I still don't like chocolate

I wasn't really sure what to write this week. I suppose it's because I feel like my life has been floundering. It's the middle of the semester, I have around three different projects due this week and it's midterm and I'm trying to figure out what I'm going to do to volunteer this summer with middle school students and I'm helping with little facets of my brother's wedding. So it's sufficient to say I'm feeling a little overwhelmed right now.

I wish I could hide in a corner and...well not cry, that's too easy and crying just makes me feel like a perpetuating feminine stereotype. I already have enough occasions to hate my uterus, I don't need more. Additionally, I don't feel the catharsis from crying that others seem to. When I'm upset aside from getting frustrated about the fact that I'm upset and then frustrated about the thins making me upset (I've become a pro at that) I pray about it and then I release my anger by listening to music and writing and laughing, or sometimes I play video games where I can shoot something. Videos on YouTube are my saving grace for laughter. I could watch funny YouTube videos until my ribs hurt from laughing so hard. Bloopers from my favorite TV shows and movies are particularly effective for this. YouTube is also where I find new music that I like...that and the newest music mix at Starbucks.

I am in a fiction writing class. Yeah, me writing, who saw that coming? I like to write and while that is a very big part of the class, an even bigger part of it is reading the writings of others and then critiquing it. I think it's interesting to read the writings of others because in its own way it gives you a glimpse into their mind. It makes me curious sometimes what people think when they read what I write (if they read what I write). What impression do I give people? Do they think I'm clever or witty, do they simply write me off as just another writer on here with a series of ramblings? In all likelihood, they probably think I'm nuts. They'd be right, but I came to terms with my lack of sanity a long time ago.

I find the UT campus itself to be a fascinating creature and that's what it seems to be to me, UTK very much feels like a live being to me. This is particularly true at night. I like walking around at night. I am quite fond of the evening. I am a night owl hard core. If I could get away with staying up all night and sleeping all day, I totally would. UTK has a life of its own, it truly does. This mood is not surprisingly affected by the weather. It is particularly unhappy when it is cold, which leads me to think it is a girl...or a cat.

I think by my next blog I'll be able to do more than ramble. At least I hope so. Maybe I'll write one of those super clever and catchy blogs that are kind of funny while pointing out a very obvious flaw in our culture or campus. Maybe, but then again maybe not. Who knows? I certainly don't. All I can promise is that for better or worse, I will be back. Sooner than later I hope.

-Alicia

PS: For those of you who are curious about the title. It's an allusion to the fact I don't like chocolate. That's right, I am less of a woman for admitting that. I don't care. I don't like it, not by itself. I'll eat the heck out of a Twix and brownies are tasty, but just regular chocolate, chocolate kisses, chocolate covered fruit, almost every candy bar besides Twix (I don't know what it is, Twix is magical I guess, the brownies (on the other hand) are not, I simply do.

I don't like you chocolate. Not even platonically.

St. Patty’s: Werewolves, and Vampires and Ghosts Oh My!

So I am writing this on the eve of Saint Patrick’s Day. A lot of things come to mind when people think of March 17; the color green, Ireland, shamrocks, Guinness and even Saint Patrick himself. However there is one theme that is far more prevalent: alcohol. Americans love any excuse to drink, if you can make it a national holiday, even better. Most people couldn’t tell you a single thing about Saint Patrick or in some cases Ireland, but when March 17th rolls around, you better believe we claim our Irish heritage, true or not. In the same way, hardly any of us know anything about Mexico’s fight for independence, but Cinco De Mayo…mas cervesa por favor. It is the American way. Not that I’m completely complaining, I will get swept up in the lovely madness of Saint Patrick’s Day, I haven’t gone a single year without wearing green. I made that mistake when I was a wee lass of first grade, and I never made that mistake again. Though I did hear folklore about wearing the color red, so I would wear it…just in case. Yeah, no luck on that one…ever. Holidays, innocent in their intention or otherwise, have one rather wonderful trait: they unite people.

