The Denim Vest Girls and the First Day of High School Part 2

In honor of back to school week I started telling my first day of high school story yesterday...and here is the rest of the story!

I can’t recall all of the exact comments, but as Kristie took her first step and I limped into Monterrey high school we could hear people ask, “Who dresses alike on the first day of school?”  And we realized that we weren’t going to blend in quite like we thought.

We had a quick conversation in the hallway and as much as we wanted to stick together we decided that we would go our separate ways to our first class and meet up later.  I had taken a tour of the building earlier in the summer so I knew where to go but I was mesmerized by all of the chatter, laughter, and beautiful boys.  At the same time I tried my best to walk with confidence...but with a foot that had just been ran over it was an attempt that was failing.

My morning classes went fairly well.  I had people I knew in each class and my teachers seemed nice.  Life was getting better until the final class before lunch.  Kristie and I had this class together and although it was so nice to see my dear friend we had the dilemma of whether or not to sit next to one another in our matching outfits.

I guess that we had gained some confidence at this point so we braved the snide comments and sat together so that we could converse about what had happened so far.  Had she noticed the “Cowboy Corner?”  Had I seen how some of our friends had “blossomed” over summer?  The gossip was flowing, we were laughing, and we were certain that all of our catastrophes were behind us.

We walked out of our class and headed to the lunch plan.  We stepped outside and began our trek to our friend’s house.  Lunch time was a whirlwind on the campus and as cars began to pull out of the parking lot Kristie and I in our matching vests became a sight to see.

Before we realized what was happening, cars began to honk and seniors threw all sorts of lovely comments our way.  I’ve blocked it out to the best of my ability but I seem to recall “Double-mint twins”, sexy sophies”, and your basic cat calls directed our way.

We hurried as best we could - faces red and something between a laugh and cry coming out of our mouths.  What was going on?!  This was not part of the plan.  We thankfully made it to our friend’s house and rang the door bell ready to find refuge in the confines of her house.  But no one came to the door.

We rang the bell again...and again...and again.  We knocked and continued to hear the occasional - woohoo thrown our way.  It was obvious that no one was home.  So with a big sigh and shrug of our shoulders we took a seat on the front porch and pulled out our brown bagged lunches.

We both sat in a daze for awhile.  I went over and over my plan....and realized that everything that I had so meticulously drawn up had failed.  I took a bite of my pb&j and shook my head...was this what I had to look forward to in high school?  Bad clothing choices, unexpected pain, and embarrassing encounters?  Maybe I should ask my mom about homeschool?

 And somewhere in the quiet, one of us just started to laugh.  I think we were slightly hysterical...but either way, laughter was good medicine.  And I realized...at least I wasn’t alone.  Thank you Lord for Kristie.

And with that...a car filled with friends pulled up to the curb asking in earnest where we had been...didn’t we know that we were meeting up to get a ride to this house? 

And from that point on...the day DID get better.  No more embarrassing moments or mishaps.  We had survived.

In hindsight, I think I learned two really important things that day:

 In life’s curveball moments it is always bearable...laughable even so long as you have a friend by your side.

As much as we try our best to blend in (that was my goal with the entire plan) we were all created to stand out.  Although I didn’t want to stand out in the way that I did that first day...my secret desire really was to stand out in high school.  I didn’t need to be the most popular or best athlete, but I wanted to find my place and flourish there.  And by the end of our time in high school, Krisitie and I had done just that...Kristie found that she loved working in the journalism department and was the Editor of our Year Book.  I loved to run and found myself the captain of the track team.  Most people in a school of over 1500 knew who we were - we were made the stand out - and thank God it wasn’t because of our matching denim vests!

The Denim Vest Girls and The First Day of School

It is nearing the end of back to school week here in these parts & I sure do hope that your kiddos have had a great first week!  I was reminiscing the other day about my first day of high school and I realized that I should share my embarrassment if for no other reason than to make you laugh.

So here goes...

A little background:

Like all incoming high school students, I was terrified of what would be awaiting me at Monterrey High School.  I had a great Jr. High experience and I knew my friends were all facing the same fate, but I was still so very nervous.  So, I did what any Type A personality does - I planned.

