"Waste Some Time!"

I was looking for an email from a couple of years ago and came across an email thread with one of my teachers that I thought was particularly funny. Time was in high demand and short supply my final year of undergrad, which often led to me doing homework and other things on my laptop during my classes. One day my bad habit resulted in this conversation:

Professor,
Here are my answers to the questions from the text. I am sorry I have to email them to you also--I didn't have time to get them done before class. Thanks!
Breanne


I noticed you working on them during class.


Yes, I'm really sorry about that. I had a really busy week and am looking at a really busy weekend and Thanksgiving week (I have to complete several graduate school applications, finish a 20 page paper for a class, finish two other shorter papers for other classes, and finish doing research for and submit a final list of internships I want to apply for in Washington DC next summer--and I volunteer for 8 hours on Saturdays--in addition to my regular class and work schedule) and I was afraid if I didn't work on them during class, I wouldn't get them done. I hope it wasn't too distracting or annoying.
Breanne

Breanne,

Nah, I’m aware that students aren’t robots and sometimes do other things in class—heaven forbid!  Yours just happened to be visible this time, because I could recognize the format of the Kiplyn Davis material on your computer screen over a long period of time.

The “problems” are that it cost you a few “lateness” points, it may have limited your involvement in class discussion, and it may have caused you to put in less thinking about your in-class writing before you went back to the Davis article. 

The only other problem is mine, not yours—that any teacher wants full attention, naturally.  So it reminded the old professor that his scintillating material wasn’t reaching one of his best students. 

You’re obviously a highly-motivated (“driven”?) student.

I hope you can have a little lighter load next semester. 

And a little time for the turkey and the family next week. 

Waste some time!  Read a frivolous novel!  Play a video game!  Go for a hike!  Take a nap!

I'm sure that my professor would be happy to know that while I didn't do any time-wasting during undergrad, I certainly learned how to do it well during graduate school!

Death of an Alternator

Today's story comes to you from the repository of work I did for my creative writing class, so it's in "memoir style." Which is kind of like Gangnam style, but not quite as cool.

If I had thought it through, I wouldn’t have driven my car when I was 98% sure that the alternator was dead. With the “check battery” light on and the headlights getting dim, I knew it was only a matter of time before my car died. But I was tired of walking to school in the freezing cold and getting home after midnight. I had papers to write and finals to take and I was not going to let a silly alternator keep me from driving my car.

The fateful decision was made when I decided I had to go to the store. Walmart was my first choice, but when I passed Rite-Aid and my car was starting to shutter, I turned in the parking lot. They would have what I needed, and I might even be able to make it home from here without my car dying. When I finished with my purchases, I got back in my car. Relieved when it started, I prayed, “Heavenly Father, just don’t let my car die in the middle of a busy road.” It was a desperate plea. My headlights, dimming quickly, were barely bright enough to light the road right in front of me. As I pulled out of the parking lot, the radio died. My car shuddered as I sped up, and I prayed again. I was all alone and it was almost midnight. I really didn’t want to have to call a tow truck to take my car to a shop. And I really didn’t want to get hit by someone that couldn’t see my car.

When I pulled onto Freedom, I knew I was in trouble. My car had started shuddering, like a drowned man trying to come back to life. I changed into a lower gear and crossed University Avenue. If my car could just keep going for six more blocks…

It couldn’t. With one final shudder and a terrible lurch, my car died in the middle of an intersection on a dimly lit street. Gathering my wits about me, I pushed my car to the side of the road andcalled my roommate. 

“Hi Teresa,” I said.

“Did your car die?” she asked. She must have heard me gloating about the fact that my car had started this morning,

“Yes. I can’t push it home alone because my lights are dead. I’m afraid someone won’t see me and will hit me. Can you come and drive behind my car with your flashers on while I push it the last few blocks?” I was too tired to call a tow truck when I just lived three blocks away from where my car had died.

Teresa showed up in less than five minutes with my other roommate, Brittany. She stared at my car. “Does this happen often?” she asked.

“No. Well, sometimes,” I said, thinking of the several times I had run out of gas…and the leaking radiator that I had finally fixed a few months ago…and the winter I had to use ice-x on the inside of my car windshield because the defroster didn’t work. “I just need to push it home. Can you push from that side and I will steer and push from this side?”

