Significant little chads

It must be hard to be carelessly left in a chamber of darkness.

Hole punch paper circles, also referred to as "chads," may seem like they serve absolutely no purpose to anyone. Ever. Sure, they may eventually make recycling bins thrilled to be full of so much waste, but I doubt there are many people out there who become thrilled with the opportunity of cleaning little chads when they've fallen out of a hole punch and end up strewn across the floor. Cue the vacuum cleaner.

Now, instead of living in the cold vault of isolation, these chads dwell with the dust mites and hair balls that have been sucked into another storage system until they are all eventually suffocating with even nastier waste products in the garbage heaps.

I'm so glad I'm not a chad.

Earlier this week, on a rainy day, one of my coworkers decided to open her umbrella on her way into the building right in front of my car. Unknown to her, another one of our coworkers had filled her umbrella with hundreds of little chads in hopes that she would open it above her head and have all of the little paper circles of pointlessness rain down upon her.

Funny how things rarely work out how we planned.

Instead, those precious little chads ended up all over my car. The best part? Because of the wet weather, they stuck more easily to my car. Needless to say, I wasn't elated when I found out about this. I myself don't even use the hole punch that sits on my desk at work. I don't think I ever used one when I was in school, either. Now that I think about it, aren't those things kind of antiquated? I mean, most things are in a digital format now. Oh well—I shall digress.

Now, I could have immediately cleaned the chads off my car, but let's be honest: I'm way too lazy for that. Besides, I honestly didn't have time before I had to leave for the day. So, I left them there, and admittedly became rather fond of them. They helped me to realize that there are some things in life that may seem insignificant but serve an actual purpose—even if it is just to warm our hearts. I started deeply pondering this verity a bit more and came up with a list of things that really aren't that integral to anyone's well-being but tend to have value in my life:

-T-pen (my special black pen that I have to use)

-Tie (my koala without whom I cannot sleep. Seriously)

-scratch-n-sniff stickers

-my iPhone (yes, there are people who actually live their daily lives without one)

-my thread ring (that's a story in itself)

-froyo

-superhero Band-Aids

The above list features many items that could easily be considered useless to some people, but I tend to be more comfortable when I have them. (I honestly am not sure these things completely pertain to this blog entry, but I needed to compile a few things that make me happy—it's been one of those days!)

I think the bottom line is that chads are a lot like some people--they may think they serve no real purpose, or others may see them as insignificant, but it's only because they aren't looking beyond the surface level to see the true beauty of the individuals. Everyone deserves to love and be loved. Everyone has a reason to be who he or she is. After all, chads once filled the holes of an important piece of paper; now, some of them got the chance to decorate my car for a bit and served as a reminder of how ridiculous and awesome my coworkers really are.

In fact, it might be time to release those chads that are currently suffering in the chamber of darkness on my desk.

Blurred vision

I would be lying if I said I welcome the feeling of conviction with open arms.

Especially when it happens at Market Street.

For starters, going to Market Street can be frustrating, particularly if you are in a hurry. The people who work there are all about customer service—they won't even let you carry your own bags out to your car. So, what might be a shocker to some, there is no self-checkout lane.

Say what??

Yes, it's true: they insist on serving you, which some people actually see as an inconvenience. This morning, I was guilty of that. I mean, all I wanted was to get home to my ESPN fellas, who were providing me with redundant March Madness analysis that I had already gotten on the early edition of SportsCenter and from Greeny and Doug Gottlieb on Mike & Mike in the Morning (Golic was out today). It also didn't help that I've had strep throat the past few days, which made me more impatient than usual in my grocery store endeavors.

I figured going to the store on a Friday morning wouldn't be too bad. After all, most people were working, right? Wrong. Apparently this is when most stay-at-home moms check everything off of their grocery lists. And, because it's Spring Break, they all had a little something extra in tow: children. The whining and begging for cavity provoking treats didn't help my pounding head. In fact, I think it caused me to add a few extra meds into my cart.

I finally made it to the check-out line. The lady bagging my groceries was moving like a slug, and she wasn't even doing it right. Who puts cold things in the same bag with bread??! I started having words to describe her run through my head, and they weren't very nice. Then, for some reason, this popped into my head: Well, how would God describe her?

Oh wow. Talk about a slap in the face.

Beautiful. Chosen. Loved. Cherished. Blessed. Precious. Redeemed.

My heart immediately softened toward her, and I couldn't help but thank her for what she was doing. I honestly wanted to give her a big hug, and I might have if it weren't for the counter and grocery conveyor belt blocking the way.

On my drive home, I started thinking about how differently we might treat people if we first stopped and reflected on how God views them. If I truly am living for and serving Christ, then I need to see others as He does: as precious gifts that need unconditional love and grace.

