Wait, I’ll be fine, just give me a couple years to say my prayers

This afternoon I dropped Alisa off under the Southwest sign at the airport. I sent her into the terminal with a tight hug, then slid into my car and tried to drive away before I could get too sentimental.

It didn’t really work.

It’s not like we had particularly unusual adventures over these last six days. It’s just one of the trials of having far-flung best friends. It’s hard to release that bit of normalcy, to watch a person who loves the whole you slip back to the other side of the country. You may have a guarantee to see them again soon, but that doesn’t make up for lost months of playing with your cat and teasing friends on IM together.

I held on to that melancholy mood as I enjoyed front porch conversation with new friends tonight. Different as these scenarios are, they account for my nervousness about moving. My best memories of that city involve Ed food, sidewalk chalk, lattes and Friends, piles of leaves and adventures born of two young imaginations.

Those things aren’t tied to the city but to friendships. I’ve just started to feel comfortable in the place I’ve carved out here, and I hesitate to leave it for a place that only holds memories.

It’s hard for me to believe that I’m not losing the people I’ve met here and that the city’s promise isn’t tied to the friends who were once there. Honestly, I’m really excited about some aspects of moving back. The job I’m going for sounds great and I’ll be working with one friend and making others. There are churches there and my home church is only an hour away.

The memories and friendships I cherish won’t be there and can’t be recreated. But they’re not supposed to be.

It’s a bittersweet excitement that serves to confirm what I’ve long believed—success is often harder than failure.

“Failure’s hard, but success is far more dangerous. If you’re successful at the wrong thing, the mix of praise and money and opportunity can lock you in forever.” -Po Bronson

I have seen you at your worst and I still love you when you’re down

I started a new journal a few weeks ago. That used to be a pretty common occurence (as evidenced by the 14 journals scattered across my bedroom floor, all from the last five years), but this was my first new journal in almost two years.

When I inked my first words into these leather bound pages, I was sitting in a familiar coffee shop. I guess it’s been almost three years since I worked on a journal entry in that place. The memory is still dear, though… I remember sitting between two friends, writing while they studied… with bellies full of barbecue.

I began my newest journal at a table with two different friends, one old and one new. As I wrote, I wondered how much I’ve really changed in the elapsed time. Though I live in a different city in a different state, I was back in that coffee shop. I’m still friends with several of the people I was with that night years ago. I’m still clueless about what’s next in life.

But the more I thought, the more I realized I have changed in the (almost) three years since I graduated from college. I guess that’s part of why I ended up with these journals scattered across my room tonight. I’ve been flipping through their pages, recalling the over-excited girl I was and comparing her to the woman I’m becoming. (There is no excuse for three exclamation points in a sentence, ever.)

Some of the changes probably aren’t so great–I’m definitely more prone to cynicism now than then. But I’m also more prone to realism. I’m more likely to be honest about my struggles (and I’m more likely to punctuate a sentence correctly).

(My finances were better off when I was an undergrad, though. I thought it was supposed to be the opposite way around?)

I wish the changes were more obvious… I wish I was certain that I’ve lost that chip I carried on my shoulder after I graduated… but on days like today, I’m not quite convinced. When I’m discouraged, though, it’s comforting to look at the journals that hold my story, the friends who have remained by my side (or left and come back or appeared somewhere in the meantime) even when I’m at my worst.

And it’s comforting to know that God has a history of coming through for his people, even when they screwed up… and that he’s opened his promises to even me.