I planned as many details as possible to try and ensure that my experience be as smooth as possible.  Here is what I made sure was set up:  

Clothing - I scoured the latest trends and magazines & carefully chose an outfit that was trendy enough to fit in, but not so fashionable that I might stand out.  The choice (remember this was 1994) a white shirt, jeans, denim vest (ha!), and doc martin type boots.  I also got the ever popular JanSport green back pack.

Drop Off - I was concerned about the fact that I did not drive nor did any of my close friends.  I quickly discovered that someone would have to drop me off at school, so I planned to have my friend Kristie’s mom drop us off.  We gave her implicit instructions that AS SOON AS the drop off was made that she was to exit immediately.  There were to be no long good-byes or circles around the school to make sure we were okay.

Lunch - At Monterrey, we had an open lunch where everyone had the freedom to go off of campus for lunch.  I knew that it would be social suicide to eat lunch in the cafeteria, but without access to a car where to eat was a dilemma.  After many phone calls and long talks with friends, a small group of us determined that we would walk to a friend’s house near the school and eat there.  So, I packed my lunch and carefully hid it in the bottom of my backpack.

With these careful plans I was all set to face my first day of high school.

I was confident.  Imagined that it would be a great day....

Until I opened my front door and stood face-to-face with my friend Kristie.  She was there to pick me up, and I immediately knew that this day would pose some problems.  As much as I love Kristie, I was horrified to realize that we were wearing matching outfits.  There standing before me was my dear friend in a white shirt, jeans, denim vest, similar boots...and wait for it...the same JanSport backpack.

“Oh my gosh!”  screamed my Sophomore self.

Hadn’t I discussed my clothes with Kristie?  Obviously not (she was horrified too).  We stood there dumbfounded and I considered going to change, but I had put careful planning into this clothing choice - it was part of my security plan...I couldn’t just discard it now.

We talked about it and decided that we didn’t have that many classes together - surely no one would notice.  So I hopped in her mom’s car and we headed to school.

I decided to ignore this bad omen and we focused on what lay ahead.  We were giggling by the time we approached the school and we reminded her mom of the plan.  She was to drop us off and get out of there fast.

Apparently, she heeded our advice well.  I got out of the car and then began to reach back in for my backpack.  As I was reaching for my bag, her mom let off the brakes and the car moved forward so that she could make her get-away.

My foot just so happened to be next to the back wheel and before I knew it, the car was on top of my foot.

“My foot!” I scream whispered, and my friend’s mom hit the breaks.  The car was now stopped on my foot and I was in excruciating pain.  My eyes darted around and I realized that screaming was NOT an option.  Kristie’s mom was also beginning to panic and wasn’t sure if she should go forward or reverse.

Kristie was screaming at her mom at this point as tears brimmed my eyes.  Her poor mom moved the car off of my foot while begging for my forgiveness and attempting to get out to check on me.

“Stay in the car,” Kristie and I hissed in unison...that was definitely not part of the plan.  I promised that my foot was fine and I did my best to hide the limp to show her I could shake it off.

Krisite tried her best to console me while I held back the tears.  I tried hard to not think about my foot pulsating with pain.  Afterall, I had something much bigger to face.

And with a deep breath, we turned around side-by-side in matching denim vests and faced the ominous building...

Surely it would get better.

to be continued...

The Gong Story - Part 2

Yesterday I wrote a guest post over at The Little Missionary Girl All Grown Up sharing "The Gong Story."  It was a moment in my life that I'll never forget - both because the words were in my face but also because of what the Lord did in my heart following this encounter.

And yesterday, as I was honest and vulnerable about this ugly story of my past, I was met with a comment from the girl who had uttered the "You're a Gong" words in the first place.  Her words are just as honest and vulnerable as my own...and as I sit here today I feel like I should give you a glimpse into just what God can do when we get honest, push down the pride barriers and allow God to work through imperfect people.

If you haven't read my story you can do so here.

And here are her words in response:
Oh gosh... hot tears of my own are streaming down my cheeks, broken (shattered!) over the pride that bolstered those words coming out of my mouth.  They were meant to hurt; meant to maintain the emotional "safety zone" that was rapidly diminishing between you (Paige) and myself.  I'm so sorry, dear friend.  However accurate the comparison was, it was not coming from a heart that had your best in mind.

How great is our God who can put two hearts together--an empty one and a wounded one--bring healing to them both, preserve unity, and foster a friendship?  I owe Him a lot of thank-yous for that season alone.

