Zachary Levi Has That Effect on Me

Remember when I watched Tangled and it made me cry? Well, that doesn't happen anymore. I still get bitter(sweet) feelings when I hear "I See the Light" or watch the lantern scene, but I think I've found another root of what caused those tears to well up.

Zachary Levi.

You see, I was bored recently. Bored enough to think, "Hey, maybe I should try out a new TV series on Netflix." And so, because Netflix predicted that, based on my past viewing preferences, I would rate Chuck as a five-star series, worthy of my highest praise, that's what I selected.

I went in with expectations far below five stars. You see, once upon a time, right around when I started this blog, I saw the pilot episode at Family Home Evening. For some reason, our male FHE leader thought that watching Chuck was our surest path to spiritual enlightenment that evening. I remember being less than impressed. This chick wandered around in her underwear, some buff dude kept saying "Awesome," and a few other main characters were living below their potential at dead-end retail jobs. 

That's what I was envisioning when I clicked the red and black play button over Zachary Levi, action hero, in Netflix. I thought I was immune to liking this series. But oh how wrong I was.

At first, let me admit that I kept watching more because of the casting choices than anything else. I had just finished a Hallmark Channel movie starring Ryan McPartlin. Chuck fans know him as Captain Awesome. Yeah, the buff dude from my vague memory. In the Hallmark Channel movie, Chance at Romance, Awesome played a widowed photographer with a matchmaking young son. Through Awesome's website, the son poses as his dad and recruits a fan to visit their home. She shows up, the misunderstanding comes to light, but she stays long enough to fall in love. Obviously. It's Hallmark Channel.

And who was playing Awesome's girlfriend/Chuck's sister, Ellie? None other than another Hallmark Channel favorite of mine, Sarah Lancaster. I liked her in Fir Crazy, the one where the lead character loses her job and has to work at her family Christmas tree lot--which is where she meets her true love, naturally, played by the guy who dated Lana on Smallville. (Fun facts: His Smallville name was Whitney; he also appeared in Mrs. Miracle 2 and The Work and the Glory films as the rebellious brother.)

I'm digressing, but you need to know I stayed because of Awesome and Ellie, not because of Chuck and Sarah. But man, that will-they-won't-they dynamic is powerful. In truth, my attraction to the show actually stems more from will-he-or-won't he. Will Chuck be able to escape his trapped, going nowhere existence? Will he win the heart of the beautiful girl? Will his dreams finally come true after so much undeserved misfortune? I wanted those things for Chuck because now, years after I first saw the pilot, I felt/feel like I was/am in the same position. My job is okay for now since nothing exceptional panned out right after college, but it doesn't feel like there's room for progress. My love life is non-existent, and at times it's hard to fight the feeling that, although I have many awesome qualities (intelligence, personality, looks), no one of the opposite sex will ever find those qualities awesome enough to commit.

And so, feeling sympathy and undying devotion for the ever-charming Zachary Levi as Chuck Bartowski, I continued my binge-watch. I rooted for him when he took action to get what he wanted romantically and professionally, even if that meant (spoiler alerts ahead) breaking up with Sarah or choosing career over romance. In rooting for Chuck, my hibernating ambition and self-belief began to awaken. Maybe not to act for themselves, but at least to take a look at the view. 

And now, I'm almost to the end of the third season, and I'm having that moment again. The moment where Zachary Levi makes me cry. Because I've realized the reason I'm letting myself fall in crush with Chuck is that he's me, but the version of me that's finally thrust into what my life should be. And that's when all the happy memories of Chuck become sad, because I realize that a spy who just happens to be my perfect romantic partner is never going to walk into my place of business and begin a complicated and heartbreaking but ultimately destined to succeed relationship with me. It's sad because people don't get a Chuck-like invitation to take the reins of their lives.

So, now I wish I knew how to quit Chuck. Because I have vague memories of a friend telling me how the series ends, and that is sad too. And I just don't need anymore tears inspired by Zachary Levi.

Excuse me while I go listen to Katharine McPhee's "Terrified"--the Zachary Levi version.

Two Words: Stop It

I feel the need to rant a little tonight. The inspiration behind the coming rant is a recent article posted to LDS Living, a magazine I once interned for and to which I subscribe. I like LDS Living, but I just don't know about this one.

The article is called "5 Ways to Find Your Eternal Companion According to the Family Proclamation." It's adapted from a book that has the same idea: study the Proclamation hard enough and live its principles, and you too can be righteous enough to get married, like the author.

Truth be told, I knew I shouldn't click on the Facebook link to this article, but I did because I do self-destructive things when I think my mind can take them. I am almost always wrong about that.

To be fair, LDS Living probably had to post this article because they're owned by Deseret Book, which sells the book that inspired the article, so it's advertising. I work in online marketing; I know how it works.