I wanna talk about me

I wanna talk about me
I solve crossword puzzles in my spare time. I cheat at crosswords when I get tired or bored or just don’t know the answer. My favorite place to be is wrapped in a quilt. My cat is one of my best friends, but I like dogs, too. I wish coffee didn’t stain teeth and invite dehydration, ‘cause then I’d drink a steady flow. Whole milk is my favorite but I drink 2% because I’m afraid my metabolism will slow down someday. I’m kind of a hypochondriac. My inner monologue is constant and, I think, rather entertaining. I like to be told bedtime stories and to have my hand held. I sleep with a teddy bear. I’m a mix of Monica Geller, Kathleen Kelly and Sally Allbright… or at least I like to think so, because they’re my favorite fictional characters. I love cheesy musicals and sometimes pretend the leading man is singing about me. I can be slightly narcissistic. I like pink but prefer to surround myself with earth tones. I love orange, even though it reminds me of Auburn, Florida, Miami and Tennessee. I wish I were more spontaneous. I’m a daydreamer. I love road trips and long conversations with friends. I can have an adventure without leaving town. I don’t like the phone very much, but I can get past that for people who are important to me. I think I’m a catch. I don’t believe it’s a meal unless it includes meat, spinach or eggplant. I love Jesus but always fall short of my expectations. I read two or three books a week. I think daisies are the friendliest flower, but I love daffodils and tulips even more. A man who can sing makes my knees wobble, but a man who can write makes me melt. I love brown. Chocolate is always appropriate but flowers are better still. I love hugs. Sepia photographs are the best. I think I’m a princess but have never dated a man who agreed. My cat is a better judge of character than I am. I’m wee. Autumn makes me want to fall in love. Summer makes me want to flirt. I express my moods through my earrings. I think curly hair is the best, especially on men. Plaids, long sleeve, button down collared shirts make me want to snuggle. Just like every other woman, I feel fat at “that time of the month.” Unlike many women, I know I’m not. I think coffee shops and board games make great first (or second, or thirty-second) dates. I enjoy being single. I want to wake up with rain falling on a tin roof while I’m safe there in your arms. I love playing in the rain. Good songs are better with the windows down, especially when it’s cold. The beach is best at night. Honeysuckle is my favorite fragrance; it reminds me of my childhood. Fondue is overrated but I still like it. I think paper is romantic. I’m crazy, but I like me this way. I’m a drama queen, but it keeps life interesting. I’m a list maker. I wish I looked good in yellow. I keep myself awake at night thinking about what is, what has been and what will be. I love art galleries and I miss living within walking distance of several. I love rich fabrics–I should probably learn to sew. I spend money when I’m lonely. I’m not sure if I look good in hats, but I have several anyway. I have more winter wear than a Southerner probably should. I love leaves; maybe that’s why autumn is my favorite. My favorite sound is the crunch of stomping in piles of fallen leaves. I like Pottery Barn, even though it’s big and corporate and looks like everyone else’s stuff. I think the best rooms aren’t purchased at Rooms to Go. I like interior design. (Once I thought about majoring in it.) I’m an excellent letter writer. I can talk for hours about football, coffee and my cat. I’ve been called eccentric; I took it as a compliment. Valentine’s Day doesn’t really bother me, though I’ve never had a date on it. I haven’t had a proper date since 1999. I don’t know what I want, but at least I know that much. I want to play guitar, but I’m too lazy to learn. My guitar is pretty, anyway. Heirlooms are better than fancy new things. I have a squeaky voice in which I talk to animals and babies. I might want a dog someday. I know I want babies someday… at least one, anyway. There’s nothing easier than loving a newborn. I’ve never been “in love.” Maybe someday. I put lots of things off to “someday.” I’m trying to stop. Perhaps my biggest faith challenge is perfectionism. I’m very type A. I’m more forgiving of others than of myself. I like pigtails, flannel and cowboy boots. I have romanticized ideas of the west. I love curly haired men. I have a certain voice I use when I want someone to think I’m cute. It’s kind of annoying. I have a huge smile (even though I’m self conscious about my teeth). I love the smell of coffee. When I was a little girl, I dreamed of marrying a man who drank it so I could smell it every morning. I had no idea how much I would love it myself. I read too much, get quiet in large groups and have recently learned to enjoy wearing socks.

…domesticating you until you look just like me…

“I repent of parading my liberty
I repent of paying for what I get for free
The way I believe that I am living right
by trading sins for others that are easier to hide
I am wrong and of these things I repent.”
–Derek Webb

I was in the midst of a rather engaging conversation about my Friday night—a discussion of music and literature, two of my favorite vices—when my pastor dropped in with a brief statement.

“I love Patty Griffin,” he said. “I’m always spinning her albums.”

It was a passing comment that merited instant cool points in my book. Patty is one of my favorite musicians and many a friendship has been built or strengthened on her music. I made my way back to my seat with a smile on my face.

But as I listened to Steve’s teaching, a recurring thought distracted me from the class in which I sat. I have many music (and book) influenced friendships, but it seems there’s something wrong when a person’s choice of tunes affects how I perceive their social status.

