Band-aids.

I remember my first real scar.

It was shortly after I was potty-trained at the ripe young age of 17.

Just making sure you were still with me....

I was potty-trained before then, and I was also not seventeen when I got my first battle wound. Much younger, around 9 or 10. I'm sure I had some before this, but this is a distinct one that I still see daily. Yes, my life is difficult.

I was a clutz. AM a clutz. I looked like the kid from Up with pigtails, too.

I was a perfectly round child, and unlike the earth I did  not move in sequence, when I spun around it was usually after tripping over my own feet and falling flat on my face.

I did just that on my best friend's steps outside of her house. I might've been skipping, since I was a jolly young soul, either way, BAM! Faceplant. Right on the ground. Scraped the bottom of my leg, and got a hole in my right hand, right near the ring finger. I remember crying like a little girl (since I was one) that night because I thought that was where my wedding ring would go and now I would #1, never be a hand model (MY ONLY DREAM!), and #2, would have a Quasimodo appendage when some dashing young prince proposed and slid a ring on my finger. Only then did I learn the important lesson that would mold my future when my mom told me to cut it out and explained that the LEFT hand was indeed the shower-offer of engagement rings. Little did I know I wouldn't give a rat's behind later. Haha!

I had an extremely irritating cyst removed on my back when I was a teenager. There is a lovely scar from a series of unfortunate events that were involved in its removal. It's a bump, a lump....and when people ask about it, I have a hard time not saying, "Inside the lump, yes, inside the lump.....was my twin."

I have a few scars on my legs from when I got Peruvian parasites this summer. Yeah, there were monsters inside me. They're not that noticeable to anyone anymore, but they are to me, I know they're on my legs....it was a horribly uncomfortable and painful time, and though that time has passed, the reminders are there for me to see, and sometimes for others as well.

Though this isn't a hilarious post, I was thinking about it all weekend, looking at my ring finger scar as I drove to work, to church, etc. Tonight confirmed that I would write this. Scars aren't my favorite thing. Scars are a reminder of bad things that have happened to me. They're a reminder to others that there are times when my body hasn't been "protected".

We all have scars, and some have wounds that have yet to get to that point. What is the purpose of a scar? Why did God not create our bodies to always be protected? To always "bounce back"?

Because God is a wise God as well as a loving God. The scars we receive from life are a reminder that bad things will in fact happen. We are not safe from harm, we are not safe from hurt. They remind us that in the midst of these bad things, healing takes place. And in the midst of that healing, the opportunity to share with someone else what happened and how you healed will be enabled.

When you accept Christ, you do not accept a 'bubble'....a rabbit hole, a comfort zone. You accept the Rock. Your strength in the midst of trouble, of persecution. The prosperity you find is not in the security of safety, but in the promise of joy amidst the trials and struggles that will indeed come.

Anyone can be happy when life is good. I say it again, ANYONE CAN BE HAPPY WHEN LIFE IS GOOD. But it's different for me. When all else crumbles, I know it doesn't end here. This is where true joy comes in, this is what sets us apart. This is what makes what we have real and not just a crutch. This is the Christian life.

Language Barrier.

Prepare yourself, conservatives, this blog contains a medical term of anatomy. Just want you prepared.


Learning a new language is hard.

Learning Thai is VERY hard.

Thai is tonal.

This means, that one word can have many meanings based on the tones you say them in. It's quite difficult, but it's fun. I love languages, but I do not excel in learning them. For instance...

When I lived in Thailand for the summer in 2010, I had a Thai language instructor. She was phenomenal. She spoke English very well, and we would practice by me speaking in Thai to her and her speaking in English to me. Practice makes perfect, they said. Give it a try! They said. Oh dear.

I had been studying my Thai for weeks, perfecting my basic skills. I used them daily on the women I spoke to in the markets, friends at the organization I worked at, people in my neighborhood when I walked/drove home. I tried to have "little chats" with everyone. Most of the time they'd smile and nod looking at me with 'Crazy white girl think she speak my language" faces. It was encouraging and intimidating, but I wanted to let them know I was willing to try! Also, I couldn't get anywhere or do anything without it.