There is something rather fantastic about getting swept up in something greater than yourself. I suppose that is really what holidays do for us. Most Americans are patriotic on any given day, but don’t think about it, not directly. However, the fourth of July, we will rock red, white and blue and eat hot dogs and burgers until we are sick. God bless America! We all do that though don’t we? Some turn to religion for that very reason, they want to be swept up in something greater than themselves. Obsessions come naturally to us. Humans long for something to belong to. It is the way we were created. So even if it’s not a good thing to get involved with, we are blinded when we are in the middle of it. On that note…it is with much shame that I will admit…I was one of those Twilight girls. I will admit it, I am embarrassed that I was a member of the craze and in hindsight, it was a little foolish. I have since then read them over and realized that they are not terribly well-written, the plot is iffy. I have since then seen the error of my ways. Though for that short while, it was nice to be involved with something that was so unifying, so ridiculously universal. If I had one of those books out, it was almost guaranteed that somebody would talk to me. It was…nice. Even if you don’t respect Meyer for her writing, one has to respect the fact that what she has done has become an cultural phenomenon. Like her works or not, she has done something that few people have been able to.

Vampires and werewolves have become such a huge part of American culture. I could do a whole dissertation about that, but that is another blog for another time. Most of the shows and movies that feature these creatures are laughable at best. Perhaps this is a shameless plug and I will accept that. The TV show Being Human is my new addiction. I am speaking of the English version. For those who are huge fans of the British version, first of all…what are you doing reading this? I doubt you are, but believe me when I say I have every intention of watching the British version. I just really wanted to see the American version for two reasons. Sam Witwer (who played Doomsday on Smallville) and Sam Huntington (Mimisiku from Jungle 2 Jungle, *giggle* Mimisiku) and it is rather fantastic. Two lead characters who are gorgeous and talented, sign me up! For those of you who don’t know the premise, it is a vampire, werewolf and a ghost who are all in the same house. It is wonderful and engaging, if you can’t tell…I’m a big fan. Mostly because Sam (who is the werewolf) is super awkward and I am a huge fan of socially awkward boys. So you should check it out. In case you are reading this the day it is released, a very Happy Saint Patrick’s Day to you!

My First VolBlog

This is by no means my first blog...clearly. However, I am trying to get 'out there', so I am now an official contributor for volblogs.com and this my first one.

Typically one would use their first blog post to introduce themselves. This is my life, this is who I am, these are the things I like, I am this old and have been to school for this long. I find that a bit boring. If you want details about who I am, you can ask and I’ll work it into a blog. This isn’t about me as much as my writing, and I think that in writing, a soul can be expressed better than it can be explained.

So rather than putting into words the way I perceive myself, or the way that I want you to ‘see’ and understand me, I’m going to write. Believe me, who I am will show itself, manifest through my words, I can’t help myself. Of course, that leaves the awkward first blog subject. I am going to write on something close to my heart, female nerds.

There is a rather odd misconception about female nerds. The first and foremost being that they don’t exist. This is clearly not true and I am living proof of this. The next is that guys love female nerds, this is not completely true. Nerdy guys love nerdy girls, not necessarily in the romantic sense of things because that would imply that they’d have the social graces to love something other than their World of Warcraft wife. Nerdy guys love the idea of nerdy girls. It’s a person who likes the same things they like, play the video games they play, read the comic books they read, watch the anime they watch, and would cosplay like they cosplay, but with the added bonus of boobs.

However, we nerdy girls are just as misunderstood as our male counterparts. We simply get the frustration of walking to the men’s section of Wal-Mart to get halfway cool looking, clever nerdy shirts. Apparently we nerdy girls like pink and all things covered in glitter. I, for one, do not. I don’t like pink, I’ll say it. The color irks me and if pink irks me, fuchsia makes me downright irate. Glitter is the herpes of the craft world and for some odd reason, clothes makers think it’s a great material to use on shirts that have an excessive amount of interaction with other clothes. I will not lie, I went through a glitter phase…and I am still finding it in the most random places. Years ago if you opened any of my clothes drawers, you’d think I’d had a vendetta against fairies and after killing them, stuffed their little winged bodies in the corner where they slowly dissipated into flecks of shiny.

There is something rather wonderful about nerdy girls, there are more of us than you think. I am taking Japanimation here at UTK. Yes, that is an actual class. It is classified as Japanese 321, but essentially we read manga and watch anime. I went into that class expecting to be one of maybe two girls in a class of bespectacled nerdy boys. There were more than two of us, actually the class was mostly girls. It’s kind of nice to find out you are not the only one. The diversity of nerds is astounding, both male and female. There is even a difference between nerds and geeks, a little known difference, but a difference none the less. I got scolded and promptly schooled by a geek who informed me of the difference.

