Bane of My Existence

One of my favorite quotes: 'Elizabeth is really good at sports.' - Said by no one. Ever.

As a licensed psychologist (wait? my Bachelors in psychology doesn't qualify me for anything?), I've been taking the time to delve into some repressed memories.  After analyzing a dream I had about destroying Voldemort in a karaoke contest, I realized that I have some deeply rooted issues with sports.

It all stems from elementary school. I really liked gym from kindergarten through second grade. We honed our athletic abilities through valuable activities such as the long distance spitttage of watermelon seeds and Dead Bug (a game like tag, where when you got caught, you had to sit on your back with all four limbs up. Four kids would then grab each limb and carry you to the safe zone where you were instantly revived.)

Dead Bug. My kind of sport.

Then it became time to teach us how to be real people and learn The Soccer. Oh boy. I quickly learned that this was not my cup of Latter-day Saint-sanctioned-tea. I've always been smaller than the rest (the roommates kindly refrain from placing the glasses on the top shelf) of the gang and when you come charging at me, I don't see you as you really are. In fact, you look more like this:

So of course I'm going to scream, 'Fine! Take the ball! Just take it!' and I'm going to get the h-e-double-hockey sticks out of there. The other kids got the point and never picked me at recess. I was okay with that - I got to play house and direct any lovesick boys to do my bidding. It rocked.

I was pretty content with my stunted athleticism, but always harbored a lot of self-doubt about it which has started to bother me. It's pathetic to not be able to throw and catch a ball! A guy once me I was really bad at playing a game. My goodness that hurt my feelings, even though it was true! (Dude! Just be cool! I'm trying to date you brother and con him into thinking I'm a cool sporty girl!) I think it was the fear of being ridiculed that kept me from trying all this time. But this past college year, I expressed my fears to a few men and remarkably, they didn't make fun! In fact, they were the eager to be my Remedial Sports coaches. Believe it or not, I now like sports* to the extent that I would ask them to bring over football so we could play (no joke.)

With a new spark lit, I asked for instruction in basketball. I was surprised at how much I liked it. I came home and bought sporting equipment. Mom thought I had lost my marbles.

Since I suck and am scared of kids' ridicule, I practice at my neighbor's house. I'm not good enough to go to the park yet (I get 72 Points of Pathetic for that one.) I practice at least one hour, six days a week. I'm committed to getting this thing down. I even WATCH basketball clips to see how it should be done (Elizabeth voluntarily watched a sport? The world just stopped turning.) After doing it a little on my own, I actually value athletics more - there's a lot of talent out there!

I'm not particularly gifted at it, but it's coming along! After some deep soul searching, I'm okay with not ever being lauded as a cool, sporty girl (I look up BBC documentaries of the rainforest on YouTube because 1. I love science 2. I love British accents. Definitely not sporty OR cool. If you're not cool either, check out this video about the cordyceps fungus. The craziest fungus ever that takes over insects' BRAINS and EXPLODES out of their heads! Baaaaah. That video will change your life.)

 Back to the point - I would love to hear, 'Elizabeth is really good at putting effort into sports. She also knows about rainforest fungus.' 

Aim high. 

Guess what. I know that this is Michael Jordan.  BAM. Sports guru here. And he played for the Bulls (okay. I didn't know that. I just read it. And the Bulls are from..... Dallas? Spain? WAIT! CHICAGO!!! The Chicago Bulls. That's a team. (I don't care enough to Google it to see if that is right.))

* My idea of sports is very different from the norm. Sports is defined as having the opponent a safe distance away, preferably 3 meters. Charging at E with the force of a raging in-heat bull is not welcome. We NEVER tackle E (this happened once and I was not thrilled. It might have been a 9-year-old who inflicted the pain. I kept raising my babysitting rates so his parents would stop asking me to supervise their sadistic monster). Tickling however is permissible, but that is not a sport. That is deemed flirting and is ALWAYS appreciated. Sports is rife with laughter and smiles; hateful competitive angst is not appreciated. Basically, I play 7-year-old sports. Deal with it. 

Your Personal Color-coded Guide to Sin

Gather your fine jewelry and costly apparel - it's Rameumptum Day in Relief Society! Some girl once made the comment that you can tell what sins a guy is committing by the color of the shirt he chooses to wear to Church activities. I guess I missed the 'Unrighteous Blue' discussion in Sunday school? Sarah Palin could see my eyes roll all the way from Russia.

As I've thought about this, I just don't think it's fair that we don't have a standardized categorization of sin. Imagine this, you meet the Greeter Gal and she says, 'Here's your program, and please, take your appropriate Scarlet Letter.' Unfortunately, after looking for doctrine to back this up, I wound up empty handed (There's nothing. Zilch. Nada).