But here's what bothers me about the article. Starting with the first "way," I hear that voice I hear all too often from well-intentioned but ill-advised married Church members. They look at a single Saint's status and start pointing the finger of blame--at the single person.

The first principle reads as condescending, insulting, and discouraging. To simplify what the author states, I'll summarize it the way it reads in my head: "Hey, have you considered faith? I know it's the first principle of the gospel, but maybe you've never heard of it before. President Monson says you shouldn't be postponing marriage, so what are you waiting for? You're already at least in your mid 20s. Remember, you can't be exalted unless you have a spouse (as I do)."

Yes, I know that's not what the author is actually saying. But does he think I've somehow missed out on faith, the plan of salvation, words of living prophets, and the central importance of marriage as fundamental doctrines of the gospel? Believe me, you can't be attending YSA wards as long as I have without hearing about those principles. True, you don't have to adopt them just because you attend church, but you'd have to spend the entire three-hour block checking your fantasy football scores every week to not be aware of them.

And that brings me to a root problem of articles like this. They misunderstand the target audience. The people who will click on a "How to Find Your Eternal Companion in 5 Easy Steps" article are not the people who need to be reminded to have faith. Trust me--if we're still going to Church and holding out for eternal marriage, faith is a big part of who we are and who we strive to become.

People who most need to take the quoted counsel from President Monson to heart are not those who come to this article seeking comfort and guidance, so stop lumping all singles together and assuming we're ALL postponing marriage or forgetting how important it is. We wouldn't spend so many hours wondering about crushes or worrying about dates or crying over our delayed but promised righteous desires if we didn't have faith in the eternal, infinite, and personal plan of salvation.

That brings me to the other problem with this article, the reason I knew I shouldn't click on it. It's a listicle, a gross term for the numbered articles that have overtaken the Internet in the Buzzfeed era. I know because I write them every day in my job as a small business blogger. All listicles are filled with tips and tricks, shortcuts to achieving a desired goal.

Don't get me wrong; many listicles contain useful information. But, I don't think a listicle is an appropriate venue to offer dating advice to LDS single adults. That's because by clicking on a listicle, a reader feels like he or she will receive the piece of insider information necessary to achieve a certain end. Instead, readers in the faith-filled but still single category finish reading the article and find themselves thinking, "What am I doing wrong? What magical piece of the formula am I missing?"

Unfortunately, it just doesn't work that way with eternal marriage. I wish it did--I'm good at following lists. But the more we encourage this checklist-goal mentality of marriage, the more disappointment potential we create in conscientious, faith-filled singles.

Recently, at a friend's wedding luncheon, I felt keenly the untruth of the notion that we can achieve eternal marriage by completing tasks on a list. Her husband's father stood up and said how proud he was of his son, who had always been able to set goals and achieve them. The father was using the hours-old marriage as an example of an achieved goal.

As I heard this stranger say those words, I sat there and let myself feel hurt. I'd set the goal for marriage, I'd worked to achieve it, but it had eluded me. I felt the Spirit try to comfort me and say that my mind was mistaking a proud father's words for doctrine, but my heart had a hard time accepting that comfort. Because I'd heard that before from well-meaning Institute teachers and local priesthood leaders.

The Spirit finally got through to me after several months of further mental anguish by reminding me of a scene from my own life with my own father. I don't live at home anymore, but I live close enough to my parents that I can visit several times a year. My entire immediate family lives in the same city, except for me.

When I go home, I love being around my family, but I have to admit that I struggle with feelings of jealousy and inadequacy when I'm there. I'm the oldest, but my younger sister is married. I love her; I love her husband. But seeing what they have leads me to focus on what I lack, my own eternal companion. Consequently, I often end up crying during my prayers on the last nights I have at home. Sometimes I even wake up in the middle of the night, convinced that marriage will always elude me and that my loneliness will never cease.

As you can imagine, those thoughts are crushing. But on several occasions, my dad has been in the next room and heard my cries. And he comes in, gently places his hand on my shoulder, and speaks words of comfort. My dad can give long talks about spiritual matters, but I find his spiritual knowledge most meaningful in those conversations, which tend to last no more than three minutes.

What am I driving at here? I think many LDS single adults find more happiness when they come to understand that eternal marriage is not 100% dependent on exerting the correct amount of righteousness and faith--and when they stop clicking on articles that suggest otherwise (hint to future self). The way to receive that knowledge is through the Spirit, not through a listicle.

I have to acknowledge that the author finishes by saying the article doesn't actually offer a new idea or formula for finding an eternal companion. But I think that's part of why this article makes me feel empty. The title sets up one expectation, the content serves an entirely different purpose, and I am left confused and disappointed.