Nerds are not so unlike you, maybe you are a nerd yourself. It’s all right, you are not alone. It’s easy to feel that way when it seems like you are on the outside of society itself. I kind of like it here though. It’s far more interesting than being ‘normal’ and I would rather be weird anyways, you get cooler badges and more achievement points anyways. So begins our marvelous little journey together. I’m very much open to ideas to write about so if you are actually reading this, thank you and comments are always appreciated.

-Alicia_F

Daddy, can you get me a green apron?

Children say the darndest things. Though I suppose that could be said about anybody, but it pertains particularly to children. "I just wanted to let you know you are such an inspiration to me," the voice that spoke to me now was not a child at all, but a woman in my Zumba class. I stood there in warm leggings and a skirt I use as pajamas most of the time. I was in the middle of grabbing my belly skirt and putting on my hoodie as her soft voice spoke. I did what anybody would do in that situation, I looked around for the person she was talking to. "Me?" I questioned with doubt edging in my voice. This girl, or rather this woman had been in this class nearly as long as I had and while uncoordinated as a three legged dog, she tried so hard. You could tell too, she was shrinking, slowly, but if you'd seen her as many times as I had, you'd notice significant change in her body, she was shrinking and I am in awe of how well this class was working for her. "Yes, you," she continued, "you are so good at this, you are an inspiration to me."

I was stuck dumb as my friend Brittany who was standing with me, smiled and nodded. "Wow, thank you," I managed to stammer out. The large blond woman, pushed her glasses back up her nose and walked away. I, in the meantime, was suspended in a momentary state of disbelief. Nobody had said that to me since I'd had cancer. This woman said it now and why? Because I happen to find a niche in dancing as a form of exercise and I am pretty good at shaking what my Mama gave me? I love Zumba class, while the changes in body are not nearly as noticeable, they are there. My friend Brittany it would make sense to be called an inspiration. She inspires me because she has worked hard and is losing weight so quickly and I'm so glad that I dragged her to try the class with me. Now her siblings come too and having people I know there makes me happy. Zumba is something I've found that I'm good at, good enough to be an 'inspiration'? I don't think so. To be honest, I don't know why she said it. Personally, it makes little if any sense to me. I was flattered and honored, don't get me wrong. It struck me as...well, odd and to be honest, it was a little frightening. People notice me. The very notion is strange. People watch what I do and whatever I do, it causes a response in them, whether that is positive or negative, it is a response. It reminded me that we have eyes on us all the time. Our attitude, the way we carry ourselves, the light that either shines from within us or is dwindling in the dark echoes in the lives of people we never knew we affected.

This brings me to Lily. Lily is the young daughter of a friend of mine that used to be in a small group with me. I adore Lily. She is the embodiment of a precocious little girl. Her Dad, my friend Daniel stood over next to his beautiful wife Samantha as I was arranging the drinks in the case below our pastry case at good old Starbucks. Lily runs over to me. "Hi Alicia," her little voice pipes. It's one of the only time she has managed to remember my name. "Hello Lily," I respond with a smile, remembering the time she looked at me with sleepy eyes as dinner was being made. "Are you tired Lily?" Lily nodded and looked up at me with a question in her eyes that I'm not sure she was sure she could ask, but I knew that look. "Do you want me to hold you for a little bit?" Lily nodded and I picked her up and held her, feeling her little heart beat through my shirt and her breath slow as she fell asleep in my arms. Lily was not tired now, she was full of questions, "What is that?" Lily points to a glass container. "That's green tea." "What's that?" "That's orange juice." "What's that?" "That's chocolate milk, like what you had earlier." "Oh...I like chocolate milk." I chuckled as Lily ran back to her Dad.

I grabbed two trash bags and went to change the trash in the cafe. Picking up the outer container, I noticed Lily look at me in an odd wonder and Daniel, spotting me, came over to talk. Lily snuck up behind him and started to try to lift the trash can on her own. After nearly falling over and several tries she asked, "How'd you do that?" Lily's voice was strained as she was trying to lift up something taller than her. "I eat my fruits and vegetables and I got strong enough just to lift it right up," I replied. The good old eating that stuff will make you strong. Classic. Daniel chuckles. "Do it again," Lily requested. I lifted it up and her eyes get big. Lily stays there as I talk to her Dad, but it is the conversation that happened next that put such a smile on my face that it...inspired me to write this.