So if we can't do the Scarlet Letters, here's the next best thing: Your Personal Color-coded Guide to Sin. You're welcome, World.

The Blue Shirt

Oh, honey. You steer clear of this guy. Never mind the fact that he creeps on the mom of the infant he eventually falls in love with, a man in a blue shirt is pure danger.

Sin: Too suggestive of adventure and intrigue

The Black Shirt

James Bond just called. He's impressed.

Sin: Channelling too much raw masculinity

The Green Shirt

I can't take this guy seriously.

Sin: All the sins. 

The Purple Shirt

Cardiac failuuuure

Sin: Too much confident sexiness

According to my handbook, mah boys have turned out quite fine.

That one time I survived the Titanic - TWICE

I don't like cruises.

Some friends invite me on a cruise and I reply, 'Awesome! Let's burn each other with matches while we're at it! Jump out of a plane without a parachute! That's fun too!' Let me explain.

Last summer, my mom and I were organizing the family photos. I came upon one photo (which I would upload if I knew how to use the scanner. I'm 23. Getting too old for this, people.) which had a very silly story behind it.

It's a picture of me on our Alaska cruise (zzzzzz) when I was 8. That would put us at 1997, the year Titanic came out. Although I didn't see the movie, I was plenty aware of the icy clutches of death that awaited the passengers.

So, on this cruise everyone is on the deck admiring the pretty H2O(s) doing this:

I see this and my sage eight-year-old imagination begins thinking of this:

I've always been an independent thinker. I raise my eyebrow and exclaim, 'Nuh uh. We're not doing this.' 

None of the adults are taking this business seriously. I must take control. I take one last look at my mommy, 'Nice knowin' ya. I'll carry on the family name' and hie it to the life boats. 

That's the photo of me. My back turned to the camera, my little legs carrying me to be the first in line to get off this death trap. Mommy has no idea what I am up to. I'm feeling pretty smug in my line. Let the fools take their pictures; I'm going to live. 

Turns out, we didn't hit an iceberg and we survived to see ominous glaciers (you'd think at some point a huge chunk would crash into the water and make it more interesting!). So you might imagine I would learn to trust the people in charge, right?

Wrong.

Fast forward a several years to my senior high school trip to Europe with a cruise in the Mediterranean. There will be Greek food, Greek dancing, and some Greek sinking. You heard me. 

Here I am, enjoying the gorgeous surroundings, about to get on the boat.

Wipe those smiles of your faces girls, 'cause someone has been sampling a little too much ouzo and is going to run the boat right into a reef. In fact, it might even make it to the news: http://voices.yahoo.com/cruise-ship-sinks-aegean-sea-288573.html

Well, that's not exactly what happened. It didn't sink during my trip. But the exact same boat sank 6 months after I was on it - which is pretty much the same thing in my book.

It'll take a lot of bribing, tricking, and false imprisonment to get me on a cruise again (the Caribbean cruise turned out alright, but that might have been a fluke). I've escaped Davy Jones' locker twice now and I'm not pushing my luck any more. 

You have to respect the sea. 

Pride and Prejudice and Provo

We're all well familiar with Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. With each reading of this beloved classic, I cherish it more. In my latest reading, I couldn't help but realize some familiarity. This familiarity did not stem from knowing the plot nor the characters - that would have been too simple! No, this familiarity came from the gradual realization that I have lived this culture!

I spent 5 years at BYU in a whirlwind of 1800s-esque English dating. Marriage is of the utmost importance. And oh right, education as well?

Such a frenzy of dating occurred, that at one point, it was required that I maintain an Excel spreadsheet with each interest's name followed by a short anecdote to help me keep the Matthews separate from the Marks, Lukes, and Johns. I have since learned to sift through the ample supply of gentlemen and have since focused my dating habits considerably. Who knew the superfluous supply of suitors would encourage me to get more out of literature?

Because clearly, all returned missionaries are in want of a wife!

A good portion of the Excel spreadsheet contained sweet-spirited men. You know the kind that you just can't see yourself with, but they're nice and you do your best to have a great evening. 

You return from your 47 minutes of frozen yogurt (you'll soon see why I abhor this popular activity) with little to report to the roommates. The conversation was paltry and after he informed you that your desire to go into dentistry was 'remarkably boring' you found yourself pleading to have him tell you more about the different kinds of sand (he, being a geology major and will rattle away ad nauseam. Anything to keep the conversation going, people). He tucked his shirt into his jeans in such a manner that reminded you of Mr. Henry who dropped you and your best friend - his daughter - off at ballet lessons where you exhibited the most refined skills in dance with your awkward and uncoordinated 5-year-old limbs. But he was very kind and you appreciated his time and effort (and money. I always feel badly about that).