One day I was walking to work, it was a humid day out, and as I was wiping the cascades of sweat coming out of my face, I noticed a group (herd, ensemble, school?) of water buffalo (chattle, bovine, hoof-ed creatures) coming at a rather fast pace down the street. The neighborhood where I lived did not have wide streets where one could easily step out of the way for a congregation of cows to meet up with a perspiring Caucasian. Luckily, I was able to sidestep on a small street to my left and watch the beasts pass by, with a cantering old man behind them, trying to keep up and smoke his cigarette all at the same time.

This was a life-changing moment for me.

I'm going to tell everyone. In Thai.

Before the work day ended, I had told five or six people. The lady who sold me pork, the woman who'd made my coffee, the man who'd taken me home, as many Thai people as I could. This would be my practice before telling my teacher this amazing story that probably happens to everyone every day in Chiang Mai.

When my Thai teacher sat down for the afternoon, she asked me to tell her what had happened that day in Thai. I told her, proudly. She was trying to smile, but I could see some cringing, as if every time I said water buffalo her face became more construed.

Me- "What is it? I thought it was a great story!"

Poor teacher- "Well, you speak good. But you're trying to say "----" which mean, water buffalo. But the word you say, "-----", uh.....mean, uh...."

Me- "WHAT?!?!"

Poor teacher- "A pen? Is?"

Me- "What? Like a writing utensil?" (I was udderly confused......cow jokes.)

Poor teacher- "Like a man...."

Oh no.....oh dear Lord, I'm so sorry for what I've exposed this woman to. Or what she thinks I'VE been exposed to.

Me- "NO! NO NO NO. That's not what I meant!"

Poor teacher, still not getting my drift- "So, you tell me. You walk down street and four or five...are running at you...."

Me- "I get that! Got it. But no, no, that did not happen. Not even one time. I'm so sorry."

OH MY SWEET MOSES. I told so many people that story. No wonder I got horrified smiles from the locals. What in the world? They must've thought I was drunk!

"Why didn't anyone tell me???? I told so many people that! I'm embarassed, I'm so sorry!"

"Kendra, they were glad you try to speak to them. It's ok."

Well then, "A" for effort and "I" for inappropriate!

I won't forget that day. I went back and apologized to everyone, but my teacher was right. Every one of them said they were happy I was trying to speak Thai anyway, no matter the mistake I made.

I'm not going to live the Christian life perfectly. I am a human, I have faults, many of them, and I will fall, and I will make mistakes. But I want to look back on my life and see that I applied effort, that I did my best, that I did more than my best! I'm going to see some embarassing moments, where I tried to do right, to exude Christ, and I failed miserably. But we are commanded to be a light in a dark world, a world that needs more than what they've got, and in the end, they'll be thankful that we tried.

Don't sit and expect the world to come to you, to speak your language. You have to make the effort, you have to leave your element, and you have to tell your story. Just make sure it's the right one.

Attic Shmattic.

I lack common sense.


I, personally, believe myself to be genius. And always right. Everything I do is wise, and everything I think is original and marvelous.


It's not, though.


Rarely, actually.


When I was a teenager I loved those remodeling shows on TLC. I would cry with the neighbors that had their rooms redone with each other, thinking, "Oh, if I only had $48,000 I could do that myself!"

Everyone needs a movie theater screen in their dining room, it just makes sense! Nothing like watching a great flick with the fine china, kids, this is how we roll in America!

Well, one day as I was watching tv with my toddler brother, at the time, they remodeled an attic into a chic apartment for a man's daughter. She was ecstatic. Naturally, I TOO became ecstatic. Oh my word, I'M someone's daughter. WE have an ATTIC. This must be the good Lord moving me to do something FANTASTIC!

I'm so smart.