Ultimately, I think we need to accept as a body of Saints--myself included--that practicing principles in numbered lists won't automatically lead to marriage or other spiritual ends. "The gospel is not a checklist."

How can we fix this? Take President Uchtdorf's counsel and "Stop it." Stop writing articles that promise singles the secret to getting married. There is no secret, and Deseret Book CEO Sheri Dew would be the first one to tell you that.

Acceptance First, Anger Last

Note: I wrote part of this blog post in May 2014, but I never finished it. I couldn't sleep tonight, so I revisited it in an attempt to bring on the ZZZs. It starts where I originally started it, and I'll note when the original post ends.

I've heard that people can experience the stages of grief in any order and often go through some stages multiples times before they reach acceptance. I can now be a witness to this fact. I just didn't realize it was possible to reach acceptance first and still need to go through the other stages.

To anyone who's still out there reading, you should know that on November 16, 2013, I got my long-awaited, much-anticipated first kiss. The story is quite nice, but I'm not in the mood to share it here just yet, mostly because that relationship has since ended and I'm presently stuck in the beginning of a romantic comedy. My life right now is very status quo: my career exists but it doesn't suit my skill-set or feel long-term; I had what felt like a great dating relationship but have a hard time now remembering what I saw in him and why I trusted him with my heart. If that ever changes, you might get to hear the good parts version, readers. But not today.

One day shy of a month after our first date, The Boy Who First Kissed Me broke up with me. That's not even a 100% accurate description of what happened, but it's the best term I've got, and I've since learned that he used it. So, although he refused to officially and openly date me, at least he recognizes that he broke up with me. What a man.

He gave a few reasons for breaking up with me, the most prominent being a lack of time to give me what I deserve out of a dating relationship. Translation: I'm just not that into you. I knew that's what it meant at the time and tried to get some clarification out of him.

In fact, as an aspiring screenwriter, I feel I should give you a better sense of the action and let you see the pitiful scene for yourself.

Sunday afternoon. Sacrament meeting has just concluded. BOY and GIRL, who have been sitting together, stand up. GIRL is annoyed but trying to hide it because BOY was checking his Fantasy Football scores throughout the meeting. BOY is distracted by the fan club of girls, aged 18-22, who run up to him (age 27), eager to get his opinion on everything from wheat bread versus white bread to the Affordable Care Act. BOY shifts his attention from GIRL to this harem.

GIRL waits nearby. Flashback shots of her waking up in a cold, angry sweat the past several nights are shown. Another flashback depicts the same harem arriving at her apartment Christmas party the night before. HAREM also ran over to BOY with enthusiasm then, chief among them a young 20-something redhead, and BOY turned his attention away from GIRL despite the fact that he arrived an hour late to the party. GIRL said nothing then, but remembering the restless sleep and confusion, she knows she has to say something now.

BOY finishes talking with HAREM, and GIRL recaptures his attention.

GIRL: Hey, I know you're busy, but can I schedule some (BOY'S NAME) time for later today?

BOY: Sure, we can make that happen.

BOY and GIRL part ways.

[End of original blog post.]

The story picks up later that night, around 8:20, following Ward Prayer. GIRL nervously approaches BOY in a crowded room.

GIRL: Can we have our talk now?

BOY: (grimaces) Sure.

GIRL and BOY walk back to GIRL's apartment. BOY does not try to hold GIRL's hand. BOY and GIRL reach the apartment and sit on the love seat. The name of that piece of furniture does not match what is about to happen.

Fade out.

I could give you the Reader's Digest version of that conversation. Heaven knows I've played it over in my head plenty of times since it took place. But I really only remember what he said. And how stunned I felt. And how embarrassed I am now that I almost cried then.

But the details aren't important. Because as heartbroken as I should have been, the next day--a Monday, naturally--I found myself at work, not pining for him and wondering what I did wrong. Instead, a rush of calm flooded over me around lunch time. I just knew it was right that we weren't dating anymore, or using each other or whatever the accurate description is for what we were doing with each other. I found acceptance less than 24 hours after our split.

And that was great. I felt calm and happy and at peace all through the holiday season and the Olympic speed skating trials and even New Year's Eve, a holiday I've wanted to spend with a significant other since I was allowed to date.

I wish that feeling had lasted. I wish I had held onto it more, fought for it to stay. But that's not what happened. Instead, he announced on Facebook the day after Valentine's that he was in a relationship. Apparently he had time for her. Apparently he wasn't ashamed to openly admit that he liked her.

Enter anger and all the stages of grief I hadn't gone through yet. Welcome back to all the questions I had about my worth and my attractiveness as a woman. The year just went downhill from there. I thought a different guy liked me. You heard half of that story in a different post. Yeah, he didn't. But he eventually found the skinnier, nicer version of me, which triggered a whole new set of jealousies and self-loathings when I saw it first-hand.