"All right, I have to go now. I have to put the trash up," I declared to Lily in a sing song voice. "Where you put it?" Lily asked and I caught Daniel shaking his head. "You see that space back there?" I pointed to our back room and getting on tippie toes to see the door frame, Lily nodded. "That is a special back room you can't go in and in that room at the very back we have a big trashcan that we put all of our trash in," I explained. Of course, like any child she caught the one rule in the whole statement. "I can't go back there?" Lily asked sadly as though I had denied her access to Disney World. "No ma'am," I replied with an odd smile, "only people who work here and have a green apron can go back there." Lily looked at my apron, looked at that back room and smiled as she turned to her Father. "Daddy, can you get me a green apron?"

I laughed outright at the little girl's question and her Dad laughed with me. I don't remember what I said after that, but as I told Lily goodbye and walked into the now slightly more magical feeling back room, what just happened hit me. I looked around me, this little back room was nothing to me. I pass through it every day I work, it was profane at best. However, to that little girl, the room was sacred. It was a place that was special and somewhere she wanted to go if only for the sake that somebody told her she couldn't. Aren't our dreams like that? Isn't Heaven like that? We wear green aprons where I work to identify us as someone who belongs there, someone who supposedly knows what we're doing. Lily wanted to have that identity, of course she could have no idea of what that entailed, of the hours we spend wishing we were somewhere else, of how difficult the identity of the green apron can be to us. Lily could care less about that, Lily wanted to take on our identity so she could go into that back room. I wear the apron and in explaining that the apron is the key to my entry into the room, Lily sees me. Lily wanted what I had. Can I say the same about Christ in my life? Is my light something people notice? Is it something they want? Do I explain with my life how to get where I am going? While our back room at Starbucks is nearly the polar opposite of Heaven, it was the vehicle of my understanding. As much as this was about Lily, it was also about the little girl inside of me.

Some time ago, I reached that point in my life where I realized something was...off. I was missing Heaven by the eleven inches between my head and my heart. I knew what it was to be a Christian, I could do all the motions, say all the right words. Unlike Lily, I knew exactly what my new identity would be, what came with it, I knew what I wanted and I knew how to get there. So I looked up at my Heavenly Daddy and asked Him a question in the same fashion that Lily asked her Father. I asked for the identity of belonging. I wanted to put on the symbol to show the world who I belonged to. The eleven inch gap was closed. I remember feeling like a little girl and I couldn't stop giggling. It was an odd and beautiful freedom. I got to go home at the end of my life and I knew it, for the first time in my life, without a doubt.

Maybe I read far too much into a conversation with a little girl who isn't even as tall as our trash can. Maybe. I tend to do that. God uses weird things like that to teach me the greatest lessons. Maybe it was because I identify with God most as a Father. God is Daddy to me, it is my favorite facet of Him and the one I suppose I cling to the tightest because until the day I die, a part of me will always be the little girl asking to crawl into His lap so He can hold me and I can hear His heart beat. Even when I've made a mess of things, completely botched situations that do not come without their consequences, I can run back to Daddy like the prodigal I am. Daddy takes me in His arms and holds me close and we talk. God is the provider, God is the healer, God understands my every quirk and oddity, He hears the cry of my heart when I too often let it weep in the silence. I am just the little girl that needs her Daddy.

It is that little girl I see reflected in Lily as she lovingly looked up at her Father. "Daddy, can you get me a green apron?"

I'm One of the Fools...

It's like not being able to breathe

I wish it were that simple

It's like screaming at the darkness

If only it were that black and white

I am a creature of light but not an angel

Because I'm one of the fools who rush in

However strong you may see me isn't always the truth

The fragility of my own heart is my greatest frustration

Yet, it is also one of my greatest strengths

At least I like to think so for it is all I can offer

All I have are these pictures, points of light

Lighting up the dark night with brilliance

Beauty I cannot touch, but hold

So I cling to them with trembling hands

Your voice calls to me, sings to me

To deny it would be to deny my own heartbeat

You created me that way, didn't You?