Readers and hearers of the Gong Story must know that God would work in spite of us to bring about tremendous healing in my life through those meetings with Paige.  As she remained faithful to meet each week, and as she surrendered herself more to His tender pursuits, He softened areas of my heart through her that were destined to remain hard and calloused otherwise.  And He introduced the living, glorious reality of the Holy Spirit through Paige, too.  That season that He gave us in spite of "gong-speech" and "proud-speech" is without a doubt an indelible milestone in my life story with Him.

Grateful to you both,
The Critical Girl All Grown Up

I don't share this to bolster either of us - believe me we both have our gong and pride tendencies that God continually and graciously exposes...but I share this because I know too many of us isolate ourselves from true friendship and honest words with others.  Yes, those words can hurt at times - they can even shock at times, but when God brings someone into your life...you just might be surprised at how He wants to use that person to help shape and soften you.

Let's stop being people who only speak niceties and about the permissible topics like clothing, our children's habits, and the latest movie.  Let's be real and loud in each others lives - and I believe a few years down the road you too may sit and marvel at a God who used that honesty and raw love in a profound way in your life.

Thank you, Courtney for being honest in return.  I'm so very proud of the woman you are becoming!  I love you, Paige.

This is my friend, Courtney who uttered the infamous gong line...we became dear friends over the years even training and running a half-marathon together a few years ago.

The Gong Story

 “You know that Scripture in 1 Corinthians that talks about love?  It says, ‘Though I speak with the tongues of angels and men but have not love I am nothing more than a gong or clanging cymbals?’  Well, you may have all the right answers, but you are nothing more than a gong in my life.  I don’t feel like you love me at all.  You just want to cram your theological answers down my throat.” 

And there I sat…stunned! 

With defenses raised like a sharp fortress I concluded our meeting saying I needed to think about what she boldly proclaimed, and as she left I sat in silence, mouth agape…wondering if it was true. 

This was ridiculous, right?  Right???

I'm sharing my gong story over at The Little Missionary All Grown Up today.  Join me over at my friend Lindsey's blog to finish my story and read about God's relentless love.

A Story about a Runaway Princess

I have long held princess tendencies…some good…some leaning on the spoiled brat side. The good parts of being a princess have come in handy in the boy department…I was always taught that I should be treated like a princess. My father loved me well – and taught his 3 daughters that any man in our lives must live up to a similar standard.


The spoiled brat side of my princess persona most likely just comes from the fact that I’m a girl – a girl who knows what she wants. And as is true for most girls, I often fantasized when I was little that every wish was my command – isn’t that what makes being a princess so great?

Yeah, the tiara is cool and so are the ball gowns…but what I’ve always really wanted was a fairy godmother or at least a butler that will come at the ring of a bell…

It is this princess mentality that caused me to run away from home.

Yes, I was a runaway.

When I was 5.

It was an evening in the summer and my sister and I had been playing outside all day. No doubt we were likely playing fairy princess with the neighbors or our other favorite pretend game – grocery store (we just loved to pretend to slide those items across the table and listen to them beep!) Well, it was time to go to bed (at least that is what my mother said). And I was not happy about this turn in events – I needed to finish getting ready for the ball or at least ring up a total for the grocery customers! I had things to do – people to play with…bikes the ride…ice cream to eat…a prince to find! But when my mom told Leslie and I to come inside we begrudgingly obliged.

What transpired next are events that I will never forget. My mother took one sniff of us and demanded that we get into the bathtub. I didn’t particularly want to take a bath, but what really upset me was the fact that she said it was too late to take our own baths – I must get into the bathtub with my 3-year old sister.

I was shocked…furious…defiant. I might be willing to stop playing princess, but I would not stoop so low as to fully remove my tiara and take a bath with my maid (Leslie always got the bad parts in our games – sorry Les). My mother looked at me with a sigh – this was not the first of my defiant moments…she was familiar with my ways. She calmly stated that I was to get in the bathtub immediately and then go to bed.

Standing in my birthday suit glancing at my 3-year old sister playing innocently in the water, I decided that this was the time to make my stand. I put my clothes back on and returned to my room. Leslie asked where I was going, and I told her that I was going to live with Mama Jo.

Yes, I thought to myself. Mama Jo. She understood me – she would never force me to take a bath with Leslie. And as I thought about this prospect I saw donuts, candy, late night television, and freedom dance through my head. It was perfection – why had I not thought about this before? Mama Jo let us have ANYTHING we wanted – her house would be like living in a castle with…dare I say it…a fairy godmother!