The scene would have been comical if it wasn’t so tragic. Two girls pushing a car in the street while another one drove slowly behind with her flashers on. When the two men pulled over and offered to help, I only refused once. At their insistence, I got in and steered while they pushed. As they pushed my car into the parking lot, I sighed. My pride had finally taken a hit: this time, I couldn’t take care of my car problems by myself. But at I could say that I had pushed it out of the middle of the intersection by myself…

Here I am, so proud to be buying my first car. Pre-alternator failure.

Police at the CVS...and When It's a Big Deal

Because I live off of a busy highway right outside of Washington DC, 5 minutes from both the Pentagon and a national airport, I've become accustomed to seeing police cars everywhere. Last summer there was a police chase ending in the suspects crashing in to a gas station, abandoning their car, and finally two of them being caught and one getting away after a helicopter-led manhunt. A few months ago there was another chase that caused the highway near my house to be blocked off while I was driving home, and my first thought was, "How annoying that I can't turn right on this road and I have to go around!"

Anyway, one becomes accustomed to police cars in this part of the country, I guess. So when I saw two police cars parked in the middle of the parking lot of CVS last week, I wasn't too concerned. They were blocking cars but their lights weren't on, so I figured I would be safe going to the Redbox to check and see if Frozen was available (because I still haven't seen it, y'all!). And miracle of miracles, there were two empty parking spots right by the door! As I pulled in to one of them, another police car pulled in right next to me. I started to question my choice, but after checking for signs stating that this parking spot was reserved and seeing none, I backed up a bit to straighten my car. Looking up, ready to pull forward into the parking spot, I saw two officers leading a handcuffed man out of the store, walking toward my car. Seeing that the man was struggling to walk, I looked down and saw that while he was wearing sweat pants, his jeans were down around his ankles, impeding his walking.

Well, I quickly decided that maybe I should choose another parking spot and backed out. Only then did I notice a whole crowd of people gathered outside the store, watching as the police led the man over to the police car, with him moaning and wailing "They're gonna kill me!" the whole way. 

I found another parking spot, jumped out to check Redbox (still no Frozen!) and got back in my car. The man was still shouting as I drove away.

As I drove away I made a mental note to myself: next time I see several police cars in a parking lot, I won't park right next to the door.

(Almost) Hit By a Car

I had lots and lots of jobs when I was at BYU, but only one of them was off campus. I worked at a call center down University Avenue, almost to Orem, and I rode my bike there each morning and rode back to campus at noon when I got off. Surprisingly, working at a call center wasn't my favorite job of all time, and I was always excited and ready to leave at noon. I was also working two other jobs at that time, as well as taking a full load of classes, so it was always nice to ride my bike away from work, knowing that even though the rest of the day would be super busy, I wouldn't have to come back to this job until tomorrow. Strangely enough, even though the ride there was downhill and the ride back was uphill, the way there always seemed to take a lot more effort than the way back!

One day I was riding back to campus, having completed another day of call center fun. I was riding my bike on the sidewalk/jogging/biking path next to the road, when all of a sudden a car pulled out of a hidden driveway, right in to my path. I swerved off the path and on to the shoulder to avoid the car, but when I tried to hop back on to the pathway my tire caught on the sidewalk's edge and I flipped forward and flew through the air. I distinctly remember thinking "twist your body so you don't break your arm or your nose!" before I crashed on the ground.

After a couple of seconds of lying on the ground, I sat up and slowly unbuckled my helmet. There was blood all over and I was in a lot of pain, but luckily I hadn't broken anything. I had a pretty nasty cut on my chin, had scratches on my forearm, and my flip-flop had broken off my foot and was lying down the pathway a bit, but other than that, nothing. Whatever I did in the air to twist my body was pretty impressive--whoever heard of someone getting in a bike wreck and landing only on their chin and forearm?

In my dazed state, my first thought was, "How in the world am I going to ride back to campus with a broken shoe? I'll just have to ride home and change my shoes and put a bandaid on this bleeding chin." I turned around to see if the person in the car who had almost hit me had a bandaid, but the car was EMPTY. Still sitting in the middle of the path and still running, but NO DRIVER. This story was starting to get exciting--I had now been involved in an almost-hit and run!