A living paradox of flesh and bone

How easy it is to feel like I'm drowning

Any good thing in me is You

Apart from You, I have nothing

Alone in a crowd while I in isolation

Face every facet I can't fight

Such power there is in words

It's no wonder we want to be heard

I never stopped listening

I wasn't saved for nothing after all

Though too often it is so easy to believe so

So hard to feel rational some days

When I question my own sanity

Is it too late?

This is so far beyond my understanding

The most beautiful parts of my life are

Even the parts that are yet to come

Maybe that's why they scare me

All my cards are on the table

So what do you want to happen?

It was never really my choice to begin with

I feel like I'm fading, less of me and more of You

I believe, only help my unbelief

These dreams can't stand on their own

I'm at the point where I can't either

Sometimes it is divinely all right to be broken

Love only knows if it will be all right in the end

Will you give into fear, how far will you run

Would you even recognize yourself in the end?

All these words at my disposal and I don't know what to say

Though even if I did, I'm not sure it would make a difference

I wish it would, just for once, empty echoes get old

Maybe I'm just rambling nonsense, maybe I'm mad

Maybe I'm simply not as here as I wish to be

In the end, it is not our intent, but our choices

I'd walk away if that's what it took

Taking the pretty pictures of light with me

If that's what it took to convince you

Because I'm one of those fools that rush in

Je suis une enfante qui a perdu son moyen

Qui est le message, est ce que je suis le mouton

Dans mon couer tout ce n'est pas bien

Je te donne dans ton main le couteau

Je tiens ton avenir, tu tiens ma fin

D'etre tout seule, ce n'est pas mon choix

Mon couer bat si doucement mais il bat

Tu as entendu sa musique, ecoute sa chanson

Simplement ecouter a ta familier

Je crois en toi, est ce que c'est difficile

De crois en moi aussi?

All These Beautiful Things I Can't Fight

There are so many things that I could write about. Too many things really, which is nice and at the same time strangely conflicting. As though the stories constantly bouncing around in my head needed competition. This year is coming to a close and it's strangely bittersweet. This year has been, by far, one of the strangest I have survived. That is kind of what it feels like too, that I have survived it. I'm a full fledged, degree holding college student now. I've taken to it a bit better than I expected to. This is encouraging to me, because like anything daunting, I had found myself unworthy or more accurately unable to rise to meet something and overcome it.

I have become a writing fiend. If you want any evidence of that, simply look at the number of notes/ blogs I've put out. I can't keep myself inside my head anymore. It would kind of scare me if I did. I truly think that is why I write, to get my thoughts out of my own head. Though my writing was far more prolific earlier in the year. It's slowed down, mostly due to school. Though I have been working on a different story, which has been wicked fun. I have characters that are completely insane and that has been so much fun to play with. I guess it's because sometimes I feel like I might be losing it. My mind is a very messy and if nothing else, entertaining place. I suppose it's the core of my writing, the ability to place my otherwise random thoughts into words.

I have come through this mess of a college semester with rather fantastic set of grades. This too has been fantastically encouraging. I am smart. I forget that sometimes. When I was younger I used to fight it. Being smart was a one way ticket to unpopularity. I was cast out because I was the curve breaker. Then I hit a point where I didn't care, I was a smart girl and I wasn't going to fight that anymore. There aren't very many places for smart people to express themselves. Being smart doesn't seem to be a treasure in this culture anymore. Then we turn around and scoff when the smart kids are making all the money. I am a smart kid, not a super genius mind you, but I am quite intelligent. Sometimes it can be a bit alienating. It's hard for me to relate to people sometimes. Often I kind of sympathize with the guys from The Big Bang Theory. While I hope I'm not nearly as awkward, I feel I am sometimes. This is made worse in exponential degrees when I'm around a cute boy. I can't even think of what would happen if I was around a cute guy being smart...it would be like dividing by zero or something crazy like that.

It's so easy to feel fragile sometimes. So many people count on other people to be strong. Even the strongest person needs permission to break from time to time. To not allow this is to not allow that person to be human. Humans are fragile, excessively breakable. It's so easy to look over that fact, so easy to forget that we are all imperfect. It is our habit to put people on a pedestal. Those in whom we find attributes worthy of attention or admiration we tend to see as infallible or even invincible. Time and experience are sharp teachers and quite quickly teaches us otherwise. People weren't meant to be put on a pillar. It is unfair both to us and the person we hold in such high esteem. People deserve to be believed in, the same way that every soul deserves a chance to be. So many times we hold the hearts of people in our hands and we're so scared to lose them we hold so tightly that there is no room for them to breathe. I have been guilty of that so many times. I have a deep abiding fear of losing people in my life. It always seems to happen. Losing people is inevitable if you live long enough.