So I decided, since it's safety first in our house, to set my toddler brother on the garage floor with a few cars, grab a flashlight, and pull down the attic stairs in order to check out my new living quarters.

My hands were shaking I was so excited. "I'll be 15 going on 30! We'll have parties and movie nights and I won't be scared and maybe there won't be mice or serial killers...." So up the stairs I went.

Funny thing about some attics. Instead of flooring, they just have insulation with what seems like some thin drywall along the top of it. It looks just like a sturdy floor! So crazy.

In my purest moment of innocence, I flashed the light around, saw the coast was clear, and took the first step onto the minuscule layer of support underneath my size 12 feet. I sunk a millimeter.

You see on cartoons that moment when the character stops after running off of a cliff and looks at the camera right before they fall to their "death." I had that moment. If there had been a camera directly in front of me, it would've caught my realization that I was about to fall one story to a concrete grave. I froze, and WHOOSH! Everything caved in and I began to understand gravity.

Joseph.

He was right next to me. Mary was too, but she was keeping her distance.

We had a light-up plastic nativity set, life-size, that we kept in the attic. Joseph was there in my time of trouble, because as I fell I grasped his neck and took him with me. He may be a respectable man in the Bible, but I needed him then, whether he was married or not.

With him under my armpit I slammed into two boards on either side of me, catching me from going completely through. With my legs dangling, I looked down at Quentin. He was still sitting on the floor with his cars. He looked up for a moment. Apparently seeing your sister hanging with the adopted father of Jesus from a rafter and a 6 by 6 foot hole in the ceiling is neither interesting nor of concern to a toddler.

"You ok, Ra-Ra?"

"Why yes, Quentin. Just testing my agility and flexibility. I failed."

:insert moment where inconsiderate brother returns to said playing of cars:

My back was bruised, my stomach was bruised, as well as both sides of my body, from my armpits down to my knees. But I'll never forget my faithful nativity friends. Good people, they are.

Joseph was there the whole time, but I only reached out when I was falling and about to be broken. I could've held onto him beforehand or remained on a sturdier foundation that would've kept me from the pain I had experienced. How often do I wait until I'm broken or falling to reach out to God? He's there, waiting to build a relationship with me, waiting for me to open opportunities for Him to show His love. And usually it's while I'm in the middle of a search to selfishly improve something in my life, when I'm already blessed with what I need, I just choose not to recognize it.

I didn't get my attic apartment, but boy was I newly thankful for the bedroom I had. And the floor inside of it.

Joseph has taught me a lot with his story in the Bible, but he taught me even more between the floorboards of my attic.

Baxter and blizzards.

I drive a sports car.

Well, to me. Pontiac Bonnevilles are a rare breed.

He's dying. (His name is Baxter, not that anyone cares, you heartless readers of death.)

Baxter was found with metal shavings in his oil while the mechanics were changing it. For those of you who aren't mechanically minded like myself (since four hours ago when the men at the shop explained it to me with simple words and pictures of flashy things), that usually means there are problems in the engine. It's costly. The conversation with the emotionless man behind the counter went as follows-

:drops metal shavings in front of me: "Look at this."

(Me) "That's nice. Where'd you get these?"

"Well, we found them in the oil. That's a problem."

"What kind of a problem? What should I get fixed?"

"Probably no use trying. Might want to start looking for a new ride."

:insert GASP OF HORROR:

"I'm sorry? You realize this is a Pontiac Bonneville we're talking about here?"

I could tell he realized....caring, now that was what was missing. This car was my first, I have great memories in that car. We've done 123,000 miles together! This Scrooge McMechanic just ruined my holiday!

"Do you want to keep the shavings?"

Did he really just ask that? Why yes, sounds great! Maybe I'll put hooks on them and wear them as earrings to remind myself that I LOST THE ONLY MALE THING I'VE MADE A COMMITMENT TO SINCE THE 90'S the day before the world ended in 2012.