Irritated that the driver would just jump out of his/her car without even checking to see if I was ok, I started inspecting my bike to see if it was rideable when all of a sudden a large truck pulled over and three men in their mid-60's poked their heads out. "Are you ok?" they shouted.

"Umm, yeah, I just, uh, fell off my bike," I answered, trying to keep the blood dripping off my chin from getting all over my shirt.

"Did that car hit you?" one of them asked, and then realized there was no driver. "Hey, where'd the driver go?"

"Here, get in and we'll take you to the hospital," one of them offered.

Wondering if there was that much blood, I told them, "Oh no, I just live down the street. I'm just going to go home and get a bandaid."

"No, we aren't going to let you just ride your bike home in that state. Here, we'll throw your bike in the back of the truck and take you to the hospital."

I protested to no avail. They were bent on taking me to the hospital. So finally I just asked if they could take me to the BYU Health Center, thinking that I could just wash the blood off there. And surely they would have some bandaids that I could have. So they threw my bike in the back and I climbed in the truck (one of the men had to get out and wait there for his friends, since there were only three seats in the truck!) and they took me to the health center. 

I'm sure I was quite a sight with blood dripping from my chin, but I think my broken flip-flop was the worst part. Because the part that joined the top to the bottom had broken of, I had the flip flop on my foot but couldn't lift it and had to drag it. Worse, the flip flops were made of wood, so they were extra loud.

Flip Draaaaag. Flip Draaaaaaaaag. Flip Draaaaag. As I walked in to the Health Center everyone turned and stared. Not wanting to make a scene, I got in line to wait for the two people in front of me to finish with their emergencies, trying to nonchalantly cover my bleeding chin, pretending like everyone walks around in broken shoes and with bloody hands covering their chin.

Just then, one of the men who gave me a ride walked in. He had locked my bike up and then had come inside to make sure I was ok. "What are you doing, standing in line?" he asked. Then he loudly announced, "This woman has an emergency! She just got hit by a car!" I tried to duck my head and pretend like he was talking about someone else. After all, what's a little bit of blood on my chin? But he was having none of it. "Go over to the emergency section," he said, and then waited until I was talking to a nurse before he left.

I flip-draaaged over to the emergency section, all eyes on me. "Uh, hi," I said. "Do you have a bandaid?" Just then all of the adrenaline and awkwardness of the situation hit me, and I started to cry. "I'm sorry," I sobbed. "I just need a bandaid. And maybe a bathroom so I can wash the blood off." The nurse looked at me, pathetically weeping with a broken shoe and blood all over my face and hands, and directed me to follow her. She led me down the hall to a room with a sink near the door and gave me a container, lots of gauze, cleansing agents, and some triple antibiotic ointment. "You can clean up here," she said. "Do you think you need stitches?"

By this time I had gotten control of my emotions. "No, no, I think I'll be fine," I said. After she left I looked at myself in the mirror. I really did look like I had just been hit by a car. I avoided the mirror until I had finished cleaning up. Feeling much better (but still flip-draaaging everywhere I went), I went back out to the nurse. "Do I need to pay for...that stuff?" I asked awkwardly. "Oh no, don't be silly," she said. "I hope it heals quickly."

"Thanks," I said, as I flip-draaaged my way out of there.

And All Was Normal Again

This is what Peter thinks of his mother's antics.

While I was on my mission in Taiwan, my family changed dramatically. My older sister and just-younger sister got married, and then both of them, as well as my older brother and his wife (married for 5 years), had a son. That's 5 new men in the family in 18 months.

Needless to say, I was a little unsure of how to act around these sisters of mine who used to be just sisters but now were "sisters with a husband and a child." One morning soon after I returned from Taiwan I was visiting my older sister at her house. I was walking down the hallway from the bathroom and, just as I came out into the clearing next to the stairs, my older sister, who had been crouched down, hiding, behind the wall, lunged out and growled at me. I almost fell down the stairs out of shock.

The funny thing is, after this little incident, I felt much more comfortable around her. I knew that everything was normal and that even a husband and a son hadn't changed her one bit!