I like to be hopeful, particularly about people. Some say I am far too trusting, and maybe that is true. I believe in people, maybe more than they deserve. Is that even quantifiable? I have been stepped on, stabbed in the back and had my heart broken more times than I can count, but despite it, I've never stopped believing in people. Sometimes just being believed in can change somebody's life. It can make all the difference in the world. I believe in the sanctity of life, in the beauty of the human soul. It would certainly be easier to be less trusting, to be so cynical that I don't believe in anybody anymore. It would be easier for me in the long run, certainly less painful. I can't though. Maybe it's the deep seated optimism, maybe God has given me a heart for people because He knows I can't live alone, without fellowship. My soul needs to be with others. Perhaps it is selfish in nature. Maybe I believe in people so hard because I hope that some day, maybe some day, enough people will believe that same way in me.

Why I Don't Hate Weddings

I want to say here and now that I am a fan of weddings, I really am. I love weddings, I love the idea of marriage, I love married couples, well...you get the idea. I myself have been in several weddings, not twenty seven mind you, but a decent few. I have been nearly everything a girl can be in a wedding; the welcoming party manning the guest sign-in, helping with food, a flower girl, a bridesmaid, and even maid of honor. Always a bridesmaid...

May I say here and now how very much I hate that phrase. Please don't misunderstand me, I have been honored to be in every single wedding I was asked to be a part of, particularly when I have been asked to be in the wedding party. It meant that I made enough of an impact in a woman's life that on what is supposed to be the greatest day of their life, they were given the task of figuring out what three or four women they wanted to be there for them with them beside them to help them and support them in one of the grandest celebrations life has to offer. When given this rather daunting task, I was one of the women that they chose. While their choice has not always necessarily made sense to me, I am honored by it. I have every right to be.

I like attending weddings despite the always awkward time after the ceremony where we all wait for them to finish pictures and munch on whatever interesting finger (and sometimes not so finger) foods that are served to us on little plastic plates and we sit at tables with people we have never met and explain our association to either the bride or groom, sipping on either sweet tea or a punch concoction that somehow remains a mystery while they play nondescript typically uninteresting music in the background.

Then they announce the entrance of the bride and groom. The awkward waiting is replaced by the beautiful moment of the first dance. I personally love this part. I adore the idea that they first dance belongs to them, accompanied by a song that is their own, that we are all invited on a wonderfully intimate moment as they spin (and in some cases stumble) on a dance floor that has been barred from anybody else so that it can be christened by the newly married couple. Some couples talk, some just smile, some blush, some whisper in each others ears, some brides lay their head on their new husbands chests, some get really crazy and throw a few spins in there. This is usually followed by the daddy/ daughter dance. "Butterfly Kisses" used to have the monopoly on this particular moment, but no more! Good ol' SCC comes out with "Cinderella" giving us all another reason to cry at these things...or at least I cry. The Dad holds his daughter and smiles, in part because he is getting rid of her, in part because this day is proof that she has found the happiness that he always hoped she would. They dance and all the world watches as they physically manifest their own bittersweet farewell. For some reason it always brings a tear to my eye. There is such love as they dance, such hope. The father represents both himself and her mother as he sends forth his little girl with the hopes that he raised her well, he trusts her life and well-being to another man in one of the greatest forms of sacrifice in existence today.

After some dancing, typically including some form of line-dance comes the other awkward moment of weddings, well one of many. The slow dance. I've always hated slow dances in my adult life. They just remind me of Prom and basically every other dance I've been to. I sit...alone watching as other happy couples join hands and hold each other close. There have been the rare occasions where a dear friend who was the bride's brother danced with me like he promised, despite the fact his girlfriend and ex were both there. It made me smile because I enjoyed myself. It was just two friends dancing and it meant nothing more. We laughed and I tried not to fall on my face. I have danced with children, twirling them, inducting them into a world that I hope and pray as I hold them in their arms that they won't go through unaccompanied. I pray that they have partners for their slow dances that will inevitably come to pass. Then there was the time that they made me and the boy who had caught the garter dance together, or they instigated it and I had the guts to ask him (which if you know me, took a lot for me to do). Why did they want us to dance? Well because apparently it is a tradition rarely practiced that the girl who catches the bouquet dances with the boy who catches the garter. Which leads me to the inspiration for this whole thing.