So, I marched to my closet and grabbed my trusty suitcase. I fit the essentials of gonga (my stuffed monkey), underwear, and some lip gloss into my trusty tote and headed towards the door. I loudly screamed good-bye and slammed the door behind me – weren’t they going to try to stop me? Hmph…it’s their loss.

I headed out on my own – excited at the truly princess life that awaited me. I walked to the end of the block, only to meet a dilemma...I WASN’T ALLOWED TO CROSS THE STREET. I stood there for a few minutes weighing my options and decided to see what was around the corner…

And with that I walked around my block.

Completely around 1 city block until I found myself walking back in front of my house. And there were my parents (now that I’m adult, I’m pretty sure that they were following me the entire time)...

Waiting…waiting on me with open arms.

I burst into tears as I fell into their arms.

This would always be better than any princess life…even a life with unlimited donuts.

We walked back into the house arm in arm and I was greeted by my wet-haired sister who was also happy to see I had returned. As my mom drew me a fresh bubble bath she explained that although I could take my own bath tonight, I would not always get my way. I might be a princess, but I was her princess…and that meant I had to live by the rules of her castle.

Becoming Paige
How many times have I packed a suitcase and walked away from God? There was the time that He told me to let go of a boy and I was not ready. There was the time that He asked me to forgive that person who had wounded my heart and I wanted to hold onto my pain. And there have been those times when the comforts of this world…the Mama Jo’s so to speak…just looked better than my reality – those are the most often times that I’ve decided to go my own way.

And yet, because of the foundations that were laid in my heart as a child, God has graciously allowed me to see when I’m getting to a street…and I rarely cross it. I know that it is safest back in His arms – even if I don’t always get my princess preferences.

PS – Mama Jo passed away when I was 15 – she was a fairy grandmother – she blessed my life…and I miss her.

A Story About Boils, Speedos, and Waiting

My sweet family of 3 is headed on an adventure next week!  We are packing our bags and going to Europe!  We will be in Czech Republic with dear friends and then will take a few days to visit Munich, Germany for the first time!  

  

In preparation for our trip to Czech (seriously, one of the places closest to my heart), I thought it only fitting to share memorable stories from previous trips to Czech Republic in the next two weeks.  This week’s story is one that I have recounted often verbally – if you live near me it is likely that you have heard this tale before…

Yes, it is the story about boils, scary light bulbs, and the man in the speedo.

Here we go.

A few years ago, Josh and I took a mission team to Czech Republic where we worked in local high schools sharing facts about Texas while also partnering with a local church.  These trips were always filled with laughter as we taught students the art of a perfect “Yee-haw” and “Howdy,” and we also always managed to play hours of volleyball.  Simply put, these trips were fun – a lot of fun!

That is until the boils joined our trip.  That’s right – I said boils…as in one of the plagues.

You see, a wonderful young woman came to me with only 3 days to go on the trip and explained that she had boils.  Two to be exact – one on the back of her leg and the other on her tushy.  I was dubious since I wasn’t really sure what a boil looked like, but this young woman was a nurse back home and quickly diagnosed herself that she in fact had boils (later, we learned they are simply a form of a staph infection – just in case you wanted a little medical information on boils).

The problem with boils is that as they swell, they become hard and extremely painful to touch…and since we would be traveling home in 3 days the prospect of sitting in an airline seat for over 8 hours with a boil on a tushy was a definite problem.

It was determined that we had to go to the local hospital in order to deal with the boils.  It just so happened that we were in a small village of Czech Republic so the hospital was really more of a clinic, and to put it nicely…the clinic was scary.

In fact, I have the memory of the light bulb seared in my brain…it was a seriously scary light bulb.  As we walked into the clinic, the waiting room, which was actually a hallway was lit by one dangling light bulb that sputtered out light.  I’m not one that watches many horror movies, but as we sat on the bench in the waiting hallway all I could do was think about the fact that typically there is a hallway with a flickering light bulb right before someone gets kidnapped…or worse.

My friend with the boil was having similar thoughts, because as we waited she squeezed my hand and said, “You know, I think I can manage the pain on the flight.  Let’s just go.  I can wait and get this checked out once we get home.”  I gave her words consideration for a few moments but remembered her wincing as we sat down, and said, “No, we’re going to be fine!  Trust me – you’ll be so glad once this is over!”  I put on my biggest fake “I’m the leader, you can trust me smile” and quietly prayed that my words were true.

