-Fi. Cancer. Jelly beans. Pennies. Perky baristas at 6:30am. People who say one thing and do another. August. Julia Roberts. The 700 Club. So-called morning news programs. Morning radio programs. Feelings and the people who feel it necessary to share them all with you. The sound the dumpster door makes when you slide it open. Hospitals. Nursing homes. Saxophone. Guns. War. Hate. Suffering. Poverty. Gas prices. The need for gas. The sound my alarm clock makes. My right foot. My choices. My self.

And I find myself back at the beginning of my circle…my self, my life, and my death. And I sit here and plan for it, just in case, and not really believing that it will every happen, while knowing full well that it will.

Several years ago, after my divorce, I discovered the delights of independence. I had never characterized myself as needy, but I must’ve been, because this independence thing was really exciting. I changed my own oil, bought my own condo, made my own decisions without having to consider the feelings of someone else, and it was fun. I would liken it to the feeling one gets upon reaching adulthood when they realize they don’t have to clean their plate to eat dessert. Screw the potatoes, just give me pie!

I took this feeling and ran with it…decided that this lovely self-ness would not be spoiled by another person. I kept my friends few but close. I kept my dates even fewer. How could I be independent if I went looking for a partner? A partner would spoil my dessert. And I’ve kept this up for years, with much blissfully singular decision making, oil changing, and condo-occupying going on.

Every so often I’ve felt mild (and less frequently the not-so-mild) pangs of loneliness, but I have reminded myself that I have David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell and Ira Glass and Jad Abumrad and Sylvia Plath to keep me company. (yes…I said Sylvia Plath…and I know that sounds depressing but it works for me) And I have always felt content in their distant personhood that does not infringe on my own. Until now.

I’ve started to consider the merits of some kind of regular companionship. Making all of the decisions is no longer a delight, but a burden. Being responsible for changing the oil – the light bulbs, for that matter – gets tiresome. And it’d be nice to have someone else to hang out with in the self-filled condo. But embracing this would mean that I had been wrong. Wrong about the fun, the beauty, the ease of singularity. And I hate being wrong.

Any time I heard fire and brimstone preached, or about all the good feelings you would have if Jesus was in your heart, or if it was the weekend, I doubted. Every altar call seemed directed to me. I felt weighed down with my sins and every so often would find relief in repeating the familiar prayer. If there is a Guinness record for kneeling down and begging for salvation and forgiveness, I could easily hold the title.

As a teenager, these episodes began to include additional guilt-relievers, such as smashing my CD collection. I was baptized several times, always with the same result – getting soaking wet. As an adult, I went to the extreme of getting the words “Faithful. Fearful. Forgiven.” tattooed on my wrist, a sure sign that I must be those things. 

Even today I find myself in a place of doubt. Only this time, I’m not doubting my salvation, but the basis for it. Over the past 20-some years I’ve become so comfortable in the pattern of Doubt, Confess, Recommit; but this doubt is unfamiliar and the old method isn’t going to fix it. Maybe this is my opportunity to finally reach some kind of peace about such things. And then again, maybe it’s not.

If you’ve read my previous post, you know how exhausted I am. I am ready for a break. We worked hard for this moment, and we are tired. But the truth is, our rest must be brief. Now that the election is over, the real work begins. To quote our president-elect, “Today we begin in earnest the work of making sure that the world we leave our children is just a little better than the one we inhabit today.”

Over the past months, I’ve seen people come together in neighborhoods across the country and work for the change they desired. The election of Obama is a huge step, but we must continue to work together in our communities to see that our schools improve, that the poor are not forgotten, that there is opportunity enough for everyone.

If you did not choose to be involved in the campaign, consider being involved now in the progress of your own community. Don’t wait for change to come…do what you can to make it happen. And please visit Change.gov to learn more.

All this to say that I have to admit that I’m suffering from electoral exhaustion. Don’t get me wrong – I love my candidate. I have knocked on hundreds of doors, made countless phone calls, registered scores of voters, sported buttons and t-shirts, carved his emblem in a pumpkin, and even had his slogan tattooed on my arm (for those of you keeping score at home, it’s “Yes We Can”). I’m kind of a big fan. But I can’t wait for this election to be over. It’s consuming the media, my neighborhood, my coworkers, my children, my self. And I want my life back. We’ve been at this for years. And yet these last few days seem like too much to take. I have bills to pay, friends to see, laundry to fold. But if I let up now, with 7 days to go, will I regret it later?

According to the campaign, these last few days are crucial. I have election day off of work so that I can knock on more doors and make more phone calls. That’s right…election day. How is it that people are still undecided? After nearly 3 years, you have no idea who best represents you? There’s some bit of information you have yet to hear? Some speech yet to be parodied on SNL? What’s the hold up?

Or is it possible that, like a baby, you’ve gotten bored and moved onto something else?

