Is This Post About S**T?

There's a story that I like to tell because I find it humorous and oddly philosophical. Star date 2005. I was in a job that I abhorred. I was ill regularly, including migraines and the worst stomach cramps that I had ever known. At completely inconvenient junctures daily, I experienced what I can only describe as a gut punch that literally caused me to double over, groaning and wincing in agony. I finally made the decision to see a doctor who informed me that in order to understand what was happening he had to look at my insides.

Cool. No biggie I thought; let's get this X-Ray going.

Or not.

Nope, this doc wanted to get a really good look at my insides. Like with a scope. Yup, I was to be violated. The poop chute was going to be shot by video and the only way in was to clean it out. Allll the way out.

I was given a bottle of horse-sized pills and very simple instructions: “take one every hour on the hour until they're complete. We'll see you in 24 hours.”

Sure, no prob, what’s a little cleanse? How bad can crapping be?

Hours 1-3 weren't all bad. A pill here, a quick potty break there. Intersperse some TV and crude BM jokes and you've got a chill afternoon.

Or not.

Because then the s**t hit the fan. My insides were at war and I. Wasn't. Ready.  

I recall a rather critical point in the dark days of doo when, lying weakly on the cold bathroom floor I cried out -- to God, the toilet and my intestines -- "I have nothing left to give!"

Because I didn't. What seemed a simple task of popping pills and pooping became laborious and traumatic. It was an exhausting, wretched and yes, emotional experience about which I’m still haunted.

Even in the moments when I felt as though there was nothing left and surely I was done, back to the bathroom I went -- and eventually stayed -- to share more with my good friend John. Why would the doctor do this to me? There had to be an easier way. And yet there wasn't. I had to endure it. And for 12 hours I did. I got rid of all the crap that I had been carrying in an effort to help my physician see me – all of me.

Oh what a necessary evil. I certainly felt better the following day. Lighter – I had to have dropped 5 pounds or more – and ready for what was next. But I was also weak and desperately wanting to fill this new void with something, anything, that would make me feel less empty.

In case you haven't realized, this post is about meaningful s**t because that's the only s**t that matters.

More often than not, we walk around carrying a bunch of unnecessary s**t. We become burdened by things that threaten to physically, mentally and emotionally destroy us. Even when we get rid of some s**t, we crave new s**t that we think will fulfill us, if only momentarily, and we start the wretched cycle again. We’re constantly seeking something to take the space of the perceived emptiness we feel without giving thought to the fact that empty, open and accessible is a great thing or that it can, and should be, filled with something better than the s**t before.

But what happens when we really unload the figurative crap that we’re carrying around and allow others to really see us as my doctor was able to see me? Sure, he could have done a surface level examination, and that would have been easier for the both of us and certainly more comfortable for me. Unfortunately, my healing could not have come from a comfortable place. I had to drop pretense, drop trou' and drop some...well, you get the idea.  

The same is true for you.

Life isn’t meant to be lived carrying around a bunch of crap. Far too often I see people – hey pot, I’m kettle – throwing, hiding and generally masking their s**t out of pride and hurt. But I have realized just how desperate I am for authenticity which is found in transparency, vulnerability and inter dependency. I suspect that you might be too.

But first we have to stop acting like we have it all together and instead invite people into our lives in order to experience our failures, brokenness, successes and joy. I have been blessed over the last couple of years, to have people who were willing to come along with me and help me carry my crap even when I’m unwilling to relinquish it. The same can be true for you. How much lighter or different could your load be? Are you willing to share someone else's burden, and in turn gain some perspective about your own?

My blog is built on transparency. I write so that someone (I hope) feels permitted to laugh, cry, commiserate and feel a little less alone in the world. In short, you’ll see that our s**t really is the same.

So, let’s proverbially “unload” together. In the comments section tell no one in particular what s**t you would like to get rid of.

This is How You Fail Fabulously

When I was in the seventh grade, I dissed the heck outta a young man whom we shall call J.L.  Never having had a boyfriend or significant other, I was TERRIFIED of boys. I believed that a boy and girl breathing in the same space resulted in pregnancy. So imagine my horror, when this fella  approached me as I labored to retrieve textbooks from my locker and asked me to be his girlfriend.

Embarrassed, I shook my head furiously from left to right and quickly strode to my class. Behind me my wanna-be suitor skulked away from the scene of his ego destruction and endured additional humiliation in the way of jeers and cat calls from our voyeuristic peers.  Every day following, and for the duration of our middle school experience, J.L.  held his head high, continued to speak to me and eventually found the girl who would accept his shy proposal. He failed but he failed fabulously.

It wasn’t until later in life that I realized how humiliating the experience must have been for him. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that I realized how courageous J.L. was.

Last month I decided to approach the proverbial Love Interest at the Locker.  Inspired by a glorious teaching c/o Blueprint Church about overcoming the paralysis of analysis, I applied to an awesome program called the Give1 Project – Global Leadership Program. The program invited emerging community leaders to travel to Benin to learn about and contribute to global leadership with an additional opportunity to speak encouragement to 100 girls and young women.

Um, hello! All me, yes? YES!

So I rocked that application like it was a college entrance exam. I read, wrote, revised and then hit send.I was confident that I would be selected to go, going as far telling friends that I would be unavailable the last week in November. Call it hubris or faith, but I was certain that this was a path to which I was being directed and I wouldn’t be denied.

But then I got this letter. I felt like Maury had announced: “you are NOT the father!”

In this version of Love Interest at the Locker the roles were reversed and I was J.L. I was getting the furious left-right head shake. I heard jeers and cat calls. I was being rejected and had obviously failed. 