My prayers were starting to convince me that we were in deed safe when all of a sudden we heard screams outside the waiting room.  The screams were coming for us and as we turned our heads towards the outside door we saw a man running into the waiting area waving a bloody hand while also screaming bloody murder!  What was equally shocking was that connected to his mangled hand was nothing more than a tall lanky man in a speedo and an unbuttoned shirt – it was quite the sight!

As the man yelled in what we discovered later was Dutch, my sweet friend gripped my hand even harder.  She was more serious this time, “Paige, REALLY I think I will be okay.  I can manage the pain, but I’m not sure about this place.”  I reassured her we would be fine, as the speedo man plopped down right next to her and the light bulb sputtered for light.

The speedo man went to see the Doctor first (apparently severed fingers take precedence over boils…I agree with that decision).  And we waited some more.  The more we waited and the more that light bulb flickered the more I began to question my decision as a leader.  Was I really making the right decision?  Were we in danger?  What if this made her pain worse?

As I was getting lost in my thoughts of doubt our names were called in a language we didn’t understand, and we were ushered into a medical exam room by a nurse who looked to be straight out of a World War II novel.  She was short and stout wearing a proper white nurses uniform complete with the white cap perched on her head.  She was gruff and immediately she told our translator that I must leave.

My friend gripped my hand and whispered through clenched teeth.  “DO NOT LEAVE ME.”  I stood my ground explaining that I would be staying, and after a few rounds with the nurse I was instructed that I would likely see blood and that she refused to take care of me if I fainted.  I explained I understood and took my position next to my friend

After a thorough examination it was determined that the boils would need to be lanced, and as my friend’s eyes grew in size I decided to do my best to take her mind off of this procedure.  I grabbed her hand and told her once again, “Trust me, it’s going to be fine.”  And then I proceeded to tell her my “Josh Story.”  I told her about the day we met and his subsequent stalking.  I told her the little details of our story that I so often leave out, and at one point when I foolishly looked up to see – blood – she squeezed my hand yet again and made me continue with the story.

As we left the medical room, my friend was patched up and ready to ride 8 hours home.  I was tired from telling my tale, and we were both were thankful that we didn’t let the fear of our surroundings cause us to retreat.

Becoming Paige 

Over the years I have thought often on this story.  I think in some ways it is a good picture of our lives…especially when we are in times of waiting.  Isn’t it true that when we are sitting in the waiting room the light seems so dim and the prospects on the other side of that door (whatever that door may be) often begin to seem less appealing the longer we wait?

And how often do we give up on waiting because we meet someone who has a worse story (like the speedo man)?  Either they have been waiting longer or their need is greater, and so instead of pressing in and continuing to trust we contemplate giving up.  We think that perhaps we can endure the pain or be content with that thing that is “good enough” when freedom or the best option is right around the corner?

It is an interesting place to be – waiting.

It is a hard place to be.

And yet it is a good place to be…because it means that there is something worth waiting for.

May we each have faith today in the One who knows what we are waiting for, and may we trust not in what we see but in His ways.

A Story About Valentine Plans Gone Wrong

As is so often the case, Josh and I technically began our “official relationship” on Valentine’s Day (1998) – he stalked me for a few months prior and we had gone on a couple of friendly dates, but on the day of love is when our relationship became official (perhaps what college students would consider facebook official in today’s lingo).

Well, one year after we had officially been dating, Josh decided that he should pull out all the stops and show me what an amazingly romantic guy he is.  So, he asked me to go to Dallas with him for the weekend to spend some time with his family, and of course go out for a lovely 1-year anniversary/Valentine’s date.  I was very much in love at the time, and although I am a far cry from a hopeless romantic I was quite excited about our weekend in Dallas.

I’m not sure what all I fantasized about but I’m sure it had something to do with horse drawn carriages, mounds of chocolate that I would consume, and lavish gifts handed over to me.  Regardless of what I was hoping for, I should say that I was in fact HOPING and very much looking forward to what this mystery date would hold!

Josh told me to be ready to leave his parent’s house at 4:30pm. 

“That early!?”  I exclaimed.  “

“Why, yes” he replied with a devilish gleam in his eye, “we have quite the night before us!”