I know I’m not alone in this, but that doesn’t absolve me of this curious guilt. People who read Paste are instantly labeled cooler (at least in my social circles) than those who read Rolling Stone or especially Entertainment Weekly. (I’ll be honest—Paste is clearly the better magazine, but I occasionally peek at and enjoy the others.) If you prefer Derek Webb to Caedmon’s Call, I’m prone to thinking we have something special in common. You’ll receive bonus points for generally thumbing your nose at the Christian music industry. If you listen to 93.7 WDJC (or your local Christian radio station), I probably have labeled you a “happy cheesy Christian.” If you know what local station plays Britney Spears, I instantly assume we have little in common.

There’s nothing wrong with friendships built on common interests. It’s only natural. But if I label people exclusively according to what they read and buy, I’m probably going to miss out on some wonderful friendships. I decided recently that the best friendships involved media recommendations, but just as quickly disproved that theory. Though I have several close friends who know just what book I need to read or album I need to hear, I have lots of others whose suggestions I take with a grain of salt. (Our tastes just aren’t always the same.)

It’s that same sense of self righteousness that shows up in my attitude toward faith and morality. As I already hinted, I’m likely to think I’m somehow a better (or at least hipper) Christian because I can’t stand CCM. Worse still, as Steve continued to preach I realized my motivation for talking about my faith is so often way off base.

On that Friday night, I was with a group of friends (and some virtual strangers) when someone made a joke about a loose woman. An internal battle ensued; I wanted to cry out, “I wouldn’t know about that because I don’t have sex because of Jesus!” I wanted to set myself apart somehow, but my attitude was very much “holier than thou” and not one of love, for these friends or for Christ.

Praise the Lord that those words didn’t escape my mouth! My own self-righteousness nauseates me, and I know it is just as filthy to God as anyone’s sexual misconduct. (The Bible compares it to menstrual rags. What a metaphor!)

The love of Christ, the redemption of all my sins (including this one!) has radically changed my life. But I still wrestle with this desire to perfect myself. Jesus ahs set me free from the eternal consequences of my wrongdoing (spiritual death, or separation from God) but I am quick to insist on continuing in this earthly battle. I am a perfectionist, and it does affect my relationships with myself, God and others. But I’ll never be good enough to compare to God. The deepest need of people who don’t know Jesus isn’t an outward morality—it’s forgiveness of their sins and a relationship with God. And though it’s been five years since I realized my own need, I am daily surprised by its depth. We don’t move past the gospel—I fall short of the glory of God every single day. If I forget that, I do so at my own peril.

“Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence. Blind Pharisee! First clean the inside of the cup and the dish, and then the outside will also be clean.”
Matthew 23:25-26

I like my sugar with coffee and cream

When I arrived at O’Henry’s tonight[1], I expected to grab my usual gingerbread latte and sit anonymous at a table near the fireplace surround. I had work to do, articles to write, and the cozy coffee shop provides the perfect refuge from the distractions of home.

My actual experience wasn’t so different from my expectations, with one exception: I wasn’t so anonymous.

When I approached the counter, I was greeted with a smile of recognition from the middle aged man behind the counter. He commented that I looked different than usual with my hair pulled back, and I tried to conceal my surprise: have I really frequented this shop enough to be a familiar face?

It seems so. Though I must have made half a dozen stops by here since winter began, I was shocked when my counter conversation moved on to my recent departure from school.

In a city–even a state!–where I so often feel like a loner, it was a small blessing to be known, even slightly, in my favorite coffee shop.

[1] This wasn’t actually written tonight, but a while ago. I do that sometimes. Deal.

I believe the printed word should be forgiven

Let’s celebrate with the Woods–
Their twosome is now three!
Come help us honor them
And see the newest member of their family.

We will shower Baby Heath
With books to read and enjoy.
Anna and Jeff can share these gifts
For years to come with their little boy!

I received an invitation to a baby shower this week. Now, this is the first shower I’ll attend that is not intended for a bride, so I’m not sure what to expect. But upon notice of the shower’s theme, I developed a quick enthusiasm for baby showers.

The invitation requested that each guest bring a favorite children’s book for the guest of honor, baby Heath. I’ve already spent what I consider a fair amount of time with my favorite newborn, so I would do basically anything he requested. But to bring a book to share with this precious child? That’s not exactly pulling teeth. 😉

Never mind that the shower isn’t for three weeks yet. This afternoon I made my way to Barnes & Noble and paid homage to a section I haven’t visited in years—the children’s books. It didn’t take long to find exactly the book I had in mind.

One of my earliest memories is learning how to read. I was 4 at the time, and reading was like opening up a whole new world. (Heck. I still think of it that way.) After investing a number of hours on tract-sized “books,” composed largely of sophisticated sentences such as “See Spot run,” I was eager to sit down with a real book and get to reading on my own.