Sulking at my desk in front of the e-mail, I questioned whether I rested too many hopes on this one thing. Was my conviction/intuition wrong? Why had I allowed myself to be vulnerable and actually believe I was good enough to be selected? Why not me?

That’s what J.L. said.  (Yup, that joke.)

The difference is that J.L. dusted himself off, returned to school the next day and eventually got the girl – she just wasn’t me. I had a choice: be an egotistical punk or fail fabulously like my never-suitor.

This month, Her Agenda, a wonderful social enterprise committed to the personal and professional development of millennial women, asked the question: “When was the last time you had the courage to fail?” Positioned in a way that recognized the courage borne of failure, the question forced me to re-evaluate my experience.

The fact is, like J.L. I went after something and was denied despite my best effort and conviction that this thing was right for me. From his failure and mine are lessons: what not to do next time -- public professions of love in middle school aren’t necessarily the way to go; encouragement -- if at first, second, or third you don’t succeed, you will eventually; humility and grace –having these qualities in the wake of defeat will develop you for future success; and finally-- don't be a sucka. Be the person who can say: 

"I gave it my all. I tried."

You’re miles ahead of the game when you try because you’re overcoming your own paralysis while others remain stuck in analysis. I don’t know how long it took J.L. to build up the courage to ask me out. But I remember him because he took the chance. He’s made an indelible mark on my life and for that I’m grateful. I was a test for him and he was a test for me. Guess who passed?

Now it’s your turn:

•      When have you failed fabulously?
•      What have you gained from your fabulous failure?
•      Will you try to fail again?

All The Things I Wish Someone Told Me But No One Ever Did

I decided that if Kris Kardashian (the momma, not the will marry Kim for money ex-hubby) can pen a book – no offense K.K. you’re an awesome, though pushy momager – then I can certainly go to task with my pen…err, fingers, to keyboard. The thing of it is whatever would I write about?

My best friend says I should write a book about my life because, apparently, it’s THAT interesting. Ha! Quirky? Yes. Nutty? Often like cooky cross between the “Young and The Restless” and “Twilight Zone.”

Hey, maybe she’s right after all.

But who would buy my memoir? My not-so-salacious story? Is there enough to generate a $250,000 advance (insert wishful thinking here)?  Perhaps there’s a story within the story. Like: All the Things That I Wish Someone Told Me but Noone Ever Did – A Novel and Life How-To by Randi Nicole Majors a.k.a. Sybill a.k.a. Lisa Montgomery (more about this after the break).

See the idea for this how-to started because:

1) there were occasions when I believed that the adults in my life (though I love them) were painting abstractly rather than by number when it came to child rearing. Thus it was often gut intuition, hardheadedness and bumbling error that led me to succeed – or not – in whatever I was trying to accomplish rather than the sage advice of elders.

2)  following a conversation with one of my best girlfriends regarding parenting and pregnancy both concluded that: far too often there were things that we (as in societal beings not she and I) keep from each other that leave people in the dark and nosediving toward failure. This was particularly directed at the "ease" and "beauty" of pregnancy and motherhood.

3) after I lost my house in foreclosure (yep, happened to me) and realized that there were a LOT of things that I didn’t know about homeownership, the housing market, finances and more (see hardheadness in #1)that perhaps someone should develop something that would help the bewildered fool find their way through life.

I mean really, some of this stuff is pretty basic. Like:

• You can be anything you want to be. No, really. Don’t let teachers, parents, bosses or anyone else tell you differently. See, nowadays the world is at our fingertips and if we choose to navigate in a way that exposes us to different things, we’re sure to be successful in finding what we really want to find.
• When you have a kid, you’re life really does change. This section is dedicated to the teen moms. Guess what? Your kid -- you know that living, breathing moving “thing” that you birthed after 9 or 10 months -- yea, they’re not a doll. They’re not something “fun” to play with. Rather, they are another human being for whom you are WHOLLY responsible and that, my dear, can be rather burdensome. That means, clubbing, bed hopping, manic shopping kinda have to go out the window. You come second – baby first. Sorry.
• Don’t lose your inner child. Earlier I alluded to my pseudonym Lisa Montgomery. This was a name that I gave EVERYTHING --fish, stuffed animals, dolls, myself – when I was five or so. To me, that name sounded elegant, classy and closer to Erica Kane than did Randi Majors. The thing is, as evidenced by my adoption of Lisa Montgomery as a pseudonym, I never let go of it. In fact, I embraced it because it reminded me of youthful ambivalence, wishfullness, imagination (hey I was five) and FUN. We press our kids to grow up so quickly. We challenge them to stop acting like a child when they are children and then wonder why we have bitter adults who constantly look to their past for some semblance of happiness.
• Money ain’t cheap.  I’ve always been a competitive and ambitious spirit. So it came as no surprise to most when I “bought” my first place before I was 25 years old. At the rushed encouragement of some ill-advised (and far more financially stable) colleagues, I sought out a real-estate agent (who probably should have had his license revoked) and quickly went a-house hunting in the middle of a frosty Maryland winter. The problem was that a couple of years later, the interest rate jumped, the condo fee nearly tripled and my salary was … the same. Needless to say that I’m still paying for that experience and likely will for a long time into the future.  Yes, the living was easy then but it sure ain’t easy now. . My initial investment will never capitalize, and I will continue to throw away money on something that I’ll never own. The moral of my sob story? Save, save, save and save some more before you spend. Credit may look promising but as we’ve all witnessed in the past four years cash is not just king but the entire royal family and there really is a difference between having money and being wealthy.

This list could go on but instead I’ll ask: what are some of the things that you wish someone told you? No answer too big or stupid. J