This is going to be fantastic I remember thinking to myself!  Now, if you do not know my husband you should know a few things:

1.       He is the hopeless romantic in our relationship.  As proof: He has watched Beauty and Beast at least 5 times (need I say more).

2.      He prides himself on creating romantic gestures (for a reasonable price mind you J).  As proof: he once set up a flower business in college by taking orders and buying roses in bulk at Sam’s…he then sold these to helpless young men (not sure if it was in the name of love or some extra moolah…but either way – he loves planning events that show me I am loved.)

3.      He is SMART – as in almost genius level…but details are not always his forte.

So, back to the story

I got dolled up in my Valentine’s best and was ready to walk out the door at 4:30pm sharp!  We climbed into the car and Josh refused to tell me where we were headed.  There was an atmosphere of mystery – where would we go?

As we turned a corner and Josh slowed the car, he made this statement.  “The plans for tonight are actually not solidified, but I have back-up plans in case my first choice does not work.”

With that, I realized we were at the Fair Park Music Hall and there were no other cars in the parking lot…hmm, I thought – perhaps a private concert?  No, this isn’t that big of a date, and I was certain he wouldn’t be proposing tonight (we had already discussed this option and I had made it clear I wasn’t interested for at least another year – I was much too young…and much too bossy).

As I waited in the car, Josh ran up to the ticket window and got in line behind 4-5 people (okay, maybe there were one or two other cars around).  He made it up to the window but turned around with a dejected look on his face.  He got in the car and explained that he was trying to get tickets to a great musical (I love musicals), but when he had tried to purchase them earlier all that was left were stand-by tickets and the last tickets were purchased be the lady in front of him.

He looked so sad…but in a flash, he turned on that Josh Allen grin and said, “But I have a plan B!”  We sped off in his trust 1988 Honda Accord and headed across the Metroplex to the mystery location of “Plan B!”

At around 5:30pm we pulled into another almost empty parking lot at the Morton Myerson Symphony and he explained that he had already determined that if the musical was sold out that we would go to the Symphony instead!  The symphony should be romantic – right? 

I went up to the ticket booth with him at this point and we stood in line for 30 minutes waiting for these tickets to go on sale.  It was fun chatting in line (although it was very windy and I kept thinking that my Valentine’s best hair was starting to look less and less stellar).  We finally were able to talk to the lady at the window and she curtly stated that the tickets were $200 each.

Josh gulped, pulled out his wallet with a bit of hesitancy, and I squeezed his arm trying to get him to look at me.  I whispered, “That’s too much, I think.”

“No, no…this is a special night,” he said.

We stood there silent for a moment.  His hand was frozen above his debit card.  My brain was shouting – YOUR BOYFRIEND IS POOR.  WELL, NOT POOR, BUT NOT RICH…HE SELLS HOTDOGS FOR A LIVING…NOT SURE, BUT THAT PROBALY DOEN’ST BRING IN A LOT OF CASH…IF HE DOES HAVE MONEY YOU WANT HIM TO SAVE IT TO BUY YOU A GREAT RING…AND HE SHOULD PROBABLY KNOW YOU DON’T LIKE THE SYMPHONY.  I wasn’t quite sure what to do…so I whispered again, “You know we don’t have to go to any show; I think a nice dinner would be special enough.  I’ll be happy either way.”

He let out a little sigh and looked at me.  “Are you sure?  I just really wanted to do something special.”

“I’m absolutely sure!”  I turned on my biggest reassuring smile, and as we started back towards the car I breathed my own sigh of relief that I would not have to sit through the symphony.

Once again, Josh turned on the charm and said, “I guess it’s a good thing that I have a Plan C!”  I must admit that I was impressed; after all, details are not always his strong suit.  This time he told me that Plan C was a dinner reservation that he made at this amazing little romantic Italian place across from the SMU campus.

He had found it online.

It took us another 30 minutes to cross the metroplex, so at 6:30pm we walked into “Plan C.”

All I can say about “Plan C” is that a shiver went through my body as we walked into the “little romantic” place.  Little it was…and if romantic is about lighting, then there was definitely ambiance…but the dim lighting wasn’t giving me a feeling of romance but rather a feeling that they were trying to disguise the filth of the floors and the cracks in the walls.  All I could think about were roaches in the kitchen and how many times had detectives been called to this location for crime follow-up?

