Guilty Pleasures No More

I've been thinking about guilty pleasures, and when we ascribe this title to our choices. We only call things a guilty pleasure when we are disclosing to another something we did in which we are afraid we might  be judged for and thought less of. I'm reading a mindless novel right now call 31 Kisses. The writing is sub-par, the romance plot isn't unpredictable, it's PG rated, and I like it. I chose it out of a myriad of options, and when I did, I didn't want anyone else to know. It's not a book I would like to own up to on Goodreads, unlike the Annie Dillard books that I'm proud to boast about reading, because I think others will think I'm an exceptional reader and person.

Why do we do this? I have enjoyed reading my novel, and it's what I wanted right now. But, why do I want to hide this piece of me from others? If I told some of you about my reading choice, and slipped in the phrase "guilty pleasure," you might commiserate with me, and share one of your own book choices you don't want people to know about, and then we would feel bonded in this moment of vulnerability, honesty, and acceptance.

As we hide ourselves from judgement, a judgement we assume will condemn us to be exiled out of relationship, we lose the opportunity to be known and accepted for who we are, flaws and all. It's what we really want--to be known and accepted, flaws and all.

I'm hereby intentionally banning the phrase "guilty pleasure" from my vocabulary.

Things that bring me pleasure, and for which I will not take on the assumed guilt that disclosing them will make you think less of me (If you do think less of me, where is your judgement coming from? What does my pleasure cost you?).

1. Dance movies--including Magic Mike which I watched recently, and is a really terrible movie with only one exceptional dancer. I didn't like the movie, but I chose it because it was about dancing.
2. Peanut Butter and Butter sandwiches. That's right, butter.
3. 31 Kisses, apparently. I also have a few other mindless novels that bring me enjoyment. Let me know if you want to borrow them.
4. Extra Cool Whip on my desserts. Yum, Cool Whip.
5. Minor plumbing projects. Yes, I would probably like to help you with yours.
6. Occasionally watching seasons of The Bachelor.
7. Shows on the CW and ABC Family (especially the ones about horses).
8. Friday afternoon carb binges (I don't know why this is a Friday thing, but Trader Joe's baked cheetos are great for this).
9. McDonald's Double Cheeseburger Meals--there's something about eating hot fries in the car.
10. Whistling The Muppet Show theme song nearly every day.

Anyone else care to share?

Ps. If you google guilty pleasure and look at the images that come up, it's whole page of Ashley Tisdale (I'm out of the loop on that one) and this. Yes, please.

December Photo Project 2012

I'm in. I was told I have a crush on Brene Brown. She says that creativity takes courage, so here goes.




I had no idea I was anxious

It has come to my attention lately that anxiety has been a significant part of my life for years. I just didn't know it. My coping skills are impressive and nearly impenetrable. I know what comfort feels like, I know what dis-comfort feels like, and I know which I prefer.

My anxiety coping skills are called upon when I'm feeling like I might or actually do need somebody, which asks me to trust someone else with my emotions and desires. They look like defensiveness, anger, control, frustration, or making a case for myself. In the face of needing to feel connected to someone in the midst of my circumstances, the annoying little imp of shame tells me that to believe in the goodness and kindness of another is utter foolishness, because I am not worth caring for. I know that is complete bullshit, but that imp has been there for an awful long time, and he's protected me from being proved right (or wrong, as is more likely).

Here's how the progression goes: all is well, and then I find myself in a predicament where having an ear to listen or an extra set of hands to help would be really helpful, and I want it. I feel the desire of it. I contemplate seeking help. Anxiety enters--the threat of being harmed. My body feels a tad warmer, and my hands sweat a little. Within seconds shame has shown up, too, and shame is unbearable, so I use one of my coping mechanisms, which always work in the moment. Shame tells me to get tough and isolate, and I know how to do that well. The thing about getting tough is that it involves anger for me--anger at myself and others. Anger creates a delightful cocktail of chemicals in my brain that really do make me feel better and un-anxious. So, I successfully sabotaged what I wanted and needed.

I write about this because I am aware of it, finally, and because I'm trying to not do this any longer. It's time for the imp to be muted and destroyed. I'm trying not to cope with feeling a desire for connection, because I was made for connection, so there is no need to feel bad about it. I'm just going to let that desire hang out there.

I was reading in Exodus this morning (and I will say that I do not read my Bible every morning, so for those who struggle with guilt over this, I invite you to bless me for reading my Bible this morning, and to bless your desire to read it yourself. I invite you to not curse yourself with any violent monologue in your head that says that you are a sucky Christian for not reading your Bible every morning--that would be siding with the shame imp). Anyway, Exodus--God's people have just witnessed a series of horrible, nasty plagues against the Egyptians, effortlessly plundered them, and left Egypt. They haven't even gotten as far as the Red Sea, and they are contemplating turning back. This is where I usually judge them.

This morning my thoughts were that perhaps they were feeling a ton of anxiety, they were really scared, and it felt wretched to feel that way. They are following this Moses dude, who didn't have the best reputation, and Egypt went to all to hell as soon as he showed up again. The God of their fathers brought them to Egypt where they were enslaved, so trusting him might have felt a little sketchy, too. They are supposed to march away from Egypt based on the words of a shady guy with a magic stick, and a promise from a God who appeared to have abandoned them. They felt uncomfortable with the unknown before them, and the known (slavery) felt familiar, so not so scary.

Kettle = Black. That's how I role. Its hard, really hard, to trust God for the currently invisible and future goodness he promises. Trusting God means feeling uncomfortable and waiting to see how it turns out, instead of sabotaging. Trusting God means waiting. Trusting God means leaning into the unknown with courage, tenacity, and heart. Trusting God means groaning (not whining) in my unpleasant, anxious, painful circumstances.

Right now, for me, trusting God looks a lot like asking people to listen to what's happening in my heart, and asking for help with stuff like raking leaves. I might find out that they care enough about me to offer their hands and their hearts.

Cats get anxiety too, apparently, but they make a wrap for that.