By August, I'd given up the idea of dating that year. And I'm not sure I want it right now either. I mean, I want it because my biological clock is ticking and the longer I stay single, the more ice cream I consume and the more unrealistic Hallmark Channel movies I watch and the more I fear I am too SOMETHING to be the object of someone's true affections. The less marry-able I become.

The point of this post is not to say that I believe something is wrong with me that makes me undateable. It's just to put some feelings that weigh on my heart and doubts that resound in my mind out into the universe. Because there isn't enough room for them to just stay inside of me anymore.

I want my acceptance back. I want the courage to move forward and think that I could find someone and he could like me and mean it. I want to not think I failed at 2014 because three of my best friends got married but I didn't even hold a boy's hand.

Because I accomplished a lot in 2014:

• I got a new job.
• I bought a car by myself.
• I went to Disneyland twice.
• I got to the other side.

2015 is already better. Not necessarily in the dating arena, though I have felt myself gaining a more balanced perspective on the matter. There have been two boys recently who I've thought "maybe" about. It didn't become anything, but that's not the point. 

The bigger and more important development is that I feel myself wanting to be okay with where I am now. I feel my heart saying, "You is good. You is kind. You is important." And not because of your dating status or whether you've published anything, but because you have faith in the future but appreciate the present. I'm not perfect at it, but I'm doing better.

• I go to the gym more regularly.
• I've taken care of some big-girl things, like 401(k) and HSA and dental insurance.
• I sometimes watch the nightly news instead of reruns of crime procedurals or HGTV.
• I've already finished 5 books this year.
• I'm blogging outside of work now, a first step in writing more and feeling the joy of the creative spirit again.

If you made it this far, congrats. I apologize for starting so many sentences with conjunctions. I know it's allowed, but I think I went overboard. I have hopes that this year will be better than the last. After two long Decembers, I deserve it. So I'm going to give it to myself.

Sitcom of My Life: Out on a Limb

It's been far too long since I've blogged. And I never gave the full story behind the vague but dizzily happy last post. Believe me, I've attempted to write them, but I can't find the words that are honest without being spiteful yet. Let's just say that was the mid-season finale in Season 1 of my personal sitcom/reality show, "Right as Rain." (The title has no particular relevance, except that I love that Adele song and would choose it as my show's theme song if a) I ever got a show and b) Adele would give permission.)

And let's just skip ahead to right now. Right now I'm feeling very Carol Vessey from Ed when she confessed her feelings to Ed, who'd been in unrequited love with her for years, and he didn't respond. So, in typical Ed fashion, Carol went over to Ed's house one morning and sat in his tree until he came out and saw her there.

Ed to Carol: "What are you doing up there?" (I'm paraphrasing here.)

Carol: "I'm out on a limb."

Ed: "But you're not. You are really close to the trunk. You're not out on a limb."

Carol: "I know. I was, but then I got scared. It's really scary to be out on a limb."

Carol, I couldn't agree more. Up until a few weeks ago, I had NEVER straight up said to a boy that I had feelings for him, unless he had already given me physical evidence that my feelings were in some way reciprocated.

And for some reason, two and a half weeks ago, during the season finale, I thought it would be a good idea to confess my feelings to a man who was introduced in the series premiere of my life sitcom nearly 9 months ago. In an email. While he was on vacation. IN ASIA.

Smooth, Whitney. Real smooth.

Because I didn't just confess my feelings. I also scolded him for not telling me an important detail of his life that affected our friendship and potential romantic relationship. Which, I'm realizing now, was a figment of my imagination and his gentleman-like manner.

Oh well.

But now, the wait since I sent the email was been more interminable than any television hiatus. EVER.

We're talking worse than when Jess and Rory kissed on the bridge before Sookie's wedding.

We're talking worse than when Luke and Lorelai kissed at the opening of the Dragonfly Inn.

It's THAT BAD, guys. (And gals.)

But, I also know that writing works for me. It gets my thoughts out of my head and into the universe. Which is why the email seemed like a good idea at the time.

"Who wants to be right as rain? It's better when something is wrong." At least, that's what my theme song says.

This Is Just to Say...

This post is just to say that I have obviously fallen behind on my made-for-TV Christmas movie watching, and I may not catch up this year, but tune in next year for whatever posts don't make it onto the blog this year.

This post is also just to say that blogging is very cathartic for me. I get to have conversations with Past Whitty that remind Present Whitty that Future Whitty still has a pretty bright future. Past Whitty is really good with that because she's had a few epiphanies that Present Whitty sometimes forgets but that she needs to remember to keep being awesome and become Future Whitty. Past Whitty is, well, witty. And reading what Past Whitty wrote makes Present Whitty content and confident and peaceful, even when she doesn't have everything she's ever wanted--Past Whitty reminds Present Whitty that she already has the ability to become her very best version of Future Whitty.