I entered the library for the first meeting of the year, and immediately knew I did not belong. The room was full of women (so far, so good), but they all had big hair and themed sweaters and Coach purses and husbands and lots of fundraising ideas. I had tattoos and blue-black hair and a hug-a-tree t-shirt and no husband or interest in selling salsa or coupon books. By the looks on these women’s faces, they knew I didn’t belong either. Every month I would attend the meeting, and every month the other mothers and I would try (and fail) to hide our distaste for one another.

November came around, and it was time to vote, an activity that took place in the school gymnasium. The PTA had organized a blood drive to coincide with the polls. I had avoided signing up to donate, as I had recently gotten a new tattoo…a fact I had no intention of disclosing. My roommate and I entered the gym and were stopped by the vice president of the PTA. “I noticed that you haven’t signed up, but we could take your blood now. It’s really important, you know.” I told her that I did know, but that I would have to decline. She pressed me for a reason, and before I could stop her, my roommate blurted “She just got a new tattoo…she can’t give blood.” I’m not sure I’ve seen someone’s jaw hit the floor with such force before or since that moment…well, maybe since (keep reading). I walked towards the polling area as quickly as I could.

Because of the high voter turnout in our precinct, the lines were divided by last name. My roommate and I split up, each taking one of my children. This was an important election…it was a presidential election. Among the other issues on the ballot was a constitutional ammendment declaring marriage was for one man and one woman. As we waited in our separate lines, my roommate called out across the gym “If the ammendment is defeated, we’ll be able to stand in the line together next year!” I don’t need to tell you how this went over with the PTA set.

Years have passed, and my feelings about the members of our “honorable” association haven’t changed much. My involvement is minimal. I don’t attend all of the meetings…I don’t sell coupon books…I don’t do much. But earlier this year, an event did pique my interest. We had raised money for new playground equipment, but the installation of said equipment was cost-prohibitive. It was decided that parents would work together over a weekend to erect the new playground. I was pumped. I love fixing and building and any other activity that allows me to use power tools.

The big day came, and I arrived at the school early in the morning, power tools in hand. I walked in and was greeted by the other mothers at a table full of muffins and bagels and juice. I asked them where to report. “The men are all outside…we women are just going to keep an eye on the muffins.” Were the muffins going to run away? I’ve never seen a muffin make a break for it. “I’ll just head outside then,” I informed them. “They don’t need us out there…we’ll just get in the way. This is our job.” I smiled sweetly and moved towards the door in spite of the threat of a muffin mutiny.

I got right to work…assembling slides and monkey bars along with the fathers. Every 10 minutes, one of the mothers came to check up on me. They were busy keeping an eye on me…who was watching those pesky muffins? Several hours into the work, I was holding a post steady while one of the guys hung onto it to attach it to a bridge. I was braced to hold him steady, and was startled when I felt a tap on my shoulder. “We’re preparing to set out the lunches. Could you come help us put the sodas in the cooler?” I grimaced, and replied that I was a tad bit busy at the moment. “Well, sweetie, the sodas aren’t going to get themselves out of the box.”

I don’t know if I had offended their sense of femininity or if they were concerned I was there to steal their husbands, but I was furious that they wouldn’t just let me be. I finished my work that day, and vowed to myself that I would never again attend a PTA function. 5 months later I broke that vow.

The week before the new school year started, the PTA had an orientation/form completion night at the school. I was in a foul mood from the get-go. My children were at home with lice (a perk of daycare attendance), and I was anxious to get all of my forms turned in and go home to boil my house. The PTA, in all their wisdom, had set up different stations for each form – 8 in all. And there would be no skipping around…you had to get a card punched as you passed through the stations in consecutive order.

Station 1 was where I learned which teacher each of my children would have. I asked if they knew if my youngest would be in morning or afternoon kindergarten. They didn’t know…try the next station.

Station 2 was where I received the supply lists. I had already bought school supplies, and was not happy about wasting time in line for something I didn’t need. They clearly didn’t know if my child was in morning or afternoon kindergarten.

Station 3 was where I turned in the emergency contact forms. No dice on the kindergarten question.

Station 4 was where I was supposed to sign up for parent teacher conferences. There was a sign up sheet for morning kindergartners and one for afternoon kindergartners. This seemed promising. But did they know which one she was? “Oh…you’ll find that out at Station 6.” I should note that Station 4 is where I lost my cool and cussed out a hallway full of parents and yes…elementary age children. “How the f*** am I supposed to sign up for a conference here when I won’t find out which slot to sign up for until 2 stations from now? Whose f***ing idea was that?” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I realized what I’d done.

Stations 5, 6, 7, and 8 are the stations I skipped as I ran to my car.

Needless to say, shame has kept me from attending any PTA meetings this year. But not just shame…I realized that my children reap more benefit from a mother who is home with them the first Tuesday of every month than from one who spends the evening talking about fundraising and purses and husbands and comes home with an urge to shout the F-word.