I am imperfect, flawed and in desperate need for others to be merciful. Why should I think others aren't in the same boat?

Love is so much more than just a word.

I miss my crib

My left eye always twitches when I’m tired and haven’t gotten enough sleep.

I think my left eye has been twitching for almost eight years now.

I don’t remember the last time I got eight hours of sleep. Sure, I know it’s what you’re “supposed” to get each night (according to who knows what?), but some people just don’t have time for that. You can say that perhaps I need some lessons in time management, but I really don’t have time for that. After all, I am a very busy girl.

I snuck in a nap at a bridal shower once.

When I was in college, I started working a shift at the rec center in my city that started at 4:30 in the morning. I was already an early riser, but this took it to an entirely new level. I was so busy with so many other things going on in life that I didn’t always get those early bedtimes that I probably really needed. So, instead, I just got used to the habit of operating off about five or six hours of sleep each night.

Somehow even that amount now seems like a dream.

Somewhere along the way, those precious hours dwindled, and I would say four is the average at the moment. Healthy? Absolutely not. Reality? Check.

To be honest, just thinking about that makes me tired. Good thing Spring Break is here—can we say naps galore??! I try to get at least one nap in on the weekends, and this weeklong break will definitely help me in that department. Good thing I don’t have money to go on a vacation, because that would really put a damper on my napping life.

Until I get to experience this bliss, I’ve composed a poem of sorts to express my longing to experience (hopefully some day) extended slumber.

Studies show that newborns sleep an average of 16 to 18 hours per day. I miss being an infant.

Loss of this wonderful pastime can definitely result in moodiness. Just ask my mom when she calls me on a bad day.

Every time I think of you, I want to cuddle with Tie (my trusty Koala) in my bed with my glow-in-the-dark covers.

Endless dreams occur in your presence. Please take me to those.

Proof that I need more of you: my left eye is still twitching.

Logic is overrated

I think it’s safe to say that I do at least one thing a day to confirm the fact that I’m an idiot.

Monday was no exception.

Let’s back things up a bit—personal anecdote time! So, last July I ran in the crazy race known as El Scorcho (which I quickly deemed "El Sucko"). The problem with this race is that it starts at midnight. For those of you who know me, that hour is rather foreign to me—I don’t even stay up that late on New Year’s Eve. As you can imagine, running at such an unfamiliar time of day can throw your body off a little.

Prerace Port-O visit!

In. So. Many. Ways.

I need to preface with the fact that I have a pretty weak stomach, especially on race mornings. I’ve mentioned before that I get horrible prerace anxiety, and that only magnifies my stomach issues. Let’s just say that, when I’m at a race, the Port-O is my BFF.

But my body has pretty much adjusted to that, and I’m always good-to-go by the time the horn sounds to start the race.

Unless crossing the starting mat occurs at midnight.

Thanks to (W)FDC for making it known where I was going.

I have never experienced so much stomach trouble in my entire life. I’m not close to kidding—it was awful. I NEVER stop during races. I stopped three times in the 25K event. I’m not going to go into all of the unnecessary details, but let’s just say I was literally praying that I would make it to the next Port-O. There were even points where I wanted to veer off course and find something to function as a restroom for the moment. I really don’t want to relive all of the thoughts that went through my mind that night, so I must desist for now.

I will also add, though, that after the race, I didn’t even make it back to where our group was gathered for another hour or so. Instead, I was hanging with my race BFF.

What does this have to do with anything? Well, after vowing never to do that race again and claiming it was the dumbest thing ever invented, I found myself lured into its splendor of insanity once again.

I saw a posting on Facebook that registration for this year’s was open, and the next thing I knew I was on the Web site. Link to the registration page? Click. It’s like my mind was temporary taken over by some weird El Scorcho force as I entered my credit card number and hit the submit button.

Am I really that dumb? Do I honestly want to put myself through such torture again? I don’t think I ate solid foods for a good 27 hours after that catastrophe. Yet, here I was using the convenience of the Internet to help me pursue madness in rare form.

Love the backpack!

Yes, I will admit that El Scorcho is actually a fun, enjoyable time when you suffer through it with good friends, and it was nice to take home some swag (embroidered backpack!!). But is it really worth the pain and agony that invaded my stomach that night? I was haunted by the memory on Sunday when I went to cheer for my friends at the Cowtown Marathon and saw signs for the park where it essentially takes place.

All of the feelings came back to me, and I suddenly felt sick—apparently sick enough to sign up again.

Truthfully, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. But, El Scorcho 2011, my stomach and I will be there.

Please have more Port-O opportunities along the course.

2010 El Scorcho gang