Buying a Mattress, Ghetto Style

When I first moved to Columbus for grad school, I had nothing but the clothes on my back. And everything that could fit in to my car (so I guess a little more than the clothes on my back...). You know what doesn't fit in to my car? Furniture. My friends lent me an air mattress for the first couple of days that I moved in to my new apartment, but I needed to find a mattress ASAP. The only problem was (and always is) money. And transportation. I searched for several days to find a mattress that was cheap enough and close enough to my house that I could haul it myself.

Several days in to the search, I struck gold. A mattress store just down the street from my house was having a close-out sale. After bargaining with the salesperson for 30 minutes, we finally settled on a price. $89 dollars for a twin mattress--and an agreement that he would tie the mattress on top of my car so I could drive it home.

Yes friends, I did. With the mattress flapping in the wind, I drove it home, cut if off my car, and hauled it in to my house. Because I'm ghetto like that.

Bacon Cheeseburgers and Coffee

This story was already briefly mentioned when I wrote about spending the Jewish holiday of Rosh Hashanah at a small village community in Israel in 2011. But it's funny enough to bear repeating. In case you don't want to read the whole story, I had just driven the community's rabbi and his 6-year-old son to the hospital so the son could get emergency stitches on his head after getting hit by a flying plastic chair (thrown--not at him, but he happened to be in its path--by his sister). As the only gentile in town, I was the only one the rabbi could ask to drive on the holiday-sabbath without violating the terms of Shabbat himself. Even as his son was bleeding, he still made sure that I was the first one to open my car door and the last one to close it so that neither he nor his son would activate the electricity powering the light. As I recall, I even signed the release form for his son at the hospital because writing on Shabbat is also forbidden.

The next day, in gratitude, the rabbi invited me and Vered, my host for Rosh Hashanah, over to his house for Shabbat dinner. Before eating, they performed the kiddush, a short ritual which involves blessing bread and wine and then everyone eating/drinking a small amount. As a Mormon, I don't drink wine (or any alcohol), not even a little bit. Since I'd had some awkward situations at other kiddush that weekend, I tried to quietly give my cup of wine to Vered to drink (it was about 1/2 inch in a small plastic bathroom-size plastic drinking cup). However, she didn't want the rabbi and his family to think that she just wanted to drink everyone's wine, so instead she loudly announced, "She doesn't drink wine. Do you have any plain grape juice?"

I had to laugh at what happened next. First the rabbi and his wife tried to convince me that it was only a teeny bit of wine--"only 10% or so. It's weak enough that even children can drink it. And plus it's just a swallow. I'm sure it won't be a problem to drink it."

After I politely refused, they didn't push the matter, but instead asked why Mormons don't drink wine. "It's a commandment from God," I explained, thinking that my conservative Jewish friends with their extremely strict dietary laws (and their observance of Shabbat even in an emergency situation) would understand the rational behind a commandment that forbids a certain kind of food or drink. "We also don't drink coffee or tea."

"You don't drink coffee?" the rabbi's wife gasped. "You mean you've never had coffee in your life?"

"No, never," I responded.

"You don't know what you're missing!" she said as she stood there, horrified at the thought of an entire religion whose adherents didn't drink coffee.

Looking around their kitchen at their kosher food, their stove with a specially equipped timer so they didn't have to turn it on on Shabbat, and the rabbi and his wife's religious clothing, and thinking about the trip to the hospital the night before, I couldn't help but laugh inwardly. "You mean you've never had a bacon cheeseburger?" I wanted to ask. "You don't know what you're missing!"

But I didn't say it. After all, what's the good of being able to eat bacon cheeseburgers if I can't drink coffee? 

The synagogue at the moshav.

Mad Artistic Skills

It's no secret that I can't draw. Even my stick figures look like the work of a 5-year-old. One time I had to draw a pig at work for a unity activity, and this happened. Another time I had to draw a cat in class, and my classmate thought it was a mosquito. Needless to say, I try to avoid drawing wherever possible.

On my mission, however, we often took cards and little notes to the people we were teaching. And, well, the card has to big enough to justify showing up unannounced at their house to give it to them, but my Chinese handwriting was even worse than my drawing skills. This presented a quandary--take big cards with a teeny bit of Chinese on them? Or make the cards myself, knowing that the recipients would snicker every time they looked at them?