Sometimes, we just have to let things go. Meaningful things, people, circumstances. Things we tie our identities to, things we love, things we want to have in our lives, in order to keep ourselves on the right "road." (You see what I did there?) It's not always easy, but it's worth it in the end. ----She types as she scrolls through PT Cruisers and Ford Focuses on Autotrader.com.----

On to other things.

It's a blizzard out there.

Also, I have road rage.

I'm one of those people who lose their Christian testimony simply by getting behind the steering wheel. I am the white-knuckled maniac who is yelling at people around them during a casual Sunday drive, and when I notice someone staring act like I was just lip-syncing to some death metal. I'm not a fan of hand gestures, but I am a fan of glares. Awkward, angry glares. And sometimes shaking my finger at a driver like a schoolteacher with a troubled kindergartner. It gives me a real high.

I 'bout lost my business tonight. People in Illinois act like they've never driven in Illinois weather when it begins to snow. Three miles an hour becomes the new craze, and before you know it you've counted eighteen Mustangs in the ditch on the way home and the soccer mom in front of you is fish-tailing so much her hazard lights are starting to look like a disco ball.

I should've stayed in Bloomington at a friend's house, or pulled over when it became a white-out. But you see, Downton Abbey, my pajamas, and some dark chocolates were at home waiting for me, and I sacrificed the smart thing for the thought of future comfort.

I hate that spiritual applications come into my mind at times like these. My mom used to do it as a child, and no sticking your head underwater or pretending to ignore her made her stop saying, "Kids, I feel like there's somethin' from Jesus in this here situation!" As I was driving home, I thought to myself, "How many times do I not do what I know is the right thing because I want to be comfortable? Because I'm selfish? Because I'm stubborn." Who knows what I missed out on by not doing what I knew was the smartest decision.

A wise thought, when overlooked, is only a thought.....and thoughts are not what changes the world.

Yes, dear friends, Kendra gets philosophical when the textbooks are taken away and she's left to her own devices. She also speaks in third person. She also finds chocolate wrappers sitting next to her laptop that someone must've placed there.....enjoy your weekend. :)

In the Slammer...

I don't eat Grand Slams like a normal person.

I love Denny's.

Denny's had a bacon-fest about a year ago.

Changed my life.

Have you ever considered bacon with ice cream? I have....in my dreams. When those dreams became a reality, everything in life made sense.

But Baconanza didn't last forever, so I settle for a Grand Slam Slugger.

For those of you who are unaware, a Grand Slam Slugger consists of two glorious pancakes, two glorious eggs, two glorious strips of BACON, two also glorious links of sausage, and a significantly glorious amount of hashbrowns. IT IS GLORIOUS.

But most people eat them, well, normally. Pancakes first, or last, and the rest of the meal, I don't know, like a human.

I've always done things differently. Friends have commented, covered my side of the table with an upright menu, or pretended not to know me while I eat mine.

I squirt ketchup over everything until it looks like something out of a "Saw" movie, and then fold the pancakes like a taco shell, and place every bit of that food into said pancake. Then, I eat it like a burrito, dipping it in maple syrup and refusing silverware.

I never liked silverware. Seems like something I'm sure at one point in the history of civilization some type of communistic government convinced us that we had to use them, but we really don't.

My mother didn't raise me like a caveman, I've just always eaten them that way. Most food, actually. In college I had two separate occasions where guys brought me a bib on the second date because of the way I'd eaten on the first one.

I wasn't offended, I was pleased at how observant and considerate they were.

I don't do a lot of things like a normal person...God didn't want me to be normal. He doesn't want me average, comfortable, or settled. He wants me holy, He wants me willing, and He wants me to follow Him.

My job is not to look good, to make money, or to please others. My job is to live like Him, love like Him, and please only Him. The rest falls into place as it needs to. I love love LOVE how Paul tells us in Ephesians that He's able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or even think! Why? Because He is. Already has been, and will continue to be.

I don't do things normally, but God doesn't either.

Suck it up, buttercup.