This paragraph is just to apologize for the last paragraph and all of the referring to myself in the third person.

And this last part is just to say "Merry Christmas" to any bloggers out there who like the poems of William Carlos Williams or the British accents of actors who've portrayed Mr. Darcy or both. Because one of those actors will now read William Carlos Williams's poem, "This Is Just to Say." Enjoy.

Bad Movie Genre: Robot Movies

Remember on Gilmore Girls when Luke married that lawyer lady while they were on a cruise together...but soon thereafter they decided to get divorced. Being a lawyer she knew how to handle her own side of the lawsuit but she sent some of her colleagues over to Luke's Diner to handle his side of the case. Her colleagues couldn't believe that Luke didn't want to snag any of her money or sue for damages or doing anything generally requiring a lawyer during a divorce. "There must be something that you want," they insisted to Luke. Finally, in a classic case of Luke-loses-his-cool, Luke described the on ship entertainment which he regretfully sat through three nights in a row: a water-glass player. Luke's verdict: "I want those three hours back!"

I can endure many "bad" movies--Frankie and Annette beach party films, High School Musical 1-3, Elvis movies, Prom, etc. But there is an entire genre of movies that always makes me say, along with Luke, "I want those three hours back." Luckily for me, these movies are usually less than three hours long, but the pain of watching them makes them feel at least 180 minutes in agonizing length.

Robot movies. Can't stand 'em.

In the spirit of the Olympics, I'm awarding gold, silver, and bronze to the robot movies that sucked irrecoverable time out of life

Gold: The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

I actually went to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy on opening weekend, at the recommendation of my best friend's older, cooler, college-attending brother. Ten minutes in, I could tell it wasn't my kind of humor. Twenty minutes in, I realized the guy sitting next to me smelled like a speakeasy. Thirty minutes in, I was putting on lotion and covering my nose to mask the scent of Mr. Speakeasy. And at forty minutes in (or was it 42?), I was scanning the audience. Surely they were all in agony like me?

Half right. The women were all dozing to the best of their ability. The men were on the edge of their seats like this was the best superhero flick they'd seen in years. I don't say this to be sexist; I'm sure there are plenty of women who love this movie. I just don't know any of them, and none of them were in that theatre that night.

Silver: Wall-E.

I have a hard time watching movies with little to no dialog. I'm not a big fan of animation (although Pixar can usually entertain me). And I hate the deliberate ploy to "get nominated for an Oscar by making a movie about a current Hollywood-promoted issue." (See also Happy Feet, another 90 minutes I'd like back.)

Let's just say that by the time humans came into the picture, I had no emotional connection to this robot that many have called lovable or his high-tech, garden of Eden girlfriend.

Bronze: Transformers.

Other than the fact that I have no interest in Transformers, I probably should have tried to watch this movie before last summer. A roommate and I started watching it on a whim, but neither of us could take it very long. Four story lines are hard to justify in a film about living (and possibly breathing?) space robots. Only Michael Bay could take a movie with two Hollywood hunks--Josh Duhamel and Shia LaBeouf--and turn out a product that is unwatchably bad. (See also the historically embarrassing Pearl Harbor, but I still secretly like that one.)

By this point, I'd learned my lesson about robot movies, so I quit watching. But that movie followed me into my nightmares. Like Shia in the movie, I had recently gotten my first car. All night long, I tossed and turned as I imagined it driving itself away. Even worse, a car was being towed from the parking lot of my apartment complex around three in the morning that night, and in my state of drowsy half-sleep, I thought Optimus Prime was invading. If nothing else, I want those eight hours of sleep back.

Just out of the medals: Bicentennial Man and I, Robot

Rude People

Maybe rude is a bit harsh, but there are worse adjectives I could use. Last night, I finally went to see Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows with my roommate. Granted, it was a sold out show at the dollar theater in town, so I knew it was going to be crowded, but in some ways that makes these people seem more rude.

My roommate and I arrived plenty early to get good seats. But we were just a tad too early, so we had to wait in the line to get into the theater. After we've waited for a few minutes, nothing to get stirred up about, the theater opens and they start letting us through. Only there are two lines, side-by-side, so the ticket attendant is having a hard time telling the people in the first line to wait. So this family of six who just arrived gets to go before us. And they know it, too. I could see it in their faces.

Strike one.

This annoyance wasn't actually a problem, since we still got great seats in the middle of the theater, where we proceeded to wait for the start of the movie. Our row has nine seats in it, and we're sitting in seats three and four from the left. A couple comes in and sits in seven and eight, and the woman puts her coat on the sixth seat right next to her. It clearly looks like she's saving it for a friend.