I often opted for the latter. After all, if the people weren't at home that we were taking the cards to, we would just tape them to their door. Even before they saw who had signed the cards, they knew that the sister missionaries had been there!

Since Christmas is not celebrated in Taiwan, I decided that one year for Christmas we should make Christmas cards and take them to people in the ward and others we were teaching (so that we could spread Christmas cheer on Christmas day). It took several days of making cards during our 30 minute language study (because writing in Chinese always took the whole 30 minutes...for one note or card!), but by Christmas day my companion and I had the impressive stack of cards you see below.

All the ones that look like they were made by a child? I made those ones. (Especially the ones involving felt and/or foam.) The artistic looking ones? Made by my companion.

I made sure to give the ones I made to people with children. :)

The Crawl Space

I moved a lot while I was at BYU. Like, every semester or so. And I had crazy experiences almost everywhere I went. One of the places I lived was the top floor of a 3 story building, 5 apartments wide and 3 apartments tall. I lived in the middle apartment. One day my neighbor Alexia came and knocked on our door (she lived 2 apartments down, on the end). "I locked myself out of my apartment," she said. "Can I just hang out in your apartment for the next 6 or so hours until my roommate gets home?"

We let her come in, but my roommate had a better idea. "The crawl space!" she said cryptically. As we both looked at her in confusion, she explained that she had seen a maintenance guy go up into the attic to fix the heating or something. "There's a crawl space up there...I think it goes all the way across the complex!" That creeped me out more than a little, since the entrance to said crawl space just happened to be in my bedroom. Now I would have to be even more vigilant about checking for intruders when I came home at night. Good thing our neighbors were trustworthy!

I am always game for an adventure, so naturally I volunteered to go. Alexia and I donned sweatshirts and tennis shoes and put socks on our hands so we wouldn't touch the nasty itch-inducing insulation and tied bandannas over our mouths so we wouldn't have to breathe the nasty dust-filled air. Clearly concerned about our health and safety, we then balanced a chair on top of my nightstand and hoisted ourselves up into the crawl space.

Words can't describe the feelings of mystery and intrigue as we almost melted in the 100+ degree attic crawl space wearing sweatshirts and holding flashlights with our socked hands, trying not to breathe in the stale air too deeply. I basically felt like James Bond or Indiana Jones with socks on my hands. I led the way, crawling from one beam to the next, with Alexia following closely behind and Stephanie staying in our apartment in case something went wrong. A few minutes later I came to Alexia's apartment. I double and then triple checked to make sure we were at the right apartment and then knocked on the ceiling to warn Alexia's roommate in case she had returned home early (because how creepy would it be if your neighbors suddenly broke into your room through the ceiling while you were sitting there?!) and then broke through. We dropped through the hole--success--and then ran back to my apartment to report on our success, making sure to leave the door unlocked this time.

The best part of this whole adventure (besides the fact that we did it again a couple of weeks later when Alexia locked herself out of her apartment again)? My roommate, Stephanie, is a writer...and she put the story in to one of her books, Prank Wars! So basically I'm famous now.

Rooti Tooti Fresh 'N Fruity

Recently I've been on a "free things" kick. Actually, who am I kidding. I've always been in love with free things. But recently I've been deliberately seeking out free things. I feel like I'm back in college again on the starving student diet. It's a bit pathetic, but what can I say, the temp's life is one of constant begging for free things.

Anyway. I joined a bunch of birthday clubs (all the ones that give you free things on your birthday, anyway) and several of them gave me free things just for joining. The only problem is, some of them make you buy something (like Arby's--free roast beef sandwich with the purchase of a drink, which means it's not really free, and not really worth the 15 minute drive to the closest Arby's...I found this out a little too late, unfortunately). And a lot of them don't even save you that much money.

Which is why I was so excited when I saw IHOP's thanks-for-joining-our-birthday-club-so-we-can-spam-you-with-lots-of-emails offer. A completely free "Rooti Tooti Fresh 'N Fruity," which translates into 2 slices of bacon, 2 sausages, 2 eggs, and 2 pancakes. Completely free!