I am not a cryer. (Crier? Why can I not spell when I blog? Or think silently to myself instead of typing everything out in parentheses?)

Either way, I don't cry.

At least, not when I'm supposed to.

If something difficult or stressful happens, I don't cry when I should, at the opportune time. It wells up inside me and the tears come out when they're not supposed to.

One of the worst times was in college. I was going through a difficult time, and I'd held in a lot for a while. In fact, I don't think my roommate, who had lived with me for a few years at this point, had ever seen me cry over something. We were at my house for Spring Break, and we popped in The Notebook. I do not cry at movies. I do not get emotionally attached, but the end of this movie, that was it for me. That was my breaking point. I exploded. There was snot coming out in crevasses of my face that I didn't know was medically possible. My roommate looked so terrified I thought she was going to ask to be taken back to the college. I cried forever. We put in a comedy to help with the pain afterwards, and in the middle of a "laugh-out-loud" session, I exploded once more and had to be consoled by a very confused friend of mine.

Today was that day.

I could feel it.....I figured it would happen during a bad time, such as when I gave a speech at a luncheon this morning, perhaps while talking to a table who was upset about their food tonight. But no, my friends and faithful readers, no. It did not happen then. It happened at U.S. Cellular.

I walked in happily preparing myself to save $10-15 extra dollars a month on a "new plan" of theirs. I'd received a letter AND an e-mail, PRAISE THE MOTHER OF CELL PHONE TOWERS, this was gonna happen.

As the polite young gentleman who was assisting me was typing in a few bits of info in order to switch me to the new plan, I commented on how it didn't seem busy like usual.

"Yeah, since the Sprint announcement, we've been a ghost town."

"I'm sorry, the Sprint announcement? I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I thought you knew. Sprint has bought us out. In nine months they'll be closing all of the stores."

"So you'll be out of a job?"

"Yeah."

Oh no, Kendra. I inhaled deeply. Good gravy, woman. Not now. This nice young man doesn't deserve this. I exhaled with my cheeks puffed out. The tears....here they come. My eyes got puffy, and the windows of Heaven were opened.

"I am so sorry, man. You don't deserve that." :sniff: "That's so awful. I can't believe Sprint's doing that to you. I am so sorry!" :sob:

By this time, this poor young man looked up in horror, shock covering his face. He was speechless for a moment, and then full-fledged employee awesomeness and somewhat caregiver broke out.

"It's fine! It's fine.....I have nine months, I'll find something else."

"No it's not! They shouldn't do this to you....stupid carriers."

"Ma'am, it's ok, I'll bounce back, I always do."

By now he's walking me to the door, assuring me that I'll be all right, that he'll be all right, that the company will be all right, and that I can stop in anytime to check on the situation over the next few months.

Kendra's done it again. I sat in my car with my forehead on the steering wheel, asking God why I can't have normal people emotions and deal with things as they come.

He gave me a great reminder. I read my Bible, it helps peeps, always does, and was reminded that in order to run this race I call life (yeah, I sound philosophical, I can't help I'm amazing) I have to set some things such as struggles, trials, etc., behind me and look for what's ahead of me, knowing God has a purpose in what He does. I trust God's plan for my life...and for the U.S. Cellular guy's life. ;)

If he's reading this, I'm sorry and I am a stable human being.

Four stars.

I'm impressed, peeps. If I had known my thoughts were this popular, I would've started speaking my mind years ago!

So  it was back to the grind of Cracker Barrel today. I'd worked some of the weekend, but I was too sick to do much...my cough sounded similar to the noises of feeding time at Sea World...turns out guests aren't that interested in having a waitress on oxygen.

I am one of those "adapt to your environment" waitresses. Normally we get a sense of our guest before we approach the table. We can hear them talking to the host, see them walking into the restaurant, and I'm not gonna lie, we strive to please....and empty your wallet. So if I hear a group of Southerners traveling up North for the holidays, I'm bound to walk up to the table with my Paula Deen smile and say, "Hey ya'll, ya'll want some bacon and sweet tea?" Gets 'em every time. I'm even ashamed to say that when being presented with those of European accent, I might've asked if they "cared for a spot o' tea and some buttermilk crumpets?" The economy's rough, people, work with me here.

