The last few weeks have been kind of crazy - busy, sad. My new dose of medication seems to be working like a charm, especially considering I had to put my sweet cat Gordo to sleep last Thursday and I didn't go completely crazy. I kept saying through sobs, "It feels so good to cry for a reason." Now, day 6 after his death, I finally feel like I have accepted that he isn't here. I knew all the facts when he died - that it was "his time" and he was "ready," that there was nothing else I could do, that it was no life for him and no life for me (force-feeding him all the time), that he's not in pain anymore. These things didn't comfort me, because I wasn't crying for his loss of life; I was crying because I lost his life.
I could be theologically unsound here, but as usual I have a theory. When I go to heaven, I'll get a new body - one without sorrow or illness. I'll get a new robe - one that will never wear out in the wash or get stains on it. The food there is delicious without giving you indigestion or making you fat. The water is good to drink without having to be filtered. I think heaven is a place with all the good elements of God's creation and none of the bad. I think it's Earth as it was supposed to be.
Going to heaven isn't like moving to a new home. It's like moving back to your childhood home with all of the glory and none of the bad moments. That's why I know Gordo must be there - because God is preparing a place for me specifically, full of my happy memories and my favorite things, with none of the bad parts.
How Women Bond
Joe and I watched an episode of Malcolm in the Middle this morning, in which a group of women get together and talk about their lives and families, etc. The conversation keeps coming back to this "perfect" woman, Lillian Miller, who has a pristine house and yard, and brought ten cakes to the school bake sale. But the conversation about her isn't honoring; these women hate this woman because of how perfect she is!
Afterward I told Joe, "This, this is why you always hear me bragging to my friends that I haven't vacuumed in two weeks, or that we've had frozen pizza the last two nights, or that I had to dig through the laundry to find the cleanest dirty pair of jeans I could. Women don't like women that seem perfect. Women like women who aren't threats. The non-threatening woman is just as imperfect as me.
I think we (meaning I) overdo the self-deprecation thing. If I hear someone say "Ugh, I haven't shaved my legs for a week, my legs are so hairy" I immediately become Topper from Dilbert and say "Well in the winter I don't shave at ALL!" (By the way, now that I'm married I do have better leg hair management).
If someone is embarrassed by the dog hair all over her carpet, I immediately respond by practically bragging about the hair shed by my cats, and then top it off by telling her I haven't vacuumed in a week.
Now that I think about it, I do it for a few reasons.
I'm not saying it's always bad; I just think I can have wrong motives.
I could be theologically unsound here, but as usual I have a theory. When I go to heaven, I'll get a new body - one without sorrow or illness. I'll get a new robe - one that will never wear out in the wash or get stains on it. The food there is delicious without giving you indigestion or making you fat. The water is good to drink without having to be filtered. I think heaven is a place with all the good elements of God's creation and none of the bad. I think it's Earth as it was supposed to be.
Going to heaven isn't like moving to a new home. It's like moving back to your childhood home with all of the glory and none of the bad moments. That's why I know Gordo must be there - because God is preparing a place for me specifically, full of my happy memories and my favorite things, with none of the bad parts.
How Women Bond
Joe and I watched an episode of Malcolm in the Middle this morning, in which a group of women get together and talk about their lives and families, etc. The conversation keeps coming back to this "perfect" woman, Lillian Miller, who has a pristine house and yard, and brought ten cakes to the school bake sale. But the conversation about her isn't honoring; these women hate this woman because of how perfect she is!
Afterward I told Joe, "This, this is why you always hear me bragging to my friends that I haven't vacuumed in two weeks, or that we've had frozen pizza the last two nights, or that I had to dig through the laundry to find the cleanest dirty pair of jeans I could. Women don't like women that seem perfect. Women like women who aren't threats. The non-threatening woman is just as imperfect as me.
I think we (meaning I) overdo the self-deprecation thing. If I hear someone say "Ugh, I haven't shaved my legs for a week, my legs are so hairy" I immediately become Topper from Dilbert and say "Well in the winter I don't shave at ALL!" (By the way, now that I'm married I do have better leg hair management).
If someone is embarrassed by the dog hair all over her carpet, I immediately respond by practically bragging about the hair shed by my cats, and then top it off by telling her I haven't vacuumed in a week.
Now that I think about it, I do it for a few reasons.
- I tell people the very worst, shocking, embarrassing thing to test them; to see if they are driven away.
- As mentioned before, I know I like it when other people are human, and I display my humanity so other people will like me too.
- I portray myself as "worse" than others so that they will not feel as bad about themselves
- I tell myself it's good to keep myself humble
- I do it so that others will contradict me and then compliment me ("Oh, you look fine without makeup!")
I'm not saying it's always bad; I just think I can have wrong motives.
Comments
Post a Comment