Naturally I was going to cash in on this deal, even though I already went to IHOP earlier this week for their free pancakes day. (Which brings the total number of trips I've made to IHOP in the last three years up to...2.) And since my coupon expired today, I decided it was breakfast for dinner and went to the IHOP down the street. As I pulled out my phone and asked if they honored the free "Rooti Tooti Fresh 'N Fruity" deal, a pained look crossed the cashier's face. "We only accept paper copies of the coupon," she explained, crushing my hopes to save a tree by not printing out the email. "But I think the BestBuy across the parking lot has printing," she suggested. So I walked across the parking lot. And surprise! BestBuy does not have printing. But Staples was just a few stores down, so I went there to check. And what luck! What joy! They did have a printing station, and printing was only 11 cents. And I could even email them the file, so I didn't have to pay for computer use.

I promptly emailed them the coupon from my phone, overjoyed that this free dinner was only going to cost me 11 cents. But unfortunately after 15 minutes of trying (the woman next to me got involved too, but did little more than accidentally archive the email after messing with my phone for several minutes), their computer still couldn't read the email I sent, so I had to use the pay-per-minute computer. It was only 30 cents a minute, so I thought, "Well, I guess 41 cents is still a pretty good deal for a meal!" and sped through the printing process. I was startled when the final bill came up to $1.06 when it was only 2 pages, and rechecking to make sure I had sent it to the right printer cost me another minute. Irritated, I printed the pages, logged off, and then asked the checker how much printing from the computers was. "It's 48 cents," he said.

"Oh, it's not 11 cents?"

"Nope."

Irritated not only by the extra charges but also by his nonchalant attitude about the price that was 4x more expensive than what he had told me, I said, "Oh. I thought it was 11 cents. I wouldn't have printed if I knew it was that much more."

"It's not that much money," he said, giving me a look that said "Dollars are the new pennies, lady."

"IT'S THE PRINCIPLE OF THE MATTER THAT COUNTS!" I wanted to shout at him, but instead I politely but firmly said, "Well, I wouldn't have printed if I had known how much it would cost" and turned and left before I started shouting. As I was leaving I looked down at the coupon I had just printed and my heart sank. Right in the middle of the coupon was printed, "! This coupon has been viewed too many times."

What? After all that money they were just going to invalidate my coupon? I should have just gone home then but I'd already spent $2 on this free meal. I was committed. So I walked back to IHOP and gave them the coupon. "Will you still honor this?" I asked the same girl who had refused my phone coupon before. "When I went over to print it I had to pull it up several times...and nowhere on the coupon does it say it can only be viewed a limited number of times..."

Well thankfully her manager honored it, so I got my free meal. But of course the offer was for dine-in only, and I didn't have any cash with me, and I would feel like a complete jerk if I left without leaving a tip. So I had to buy something so I could pay with my credit card. I spent several minutes finding the cheapest thing on the menu, and finally decided upon the chocolate milk--2.09 for regular and 2.39 for large. "Can I have the regular chocolate milk?" I asked my waitress, making sure to emphasize that I wanted the regular. I didn't want to spent more than I had to, just so I could leave a tip.

And you know what, y'all? IHOP is expensive! Just how much does it cost to make pancakes and eggs? The Rooti Tooti Fresh 'N Fruity is normally $7.99! The cheapest item on the menu is actually buttered toast--no jam on that sucker, and it still costs $1.89! And I wouldn't exactly classify IHOP as fine dining, either.

Anyway. I ate my meal (the only loner in the restaurant...it felt like everyone was staring at me eating by myself until a guy in his 20s walked in and sat at a table by himself, jammin out to some serious tunes on his ipod...which made me feel much more normal as a loner!) but when it came time to pay, I was surprised by the $2.39 bill for a large chocolate milk. "Didn't I get the regular chocolate milk?" I asked the waitress. "Oh yeah, we don't have regular. We only have large." What?! Why was this not mentioned to me when I specifically requested regular, even pointing at the "regular" price?

So yeah. Even though I tried my hardest to get a free meal, I still paid more than $6. For a "free" meal. I guess all of that trouble was worth saving $2?

Giving Up Guilt (for Lent)

For reasons that won't be enumerated here, I've had quite a long hiatus from blogging. I keep thinking about posting again, but haven't had the motivation or the inspiration.