Also, a few of you have asked me to explain the "stars" on here. When you begin working at a Cracker Barrel, you are called a "Rising Star"...yes, an older gentleman once thought I was an Indian and that my parents had actually named me this. After a few months pass, you take a test, which asks questions such as, "When you have four guests at a table, and each of them get biscuits and cornbread with their meal, how many butters will you give them?" THIS IS NOT A JOKE. If you pass, boom! Another star. A few months after that, the same thing, and so on and so forth until you get four stars. The brown aprons are for employees, the maroon ones are for employees that train people. So there ya go! You're a Cracker Barrel College genius now. :)

I had a nice gentleman eat breakfast and leave me a swell tip today, and also a phone number. Now, as flattering as that is, I turn off my mojo when I waltz into said restaurant. Sorry, beaus and suitors, but I m not in the mood to flirt in a button down Oxford shirt, some worn out black pants, and an apron with my name on it. "Ah, Kendra's the name....what a lovely name....how's the mansion?" There it is, the Hef joke. My parents gave me this name having no idea during the prime of my single years I would be sharing it with a popular Playboy bunny, so I can't despise them for it.

Call it bad timing. Since eye-rolling is not an option when they haven't tipped you yet, I just smile and nod, pretending like I won't be charging them extra for their meal.

Finals are over! I passed! On to a new semester in exactly one month. My final eval with my instructor consisted of words of wisdom, common critique, and the phrase, "You'll be fine, Kendra. You're weird, but it works for you."

All right.

Wait, I'm sorry?

I'm weird?!?!

You know what? I could spend time wondering what she meant by that, but as I sat watching Pixar's Brave, eating popcorn out of a mixing bowl, and scrolling through one-bedroom apartments in Thailand, I kind of got what she was saying. The Bible says, "I'm fearfully and wonderfully made." That's pretty apparent when you study the human body, but it's something more than that. I'm positive that God likes weird, or else He might get kind of bored. ;)

Albuterol and Post-Operative Care....

I am ill.

Sinusitis and Bronchitis....these two things go hand in hand, and not only do they sound like the next Eminem album, but I tend to get a bit overly emotional and perhaps exaggerate my condition whenever this becomes a part of my life. I go through the five stages of dying, and by the time I've reached the acceptance stage poor Quentin (my brother) always hears the same "final words" from me as I drift off into NyQuil, claiming I'm seeing the white light...."I've always loved you, dear brother, so you may have my Pontiac Bonneville. Change the oil and she'll be good to go. No one can have my savings account. I busted my hind end at the Crackhouse for it and I shall be buried with it."

I sound like Darth Vader with COPD, and after a couple of Ny-shots I am speaking like Saturday Night Live's Drunk Uncle...for instance, (it's worth the bad quality, believe you me)

And the worst part of it all is today is my final day to study for my nursing final in the morning. I don't know about you, but I do not excel at focusing when I am on a lot of medication. Not to mention focusing on a test is one thing, but focusing on a NURSING test, that is murder. Let me give you a sample question:

What is the nurse's priority concern with her patient?
A. Patient stops breathing
B. Patient has no heartbeat or pulse
C. Patient is set on fire
D. Patient has been kidnapped my terrorists

'That is so weird, because I feel like I should be concerned about all of those things.' Yes, you should, but what's the best answer here? The answer is always E. I DO NOT KNOW AND I AM CURRENTLY RE-EVALUATING MY CAREER OF CHOICE WITH EACH QUESTION.