It was with great pride that I began reading myself to sleep at night. I remember sitting in my partial-canopy bed (only appropriate for a princess!) in my purple bedroom. My heart filled with pride at my accomplishment—I could read the Little Bear series all by myself, without Mommy or Daddy at my side.

That childhood accomplishment established a pattern: I have read myself to sleep probably 99 nights out of every 100 evenings since. My heart again swelled as I flipped through the pages of Little Bear this afternoon. Books have kept me company and educated me in the 19 year since, and it’s only appropriate to bestow upon baby Heath the same books that set me on my journey as a reader.

Speaking of reading… I’m a list maker. (It’s a common first born quality.) I decided a while ago to keep track of all the books I read this year. I’m always hearing people say things like “My goal is to read five books this year,” and that blows me away. Five? Is that ALL? Sometimes I read five books in a WEEK. So I’ve created a little sub-blog to keep track of my reading for the year. Laugh all you want, ignore me if you will… if nothing else, I think it’ll be interesting to look back at the end of the year and see how many books I’ve read and how many I returned to the library unopened.

Nothing unusual, nothing’s changed, just a little older that’s all

I’m an oldest child–I’m the eldest of four. I’m the typical first born in so many ways. I’m organized, goal oriented and something of a go-getter. When I know what I want, I’m willing to work for it. (That may explain my master’s degree and the $25,000 debt that accompanied it.)

My siblings also fit their expected psychological birth order. Cristin, as the second child, is an attention grabber. Never content to stand in someone’s shadow, she’s willing to leave college and move thousands of miles to chase her dreams. (And I admire her for it.)

Cheryl’s got middle child syndrome. Heaven forbid anyone compare her to us–she’s going to carve her own Cheryl-sized niche in the world. Forget cheerleading. She’ll play flag football. The worst trouble I ever got into was detention for tardiness. She compensated by scroing a few arrests. (Okay, there’s more to it than that–but I’m confident that it was a factor in her rebellion.) She’s creative, funky and truly one of a kind. (And as with Cristin, I admire these qualities in her. Well, besides the arrest thing.)

Chad’s not just another case–he’s another world. Chad land is populated with legos, anime and Hatchemon (his own Pokemon-esque creation). He can tell you every minute detail of whatever TV series is his current obsession, and he knows all the cheat codes for the best video games. He produces his own cartoon movies on his desktop and no doubt will soon be composing their scores on his keyboard.

Sometimes I feel like the boring sibling in comparison. I’m not sure I have a place to call my own. I’m into the journalism thing, but all of my siblings can write. But I can’t act like Cristin, draw like Cheryl, and I’m not Chad. I used to be the “religious” one, till most of the family went and got God. (It’s a distinction I’m glad to share, mind you.) Still I wonder, where is my place? What’s special about me?

I like to think I’m the quietly interesting one (and yes, in my family I am the quiet one), but I’m not sure what that means. I’m sensitive, and I’ve been told that makes me a good friend. I’ve become pretty good at recommending music to others (thouch Cheryl’s still the one whose taste would be considered “cool”). I have the best shoes, but I’m not sure that’s how I want to be described.

Maybe I’m the most vanilla–the boring one. I’ve got the standard college education, I go to church on Sundays, I drive a sedan. I’m “most likely to have a picket fence.” But I don’t think that’s it. I don’t think I’m dull. I’m passionate, I’m a reader, I’m a feeler, I’m thoughtful.

Maybe I’m just the most nuanced. You can pick out these qualities about my siblings almost immediately upon meeting them, but it might take a little longer to find what makes me CJ. (That’s not to say that my siblings are simple personalities. They’re not. But it’s pretty obvious that Cristin is the resident drama queen!)

But I’m still the oldest, so what I say goes. So most nuanced it is, whether you believe it or not.

What I give to you is just what I’m going through

I decided early this week that I’d like to go to a movie by myself. There was a chick flick to come out at the end of the week, and I didn’t have anyone to accompany me. No bother–I thought going alone would be an experience. (Indeed, the sense of adventure from flying solo was more enjoyable than the movie itself. Glad I saved by going to a matinee.)

But I’ve been looking for ways to get to know people in town, so I thought about going to a church singles event tonight. It’s not my church (we don’t have a singles group, which I must admit is part of the appeal). There was to be a band and it sounded better than watching What Not to Wear with my grandma and my cat.