Well friends, today I got both the motivation and the inspiration, in part by my sister's revamped blog and her goal to post every day. When I thought of what I would post every day, if I did such a thing, I suddenly remembered all of those stories that I love to tell but I've never written down anywhere. I would hate to forget how hilarious / ridiculous those stories were, but where to record them?

That's when the inspiration struck. At least for the month of March, I have a goal of posting daily stories from my life. They don't have to be from that day, month, or year; they just have to be stories from my life. (That's where the new blog title, "Stories of My Life," comes from. That and this song, slightly modified, by One Direction.) Most of the stories will probably be under the aforementioned categories of hilarious and/or ridiculous, as I'm not quite ready to bare my soul on social media and tell the stories of sorrow, anger, and frustration. You should all thank me for that. :)

So for today, since it's Ash Wednesday and I'm thinking about what to give up for my (Mormon) observation of Lent, what better start than a story of something that I gave up for something better?

This story begins on my mission. I was living in Taiwan and it was my second transfer "on island," which means I'd been in Taiwan for about two months. Strangely enough, my lifetime of type-A personality and perfectionism hit me hard-core as a missionary, and I felt more guilt than I ever had in my life. Every missed opportunity was a weighty burden on my soul. Preach My Gospel says talk to everyone, right? My first transfer I would almost have anxiety attacks when we were going outside to exercise at 6:30 in the morning because there were more than 1,000 people on the sidewalk. At 6:30 am. And HOW IN THE WORLD WAS I SUPPOSED TO TALK TO ALL OF THOSE PEOPLE? Clearly I was a terrible missionary because I wasn't doing what Preach My Gospel specifically outlined successful missionaries do. My companion that transfer had some sort of liver or kidney troubles, so she needed to use the bathroom as soon as she felt the urge to go, not wait 12 minutes until 9 pm came around and we could go back inside. This happened quite a few times at night, and we would go inside a few minutes early. Those 12 minutes sitting inside my apartment waiting for my companion to come out so we could do our nightly planning sessions felt like an eternity of disobedience. After all, obedient missionaries don't go inside until 9, and not a minute before! What else was I doing wrong? Did I smile enough as I was riding my bike through the rain and wind? After all, what if someone saw an unhappy missionary?! Did I testify enough in lessons? Did I study Chinese hard enough each day?

I won't even begin to list all of the things that I felt guilty about those first few transfers of my mission. But it was a heavy, heavy burden to bear each day. (You might think this sounds ridiculous now, but it was a big deal for me back then, as it is, I'm sure, for many missionaries.) 

In zone conference that transfer, the mission president told us the story of the Anti-Nephi-Lehis and how they buried their swords. He passed out papers with clip-art swords printed on them, and invited us all to pray about something that we could give up that was keeping us from fully serving God.

After several days of thinking about it, I couldn't think of anything that I could give up that would seem like a sacrifice. My companion decided to give up chocolate, or something like that, but the chocolate in Taiwan tasted like wax anyway so I didn't feel like that would be much of a sacrifice for me. And then one day, as I was riding my bike around the city on the way to the church, it hit me. 

Guilt. Guilt. I should bury my guilt deep in the earth.

"What a cop-out," was my immediate response. Other missionaries were giving up things that were important or really mattered in their lives, and I was giving up guilt? But the more I thought and prayed about it, the more I realized that yes, guilt was exactly what was holding me back. Because in the end, it really didn't matter if I didn't talk to every single person on the sidewalk every single second I was outside. Not only was that impossible, but it really wasn't up to me to do God's work. He could do it just fine by Himself, and was just letting me help. As a missionary, I was kind of like a 3-year-old helping mom make cookies. Have you ever had a child help you make cookies? Generally, all they do is make a mess. We all know that you could make the cookies by yourself just fine, but you want them to learn, and you want them to spend time with you. 

That's kind of how missionary work is. Like little inexperienced and under-skilled children, we go around making a mess as we try to preach the gospel. But you know what I learned when I decided to bury my guilt deep in the ground and just try to do God's work? When we freely admit our inadequacies but are not overwhelmed by them, God can do the most good through us. 

So wondering what to give up for Lent? I'd suggest letting go of perfectionist guilt for a couple of days. Try it out. See what happens.