As of Saturday evening, I have now caught a total of five bouquets. Five of them. Most girls go through life catching maybe one. Oh no, not me, I have to be weird. So I catch five. Usually, and please believe me when I say this, I only tried to catch it before it hit the ground. I wasn't really going for it, I'm not one of those single girls who tackle and push and fight to catch it. I used to want to, but it wasn't for the sake of catching it, I was just too competitive not to 'win'. I stopped believing in the 'magic' of catching the bouquet quite some time ago. After catching yet another one, (again, simply to save it from hitting the ground (there is picture proof), I only got up to get it because I was called out) I became curious about why this tradition happens in the first place. Like so many things in regards to our odd traditions, the origin is rather barbaric (like did you know the reason bridesmaids used to wear dresses similar to the bride is so that they'd confuse evil spirits? Apparently it was a bit more of a commitment and sacrifice to be a bridesmaid back then, then again, who doesn't want to be a possible scape goat for evil spirits?) and the tradition of throwing the bouquet is no different. The tradition started in fourteenth century France. A bride was considered particularly lucky on her wedding day to the point that as soon as the wedding ceremony was over, there was a stampeding horde typically comprised of single women that would rush her in order to rip off a piece of her wedding dress to obtain a bit of said luck. They would rip pieces off of her dress. So in order to appease the crowd, she would fling her bouquet and run. So you know, they wouldn't stampede her and rip off her dress. Yeah, thankfully nobody does that anymore, but the tradition remains. There is still stampeding in certain cases, some cases of violence, but the origin is barbaric at best. And we follow it, these strange traditions that exist simply because they always have. They are a part of weddings that too often serve as short versions of Valentine's Day to us single folk. Are they intended to do so? I don't think so. They are a celebration that, despite ourselves, as happy as we are for our friend, whether bride or groom, we feel that dull or sometimes searing pain in our hearts that what we see is nothing we have a part in. I have single friends who hate weddings for this very reason and refuse, no matter how close the friend, to accept an invitation to a wedding. Regardless of my reservations on weddings and their often odd and strangely founded traditions, I am not a part of this group.

Why? Because I still believe in love. I believe in it so hard. Have I been hurt? Yeah, not nearly to the extent that many have, but the reasoning behind that is enough for a whole different posting, but I have understood heartbreak. Have I watched two people 'in love' grow to hate each other and go back on their vows? Yes, I have and my heart breaks. Call me naive, I am under the childish delusion that when two people love each other and promise to love each other for the rest of their lives, make a covenant before God (who supposedly brought them together in the first place) that they'll stay together forever. Love is a state of permanence in my mind. Blame it, if you want, on the rather fantastic example of my own parents. They have stayed together and has it been hard? Absolutely, but no songs are ever written about the love stories that come easily. Have I been 'alone' and wouldn't know what it would be like to not be that way? Yes, but I am not one of those girls who need a 'man' in her life to define her. I don't need to be in a relationship to know who I am, a good thing too. I listened at Daniel and Samantha's wedding as they said their vows that they had written to each other, I saw the tears well up in his eyes as he saw her for the first time, I watched the love in their eyes as they danced and it made me smile.

I smiled because I still believe. I believe in love and I believe in the beauty of sharing your life with another person. I believe love is one of the greatest things that God has ever come up with, it is the driving force that perhaps doesn't make the world turn, but it makes the mad spinning worthwhile. I love weddings because I know that some day...some day it will be at my wedding that people will be smiling. It will be my first dance that people will cry to. It will be my eyes that well up with tears while saying my vows. It will be his eyes I stare into with the keen and overwhelming revelation that this man, my dearest friend, is who God has blessed me with and has deemed perfect just for me. It will be my bouquet that I toss at single girls to appease them so I don't get my dress ripped and you better believe that is precisely what I will be thinking about as I do it. I love weddings because even if only for a day, despite what little things go wrong it is a celebration of everything that God created to be right with the world. It is a reflection of Jesus and His Bride. It is something beautiful and despite its absolute madness, I love weddings. I truly, truly do.