You realize, that you were just introduced to Mr. Collins. And if you were fortunate,  able to avoid a proposal of marriage because it would make his patroness (or his bishop or the entire religious head) happy. One of my dear friends rejected a proposal of going steady from a Mr. Collins who, after taking her up to the temple (strike one), importuned her to follow Jesus (sacrilegious strike two) take a leap of faith and choose him, and not follow Satan and be single (major strike three. Seriously, sir?)

As you continue through the follies of youthful dating, you gradually begin to make wiser decisions. But at present, you are in the Lydia Bennet stage of dating.

As you attended your first bridal shower in the basement of the dorms (classy) during the spring of your freshman year, you find it difficult to fathom settling down at so young an age! You haven't secured ALL the men yet! You put on your finest white t-shirt below that scandalous tank top and head to the Cougareat (pronounced Coo-GARE-ee-aht). There you find the men in that Taco Bell line. After your phone number has been secured by a hungry lad, you suddenly remember that you have a TA review session to attend (right, we are trying to achieve higher levels of knowledge). The TA then asks for your phone number (I don't even know if that is legal and after my own TA position of 7 semesters, I still have no idea. But I was savvy enough to not date any of my students.) You go on the date with the TA to that indoor climbing place and get your hands all nice and gross from the handholds. In accordance to the added microbial flora, you wind up dating the climbing instructor. Who happens to be....

Mr. Wickham!

At this tender age, you know nothing of self-respect (you are desperately missing your missionary and need to pass the time!) Your boyfriend tells you 'You know, sometimes it's kinda cool and kinda annoying that you think for yourself' followed by 'The silence between us has gotten really great.' and for some unfathomable reason you do not kick his darling arse to the street.

Self-respect will embed itself into your character after you get hurt a few more times (as you eventually learn that the bad boys just aren't worth it!) 

Beware the Miss Bingley's of dating - even to the extent that you do not become one! It is inevitable that your heart will be rejected, but do something more constructive than being the demon of the dinner party. Like yoga. 

You continue to grow and hopefully figure out who you are. 

Now blemished with the disgrace of being sans ring at age 21, you pay more heed to society's imploring you to get on with it! Children don't just come into this world on their own, now do they? 

Unfortunately by this time, you are not as easy to date. You have finally garnered some charisma, dignity, and courage to stick to your expectations. Although every burst of warm weather brings a barrage of dozens of engagement notifications to your FaceSpace, you are unmoved. You have accomplished some things and expect some equal yoking! Congratulations! You have now reached the stage of dating Elizabeth Bennet style. 

You are told that you are intimidating with your eye contact and ambition. You see nothing wrong with that! Suddenly, you embark on dating with a purpose and artfully evade the Mr. Collinses (but sadly, not the frozen yogurt). Occasionally, a gentleman catches your eye. You have a conversation with him of a topic of reasonable interest. You become intrigued as you learn that he has already accomplished two goals and presently has not one, not two, but THREE goals in the works. And the cherry on top - he is doing something that cannot be described as 'going into business' (I still have yet to figure out what 'going into business' means.) 

Certainly, courtship is not without its fair share of awkwardness like unto the FABULOUS lake scene:

There is great fumble-age over your words. You repeat your questions. Suddenly you become very aware of your hands. What do you do with your hands?! But hopefully you are wearing clothes (in fact, you should ALWAYS BE WEARING CLOTHES during courtship.)

If you're lucky, your interest will see past your quirkiness and might actually find it endearing that your eyes glaze over and you begin to think about Ann Taylor Loft when he describes what happened in that one game where a team played a sport  (I DID once find a man that did just this. (I'm trying to get better about it. Honest. I even bought a basketball to increase my appreciation and not feel so left out. That story for another time.)) 

So there you have it. My frivolous thoughts on a real-life application to this wonderful classic. I'm sure you can find your own Pride and Prejudice experiences. Cheer up - yes, dating is all very very vexing, but people have been getting through this exquisite silliness for centuries. Next up, The Picture of Dorian Gray. Loooove it. 

Dearest Readers, if you get one thing out of this, let it be the following: 

No more frozen yogurt. Please, have some compassion on my poor nerves, as Mrs. Bennet would say. How about getting some pie?

All photos and videos were used without permission from the BBC installment of Pride and Prejudice in 1995. I am much obliged.