I didn't go to church today. I am a cess-pool of sickness, so I figured I'd better seek medical attention in the care of my own Serta mattress. Though it wouldn't matter anyway, even though I look terrible, I feel as though I must always look terrible when I go to church, or really anywhere for that matter. Maybe it's the nursing school, the full-time job, or the lack of sleep, but I can't get that "rested" look people are searching for. It has become less offensive and more entertaining when I've spent three hours on a Sunday morning getting ready, look at myself, and almost take one of those tweenage 'bathroom body shots' that the youthful generation post on Facebook to prove to America that they're ridiculously good-looking, but the moment I walk into a public area where I see anyone I know, the first seven people will respond to my "Hello!" with, "You look horrible....are you sleeping?" and "Oh you poor thing....nursing school's killing you, isn't it?" I actually thought I was overflowing with awesomeness....but now I think I'm gonna go hide in the bathroom. Appreciate your concern, though! Haha....

I miss church when I'm not there. It's refreshing to be around people with the same purpose that you carry: to serve Christ. I know a lot of my friends do not go to church, maybe they don't believe, and a large amount have been hurt by hypocrites in the Christian realm. I understand, hypocritical lifestyles will always be a part of Christianity. People will always be people, imperfect and failing, and we will always find someone we can cast judgment on, easily and deservedly many times. But  as one of my favorite songs put it, and as I like to remind myself when I've hurt Him again and again with my lack of consistency and character, "When I don't measure up to much in this life, I'm a treasure in the arms of Christ."

Hallelujer.

Wow! Only one day and I've got half as many views as my last blog did altogether!

Luckily I don't have a narcissistic bone in my smoking hot body.

Speaking of which, I joined a gym. It was a terrible decision, as of right now, but I'm gonna be glad later. I already feel healthier. I asked for extra lettuce on my cheeseburger the other day, so yeah, baby steps.

Today I hopped on the elliptical. Now, I have asthma. Not normal asthma, horrible asthma. It's gotten better as I've gotten older, but I probably have the lung capacity of an eighty-year-old. As I'm, what I consider "going to town" on this elliptical, some five-foot hundred-pound runway model decides to hop on the elliptical next to me. I wonder to myself, silently of course, why this adorable little demon of Satan couldn't have chosen any of the other empty ones down the row, but instead decides to buddy up with the obese wheezer in the corner. I mean, really. So she starts ellipting (is that a word?) like it's a life or death situation. She lost two pounds within twenty seconds and I felt intimidated. I am not one to back down from a competition, so I joined her in like rhythm. I immediately regretted that decision. My wheezing was out of control by eight minutes. I tried to turn up the volume on the Law & Order I was watching to lessen the noise of my breathing, but since I was wearing headphones, it only drowned out the sound of my lungs begging for their life for ME, she just kept sideways looking at me like "What the crap is this girl's problem?" She had no headphones on, she was just there, running to the beat of her purebred heart. By 22 minutes I was soaked in sweat and inwardly deciding that if I'm going to start exercising, it will now be alone in that gym. Or with a friend....who doesn't judge me or look like a Barbie.

:cue Law & Order sound:

I divide my friends and acquaintances by two traits: My acquaintances are the ones who tell me things like, "I don't know why you're single!" and "Why have you not been snatched up yet?" and my real friends are the ones who see me go about my daily business and make comments like, "Kendra, I love you, but this is why you're single." Things such as zipping up my purple footie pajamas for a cold winter's night, or perhaps dropping a chicken nugget down my shirt, finding it, and still ingesting it. (I used the term chicken nugget, but I'm sure I meant an apple slice or a celery stick.) Speaking of food...