But she wasn't! All through that opening promo movie and the previews, the Love Couple are playing on their smart phones and not interacting. At. All. And literally dozens of people are filling into the theater, and it's getting more and more crowded, and they are not moving in or moving their coats or even being asked if they are saving seats (presumably because they look "occupied" playing on their smart phones). Eventually the movie starts, and they are still on their phones for the five minute opening sequence. And they never shared their seats that they were so NOT saving for friends.

Strike two.

My roommate and I have moved into seats four and five by this time because a tall guy was sitting in front of her. Right before the movie starts, a lone man in his sixties comes and takes the open seat on my roommate's left. And three minutes in, he starts snoring. Loudly. Rhythmically. Nonstop. He sometimes would jolt awake and blow his nose even louder, offering a three to five minute reprieve. But basically for the whole movie, the old guy is snoring next to us.

Strike three.

So, when you ask me if I liked Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows, I may not know how to answer. I had a hard time following it amid all the distractions.

What are the rules of movie theater etiquette? Why, it's elementary, my dear Watson.
1. Don't cut people in line.
2. Don't save seats for imaginary people. Not even if you are Wills and Kate, the only couple I could think of that might need a public buffer.
3. Don't use your phones to avoid being asked if you are saving those seats.
4. Don't use your phones during the actual movie.
5. Don't snore.

Photogenic

Late-night insomnia being what it is, I try to find new uses for it when it arises. Just now, I looked through every single picture I am tagged in on Facebook. And I noticed a few things.

For one, I never take pictures. I own a camera, but I think the last time I used it was March 2011 to snap two quick shots of a pizza making date. Which, ironically, are not posted to Facebook. If someone had to put together a profile of me based on my Facebook pictures alone, that person would surmise that I only care about vacations (London, Houston--not technically a vacation--Michael Buble concert), holidays (only the 4th of July, if I remember correctly), and my dogs. Oh, and that whole set of family photos.

And looking at my Facebook pictures, I can tell you exactly why I never take pictures, particularly of myself. This is not going to be an "I think I'm fat" rant, although that was the insecure thought that sent me running for my Facebook profile at 3 in the morning.

No. As I look at recent pictures of myself, I have complaints about them, places I want to airbrush or photoshop. My arms that look wide in that horizontally striped sweater, my all-too-prominent acne scars, my ever-widening thighs.

But the funny thing is, those are the same things I complained about in the older pictures, snapshots from two or three years ago. At that time, I'm fairly certain I also had moments when I thought I was fat, but I look at them now and think, "Wow. I was so skinny. How could I have ever thought I was fat?" I just can't comprehend it.

Now, yes, I have gained weight between those two time periods, but I don't think this phenomenon is indicating that I will continue to constantly get larger and only appreciate photographs of myself several years after they are taken.

On the contrary. It actually makes me appreciate the more recent photographs more right now. I compliment myself on a hair day well captured on film. I remind myself that I had a terrible cold that day, so who cares if I went a little light on the makeup?

And finally, I look at who else is in the picture with me. Mission companions, old friends, new friends, puppies, a mom, a dad, a brother, a sister, mere acquaintances. Since I'm never the one insisting on photographs, I know it was the other person who demanded that photograph. They wanted a picture. Of me.

Not because I have perfect skin. Not because I have an impeccable sense of style. Not because I am famous or have a famous boyfriend. Not because I have a popular song on the radio or a popular movie in the theaters or a popular show on TV. Not any of the reasons that the "beautiful" women of the world get their pictures taken.

No. But because those people (and puppies) have spent actual time with me and love doing it and want to remember doing it when they're not around me. (The feeling's mutual, by the way.) And all of the sudden, I'm not looking at the photograph as myself, hyper-critic and something-of-a-perfectionist that I am.

I'm seeing myself the way they see me and the way I see them in return.

Gifts and Giving, Mistletoe Style

I don't think I've kept it exactly a secret on here that I'm still anticipating my first kiss. And lately I've been contemplating that first kiss as if it were a tangible item, something that can be wrapped up in a box and handed over to me. Like someone owns it and just refuses to hand it over.

Maybe it all stems from one too many listens to the Justin Bieber Christmas album and its inordinate number of references to mistletoe and all related activities, but I don't think I can blame it all on the Biebs.

I'm past thinking there's something wrong with me, imagining that I'm just fundamentally unattractive to men, even men who are supposedly my type. You know, college students of similar moral fiber and religious affiliation, experiencing the same phase of life that I am and harboring similar desires for the next.

But they haven't noticed me, and I'm leaving in a few months.

I don't didn't want to be one of those girls who believes that Mormon love can only be found in P-town or Iceburg. But I'm staring in the face of evidence that says I am. Sleepless nights. Conflicting desires.

