My Density Has Bought Me To You
Oct. 12th, 2009 11:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jenny_wildcatStill one of the funniest lines in all of movie history.
I should have thought of this last night, but my losing battle with the kitchen cabinet kind of took precedence. Oh well, never mind, I need a post for tonight (and it's not about football for once!)
Okay, so missions are really, really hard things - but extremely rewarding. Even though I've never gone through childbirth, I think I'm safe in saying that a mission can be likened to having kids. It's really, really, painful; can get messy - but the joys are beyond anyone capacity to express. That being said, I've never cried so much as I did on my mission. And given the kind of crybaby I am, that is saying something.
I trained twice - this particular story is about my second trainee, Sister Lasley. We got along very well and she is a wonderful, wonderful missionary. We had our disagreements, to be sure (you're joined at the hip with someone 24/7 and you're bound to get on each other's nerves), but we had a great time. She had a great penchant for telling me to stop being such a boob - but she also let me have my freak-out moments.
It was during one of my many meltdowns that she made the following observation: My husband is going to have to be a very patient man and the ultimate caring individual. He's going to have to have some kind of sixth sense that knows when I am having a bad day. As in, he's sitting at work and has a feeling he's got to stop and get flowers and candy on the way home because he's going to find me huddled over the kitchen table in tears over some piddly-stupid thing (but it's really, really, REALLY devastating to me in the moment and I have no desire to be told to grow up). He'll come home, gifts in hand like some kind of suave, debonair superhero-type and be all romantic and save the day.
As time went on, we decided that Mr. Wonderful needed to have a name and Sister Lasley suggested that he be called "Steve." From then on, when I had meltdowns, there were called "Steve Moments." Sister Lasley would shout to The Greater Cosmos: "Steve! We need Steve!"
I love Steve.
Fast forward to recent weeks. My roommate's mom teaches English at an alternative high school. There's this guy that started teaching there who also returned from a mission recently (I think he's been home longer than I have, though. He's about my age. My roommate's mom has a funny little crush on him (like, if she were 40 years younger she'd consider going after him). As I have had him described to me: he's tall, solid (like, football player solid), smart, sweet and gentle. And he's a computer geek to boot. So, my roommate and her mom want to set me up with him. Since this weekend is Fall Break, my roommate and I are going to "visit" her mom at work - and lo and behold - Dream Boat will be there and hey, why don't you go talk to him (in Mom's classes, she brings lunch and has a "Canterbury Feast" for her class and she lets Dream Boat eat with them - so we're going to have lunch there).
So, I ask about Dream Boat - like, what's his name and such. You'll never guess what his name is. No, seriously guess.
Yup - it's Steve.
Granted, there are a TON of Steves in the world - but what are the freaking odds? And I have yet to meet him. I may meet him and have zero interest in pursuing anything after this weekend. I'm a little conflicted too. I have some big plans for myself and his location is not the most conducive to those plans - and I don't really want to live where he lives. But I'm going along with this deal. Watch this space for further updates.
Oh gosh - I am so screwed...
ETA - This is completely unrelated but I was looking at the Facebook friends of an old friend from high school (we go waaaay back). She has a boatload of Facebook friends and it was a little surreal to see some of those people. Oy... high school... flashbacks... I don't think I want to do that again.... therapy, please....
I should have thought of this last night, but my losing battle with the kitchen cabinet kind of took precedence. Oh well, never mind, I need a post for tonight (and it's not about football for once!)
Okay, so missions are really, really hard things - but extremely rewarding. Even though I've never gone through childbirth, I think I'm safe in saying that a mission can be likened to having kids. It's really, really, painful; can get messy - but the joys are beyond anyone capacity to express. That being said, I've never cried so much as I did on my mission. And given the kind of crybaby I am, that is saying something.
I trained twice - this particular story is about my second trainee, Sister Lasley. We got along very well and she is a wonderful, wonderful missionary. We had our disagreements, to be sure (you're joined at the hip with someone 24/7 and you're bound to get on each other's nerves), but we had a great time. She had a great penchant for telling me to stop being such a boob - but she also let me have my freak-out moments.
It was during one of my many meltdowns that she made the following observation: My husband is going to have to be a very patient man and the ultimate caring individual. He's going to have to have some kind of sixth sense that knows when I am having a bad day. As in, he's sitting at work and has a feeling he's got to stop and get flowers and candy on the way home because he's going to find me huddled over the kitchen table in tears over some piddly-stupid thing (but it's really, really, REALLY devastating to me in the moment and I have no desire to be told to grow up). He'll come home, gifts in hand like some kind of suave, debonair superhero-type and be all romantic and save the day.
As time went on, we decided that Mr. Wonderful needed to have a name and Sister Lasley suggested that he be called "Steve." From then on, when I had meltdowns, there were called "Steve Moments." Sister Lasley would shout to The Greater Cosmos: "Steve! We need Steve!"
I love Steve.
Fast forward to recent weeks. My roommate's mom teaches English at an alternative high school. There's this guy that started teaching there who also returned from a mission recently (I think he's been home longer than I have, though. He's about my age. My roommate's mom has a funny little crush on him (like, if she were 40 years younger she'd consider going after him). As I have had him described to me: he's tall, solid (like, football player solid), smart, sweet and gentle. And he's a computer geek to boot. So, my roommate and her mom want to set me up with him. Since this weekend is Fall Break, my roommate and I are going to "visit" her mom at work - and lo and behold - Dream Boat will be there and hey, why don't you go talk to him (in Mom's classes, she brings lunch and has a "Canterbury Feast" for her class and she lets Dream Boat eat with them - so we're going to have lunch there).
So, I ask about Dream Boat - like, what's his name and such. You'll never guess what his name is. No, seriously guess.
Yup - it's Steve.
Granted, there are a TON of Steves in the world - but what are the freaking odds? And I have yet to meet him. I may meet him and have zero interest in pursuing anything after this weekend. I'm a little conflicted too. I have some big plans for myself and his location is not the most conducive to those plans - and I don't really want to live where he lives. But I'm going along with this deal. Watch this space for further updates.
Oh gosh - I am so screwed...
ETA - This is completely unrelated but I was looking at the Facebook friends of an old friend from high school (we go waaaay back). She has a boatload of Facebook friends and it was a little surreal to see some of those people. Oy... high school... flashbacks... I don't think I want to do that again.... therapy, please....