I tried hard to put on a cheery smile, but Josh could easily see that “Plan C” was doing little to impress me.  “Hmmm…the pictures online didn’t look like this,” he whispered.

“Well, it is only 6:30pm,” I said, “Maybe we could find another restaurant?”  Please, please I prayed in my mind…I don’t want to eat roach legs.

“Definitely!”  He said, the charm and confidence back!  “We are in Uptown now and there are so many great places around here – we’ll find something amazing in no time!”

For any of you who have ever tried to find a great restaurant on Valentine’s Night know…those words were far from the truth.  As the trusty Honda took us from one restaurant to the next I slowly saw my future husband’s shoulders start to sag.

One place said the wait would be 3 hours.  Another said only 2!  Others basically told Josh to get a life, and after his 8^th rejection he got back in the car and put his head on the steering wheel.

He sighed loudly and I thought I saw a tear of frustration in his eyes.  “I just wanted tonight to be perfect, but I don’t know what to do.”  He sat there for another minute, and then seemed to shake himself out of the fog.  He turned on his smile yet once again and said, “Let’s try Plan D!”

He began to drive to a restaurant where he had made reservations in the chance we went to either the musical or symphony.  He explained his entire plan to me at this point and said, “I made two dinner reservations – one in case the musical and symphony didn’t pan out and another for later in case we did go to the musical!  The reservation isn’t until 9:30 but maybe we’ll get a seat earlier since I did make a reservation.”  With that, we were off again!

“Plan D” restaurant was nice and the food smelled so very good, but since it was Valentine’s Day we were informed that we would have to wait like everyone else who walked in.  Maybe an hour…maybe more.  So, we sat in the bar area playing our favorite game of guessing people’s relationships (is it their first date…are they in a fight…is he going to propose tonight).  We waited and we waited and I smelled delicious food!  It was now around 8pm & all I could think about was the fact that more than romance, I just wanted some food!

Josh asked the hostess multiple times how we were doing on the list and it became clear that the prospects were not promising.  It was my time to tear up, so looking to Josh I told him.  “I know you were trying to impress me and make this a romantic night and although I appreciate it…I’m so hungry that I really don’t care if we go to a fancy restaurant or McDonalds.  Can we just please go find something to eat?”

At this, we went back to the car – both of us frustrated and hungry.  Josh started to drive, and literally stopped at almost every restaurant along the road.  He refused to stoop to McDonald’s level but was determined to find something.

Please God, I remember praying…Please let us find something – ANYTHING!

An HOUR into more driving and searching we pulled the Honda into a gas station.  While Josh filled up the tank we had quite the argument…I wanted to give up – “Let’s just go home!  Your mom has left over lasagna” (man did that sound good now that it was 9pm).

But Josh refused to give up.  He was not going to fail this mission!  I don’t remember what words were exchanged but I know most of it had to do with disappointment and wrong expectations.  After “the moment” at the gas station, we agreed to try 3 more places and then we would give up.

The next restaurant we saw was The Macaroni Grill, and at 9:30pm they said they could seat us right away!  HALLELUJAH!  We feasted – Italian Nachos, Piles of Pasta, loaves and loaves of bread (it was 9:30 – I was starving!)…and finished it off with Tiramisu.  By the time we took our last bite of tiramisu we were laughing at the craziness that had been our night, and we made a pact to never again let our expectations and desires to impress the other overcome the simplicity of loving one another.

Becoming Paige

Looking back, it is a night I would not change.  I learned so much about my future husband that night.  I learned that he loves grand gestures and he loves to make me happy.  I also learned that it is important to let him lead the way when he has made great plans, and I learned that it hurts his heart when he feels he has disappointed me.

And I learned about myself that night too.  I learned that one of the greatest stumbling blocks in my life is setting up false expectations.  This may be expectations like that night of an event or another person, but often it’s the expectations that I put on myself. 

Since that fateful Valentine’s night we have tried to show our love through more simple plans.  One year we ordered pizza and had a candlelight dinner over some pepperoni…this year, I was working on a project and so my amazing husband helped me cut and sort papers for over 2 hours.  After 10 years of marriage, that self-less act of love reminded me of the boy 12 years ago who driving his Honda just wanted to make me happy…and that love, whether it’s shown through paper cuts or extravagant plans is something I will try to never take for granted.