Like any normal college student anticipating graduation, I'm starting to look for employment in the near future. My chosen career path means big city adventure, a prospect which excites me and actually seems fairly probable from my preliminary searching. I'm going to be in a place that many Mormon women don't get to be in. I'm getting a degree, and I'm going to use it. And just to be clear, I like that.

How amazing is it that in six months I could be interning as an editor for Smithsonian Magazine, in a city and at an institution I've wanted to work for since I saw a TV special about this museum of museums when I was six years old? Or copyediting and proofreading DC Comics in the metropolis of New York City? Or writing and editing a variety of content for an online women's magazine based in the city by the bay, a song that a favorite band of mine promises could "save me"?

Why should I not be excited for that?

I'll tell you why. Because I can't shake the feeling that taking a job like that in a city with a limited Mormon dating pool is a death knell for all possibility of me ever getting that kiss. Even just one.

So for all nine of you out there reading this, all I want for Christmas from you is for you to tell me I'm crazy and remind me that my prospects for romance are only going to improve once I leave my small-fish-in-a-big-pond status behind for a big-fish-in-a-small-pond one. After all, isn't it a basic rule of most romcoms that successful, big-city career girls find true love because of that life situation, not in spite of it? I should know. I've watched plenty of them. I happen to be the variety of girl who needs validation and reassurance from her friends every once in a while. And I'm not apologizing for it either.

Also, I recognize the inherent flaws in the theory that some guy is holding my first kiss hostage. My theory of kisses believes that both parties own the kiss, so it's just as much mine as it is the lucky guy who'll someday (sooner than later) receive it. From me.

Actually, it also makes me realize that I've probably been metaphorically standing under the mistletoe for years, just hoping someone would pass by. And that's wrong, too. I have more control over this situation than that. So, unlike Justin Bieber, I'm done "waiting under the mistletoe."

Biblical Dating Tips: "Feed My Camels"

Today, I found this article putting forth one woman's theory about why some women have difficulty getting dates. It prompted quite a Facebook conversation between me, my mom, and several good friends. We really didn't agree with it. Really.

Immediately after that conversation, I went to lunch with a different friend, and we too were discussing the article and the short-sighted thought process behind it. While in line, we ran into a friend of hers.

And when I say friend I mean Polynesian college football player friend of hers.

So we sat at his lunch table. And without us even starting it, the conversation turned to dating. This is where it gets good.

Because Polynesian football player friend told us a story about a recent church meeting where his stake president compared seeking out your spouse to the story of Isaac's servant finding Rebekah to be Isaac's wife.

If you're not familiar with this biblical gem, see Genesis 24. The basic gist of the story is that Isaac's dad, Abraham, insists that Isaac marry within the family religion, but none of the local girls live the standards. So they send a servant out with a caravan of camels to find a more fruitful dating pool . When the servant arrives at a well, he makes a proposition to God that would go something like this in today's vernacular.

"Hey, I've got an idea. How about I stand here by this well of water with my thirsty camels, and the first girl who offers to water them for me will be the woman destined to marry Isaac. Kapeesh?"

And that's exactly what happens. Rebekah offers to water the camels and in exchange gets to marry Isaac and be the mother of many nations. (Looking at the picture, she didn't need to have God set her up with Isaac, though. Look at the feminine tilt of her head. Irresistible to men who need to feel needed.)

But back to our football player friend. He said that, according to his church leader, guys will know a girl is the one when she "feeds his camels." (Yes, he said "feed," not water. I didn't correct him. I was trying to create an atmosphere of trust. He also thought it was the story of Ruth and Boaz. I didn't correct him there, either. According to the article, men like to feel like women trust them. Even when they are wrong.)

I then straight-up asked this football player I met 15 minutes before, "So, how does a girl feed a guy's camels?" No answer. There weren't crickets in the background or anything, but he skirted around the issue with attempts like, "Oh, I don't know" or "It's different for everyone" or some such nonsense. I offered up possibilities: "Is she willing to do your homework for you? Is she cooking for you all the time? Does she give you backrubs?" Honestly, I just wanted to know what feeds a guy's camels. At the moment, he seemed like a more reliable source than the dating coach.

Finally, he escaped answering the question by turning it around on me. "Well, what about you? What feeds your camels?"

"A guy asking me on a date."

"But what about after that?"

"Him liking me and asking me on another date. And then liking me more and asking me out again."

I'm not trying to be facetious; I mean it. That's what feeds my camels (who haven't been fed or watered in several months, thank you). At this point and in this dating market, that's what I like. A guy who's willing to take the initiative and not make me feed his camels before he'll make the sacrifice of asking for my number or opening a door for me.

In case your wondering, no, this Polynesian football player friend did not decide to feed my camel and ask me out. But he did prompt what will prove to be a whole new goldmine of blogging topics. Come back soon for dating tips from Jacob and Leah, a couple who know that good things come to those who wait.