I love my job, and yet it's crazy, because I also don't. I think being around people is one of the greatest gifts life has, but it's also one of the greatest curses. One of the things that bother me the most in this world is when someone treats a nice person like a load of horse shnikeys for no reason. Children, I am a nice individual. I am not perfect, I am not always pleasant or precious, but I pride myself on remaining calm and friendly in a situation, even when I want to apply strong force to someone's face with a shovel. One day I might snap. I feel as if my Employee of the Year status has only burdened me. If I snapped before, it would be no big thing. "Uh-oh, another server went crazy and threw a guest in the fireplace," but now, NOW it gets intense. "The employee of the year went awol last night at the Crackhouse. The body count isn't complete yet, but I heard peg games were involved in their deaths." I pray more on the job than I do outside of the job, so Jesus is fairly familiar with our menu, of this I am sure. My prayers sound like the ramblings of a hungry meth addict, "Heavenly father, by the name of Uncle Herschel, corn and grits I am about to lose it up in this piece and I need your help. Grant me the Sunrise Sampler to accept the things I cannot change, Country Fried Steak to change the things I can, and the Blackberry Pancakes to know the difference."

He's put up with a lot from me, and yet He continues to answer my prayers. You can call it coincidence, that doesn't bother me, because I know the difference between coincidence and Someone showing His love...so it's all gravy.

And we're off....

I've decided, after some poor judgment-motivated requests, to start a blog. The title explains it all, my life in four words. (No, I'm not including the "and", "and" if you're one of the people who said, "That's five words" then you're what's wrong with this great nation.)

I'm just going to jump right into this like it was an open box of donuts.

Single. For some reason, this is a curse, especially to Baptists. As a woman, everyone around me is married, dating, engaged, betrothed, courting, endowed to be wed, in a polygamous relationship.....keepin' it real, folks....and that's all great. This way of life does not apply to me, being as labeling yourself "single" is apparently an alternative lifestyle these days. If you're not a wife, you have no life. Hmmm....interesting.

My mother is the queen of setting me up. No basis on personality, any manly names that proceed out of my mouth, she encourages a relationship. He could be a gentleman I've served at Ye Olde Cracker Barrel, a priest who "hasn't really made a vow to be single....I'm sure someone like you could change him", or a death row inmate who I had to look up for a psychology essay. "Opposites attract, you know!" She has placed me on eHarmony, hooked me up with men she met on instant messengers, and now the new hit is Christian Mingle. I don't even like the word "mingle". Being a Christian and never convinced that Mingling=Marriage, I feel as though she may be on the path to finding me in a body bag in someone's trunk one day. Someone who sent me a nice message that said, "Your profile brought a smile to my face!" or "I was just reading in the book of Numbers, when I realized....I don't have yours."

Singlehood is not a curse, it's character. Some of you reading this are thinking, "She's just saying that because she doesn't know what it's like to be a wife and mother." I get it! I do, and while you make a valid point, I find talking to dogs similar to talking to men, and when I need to cuddle with something warm at night, I've found the simplest answer to that is grabbing a blanket. Or a snuggie.

Serving. Most people don't understand the hardships of life when you say you're a server. They figure you wake up, pour coffee, and receive an $80 tip by just flashing a quick smile as you run with dollar bills stuffed so full into your apron that you're leaving papercuts on the cashiers on your way out the door. Oh ho boy! We deal with people who ask for pecan pie without nuts, a pancake breakfast without the pancakes, and "Sorry, our kids left a mess, so I threw an extra dollar on the table for your troubles." Good....I knew that if I played my cards right, I would make an extra dollar tonight for that McChicken I've been eyeing in the window of that there McDonald's next door.

Nursing. Nursing is amazing. There is nothing like holding the hand of someone who's not feeling well, and making them feel better by just being there....and by just being there I mean by giving them copious amounts of pain medication. But I do love it! I'm about done with my first semester of nursing school, and aside from large clumps of hair falling out of my head due to some minor stressors like holding lives in the palm of my hand, it's easy as pie. With nuts.

Jesus. Yes, I love Him. While much of this blog has seemed negative, I assure you it is just over-run with the blessed sarcasm the good Lord instilled in me. I love God for many reasons, but mainly because He's always made my life interesting. I'm an ADD Christian, and I demand to have my attention kept by awesome things, and He does it every time. I may not always understand Him, but He's never left me bored, and I appreciate that more than anyone can know.

More to come, kids. Enjoy it while you can....I tend to procrastinate.