My Kind of Cougars

The whole world is probably aware of the BYU basketball situation going on right now. And I don't want to add to the rhetoric surrounding the team and its recently suspended player. Because all four people who read my blog know where I stand on this one.

But I do want to make one observation. All the serious news sources commenting on BYU's actions protecting and defending the honor code are lauding the school for its integrity in a sporting becoming more and more about money and less and less about good sportsmanship. And all the self-inflated, comedic "news" sources can only focus on the nature of the transgression and the out-of-date-edness of BYU, the LDS church, and Mormons all around. I guess when your main goals is laughs and not respect, you'll do anything to get one, including throw away all semblance of moral values unless they line up with popular opinion.

If Love Is All You Need...

I was cynical tonight with an attractive Australian man. Poor guy. He caught the brunt of my Valentine's day loneliness and my desire to tell just one man exactly what I think of this holiday. Because all it makes me feel is jealous, angry, and bitter. Not attractive emotions.

So when he asked me at pre-arranged, unromantic dinner group how my Valentine's Day was, instead of giving the answer he wanted to hear, I told the truth. He first tried the "look on the bright side attitude": "At least you have your health." I paused. Not exactly, but no comment.

Then he went for the "in the same boat" angle: "If it helps, I'm not in love today either." I admitted that there was a fair amount of satisfaction in that, if only because misery loves company. And boy was I miserable.

But then he got serious, and profound. "You could meet someone tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that." True, I admitted. Every day I'm one day closer. But, bitterness still fresh, I said there's a fair amount of irony in meeting someone the day after Valentine's. "What are you doing while you wait?" I think I've been doing some pretty good things while waiting. "Maybe the key is to not be obsessed with the waiting."

He shared something personal. Having pondered and pained over this issue himself, he'd asked not to be so obsessed with love, not to feel like finding love was the driving force and purpose of his life.

On the way home, fresh tears stung my face. I wanted to be right. I didn't want men to have the same pains I do about lacking love. If love is all you need, what do you do without it? I wanted the answer to be wait around and beat yourself up until you find it...or it finds you. Knowing he was right with every step I took closer to my door, I tried to say that it was fine for him, but I'd tried that to and it hadn't worked for me. But I haven't tried hard enough to give those pains away and let Someone Else carry them for a while.

Thanks for calling me out on my cynicism, attractive Australian man. I don't like me when I'm jealous, angry, and bitter either. So I don't know why a guy would.

James Franco: Man or Myth?

Three things:
1. He is a "powerful, new literary voice." What does that make me?
2. He is teaching a class about himself. Confidence or ego?
3. Maybe if I was in a movie as a man who cut his own arm off, I could get a book published and teach a class about myself.

I know I'm not supposed to, but I'm just sayin'.

Also, would James Franco be considered a Jimmy?

But he's still the only redeeming quality of the Spiderman films.

Dating Advice: Getting Jimmied

I'm back from my mission, and I'm determined to make a go of the dating game this time around. We're talking, Josie Grossie breaks out of her shell kind of thing, minus the bad hair and total lack of fashion (I hope). Things looked great earlier in the week, until Mr. Supposedly Nice Guy cut off all communication and stopped looking at me. Knife to the heart. My mom's words of wisdom: Tell him no grilled cheese sandwiches unless we're going to move onto a pasta dish. Not originally a metaphor, but I realize it could be.

This episode falls in the category of my new family term, "Getting Jimmied," based on both the jerk-man character from That Thing You Do! and one of sister's recent dating dissers. A Jimmy will act interested and probably even initiate the dating process, but then he'll abruptly cut it off, sometimes with no explanation or, possibly worse, tell you, "I think you're more into this than I am" (even though he started it).

So, stay away from Jimmys and make sure you get a commitment for pasta.

Proofreading the World, Part 2: The Yearbook

My sister's final high school yearbook came home last week, the day after one of the student editors received a special award for her excellent proofreading, but I still found some not so worthy pages. These errors made me shudder while chuckling, or chuckle while shuddering you decide, and tell me which reaction you get.



All of the typos involved misspelled celebrity names. The first one I noticed was "Micheal Phelps." Twice. But the kicker on this is they spelled it correctly once on the same page. "Michael Phelps." But this year's popular musical artists must have hard names to spell, particularly, Briney Spears, Joson Mraz, and Josh Groben. My personal (least) favorite: they included this album cover for the artist they call Rhianna.



This just leads me into one of my personal pet peeves. Misspelled baby names. I hate it when parents assign their child a "unique" spelling of a name. Some names have legitimate variations, but mostly I just think parents are compensating for have the tenth Emily of the day by naming her Emmileigh. Spelling nightmare. I hate it. I'm sure you'll hear more about this soap box later.