One problem: I was too afraid to go alone (especially with the label of a singles group event!), and I realized I truly had no one to call up and invite. The enormity of my loneliness hit me: I’m not just alone, I’m pathetic.

When did making friends become so hard? I used to be surrounded by them. I literally would have too many people to keep up with on weekends. Overlooking someone as we made our calls was quite likely. What happened?

I’ll be honest: I tend to blame it on the state of Alabama. How lame is that?! But since I’ve arrived here, I’ve only made a couple true blue friends, the kind you can cry in front of and still safe. (And the ways I’ve met those friends were rather unconventional!)

While it’s unreasonable to fault the entire state, I know it can’t be all me, either. There was a three month window when I left Alabama this summer. During that time, I met several people I’ll consider friends for life. Our circumstances were admittedly completely different, but it was enough to know that I am capable of opening up to people.

So what’s the difference? Here there’s not a built in group of people within a few years of my age. It should take a little more effort, but I wouldn’t think it’d be this hard.

I guess I didn’t realize the depth of my need until recently. All fall, I worked two full days a week. I was out of the house, interacting with people. Though it wasn’t in a social setting, there was enough contact with the world beyond my house to keep me from drowning.

Unemployment changed that. I went to Bible study on Wednesday night and realized it was the first I had left my house in two days. My ventures in the days since have been solitary, but at least they got me out of my fuzzy slippers.

I wanna hear what you have to say about me

All is not right in my little world. There haven’t been any major disasters or glaring indiscretions, but there’s an emptiness inside. I’m out of fellowship–there’s not a body of believers surrounding me–and I feel like I’m drowning in loneliness.

I have a church home locally and I take part in a community group on a weekly basis. (Well, in theory. We didn’t meet for a month.) But I’m not at home there, and I know it’s at least as much me as it is them.

It’s easy to go to church once a week–to slip in the back and leave again without interaction. When I do engage in conversation, it’s so roughtine I ought to make a tape recording. “My name is CJ, I just received my master’s in journalism from Alabama and I’m looking for a job.” This is the sum of my interactions with virtually everyone in Birmingham.

I feel I have nothing to offer–like it’s my fault for being unemployed. I feel like an unproductive member of society. But I know that’s not entirely true. I’m still able to maintain engaging conversations with people who really know me. I can talk for hours about next to nothing.

I know it’s not all me. I even met a couple guys from church at Starbucks the other day. One struck up conversation when he saw what I was reading. We had an enjoyable, though brief, conversation that broke the aforementioned mold.

So I know it’s possible to have deeper conversations and healthy friendships. I just don’t have a lot of that in Birmingham, and it weighs on me. I’m tempted to think finding a job and moving away would solve this problem. But I know it’s not that easy. I have to take risks, resolve conflict, invest in others–because I know the potential payoff is greater than the risks.

It’s one thing to acknowledge that; it’s quite another to do something about it.

All week long I’ve been lookin’ forward to a hardwood floor and a country band

This article has come up in discussion with others once or twice this week. I’ve saved it for years ’cause I thought it was so fun… I like the picture it paints of this slightly eccentric, talkin’-to-her-cat line dancin’ woman. So with a hat tip to its author, Philip, here’s my favorite story that anyone has ever written about me.

(Granted there’s only been like two. But Philip is a way better writer than that girl in my School Publications class.)

The “Redneck Girl”

A stroll into CJ’s home in Blairstone Forest reveals a setting that one would not typically associate with the house of a student at Florida State University. It would appear to someone like myself that Martha Stewart herself (the patron saint of home-decorating) had been present when the plans were laid out to design the interior where CJ and her four roommates reside. The house epitomizes comfort and is everything one could expect from a home whose primary resident portrays the essence of southern hospitality. Not more than two minutes passed by after sitting at the dinner table before I was politely asked by CJ if I’d like anything to drink. When I accepted she efficiently rose, poured a glass of the requested water, and returned again to sit with me at the table. It was then that I had the pleasure of conversing with CJ about another atypical aspect of her student life, her weekend nightlife.

On most days of the week, CJ stands a short but respectable 62 inches tall. On Friday nights, however, she gains an extra two inches with the cowboy boots that she generally wears to Stetsons on the Moon, a popular Tallahassee club that she attends regularly. Stetsons, in some aspects, is very similar to most of the night clubs found across Tallahassee. It draws in the student crowd with drink specials, flashing lights, and offers of an all-around good time. However, for CJ and many others, Stetsons is simply the place to go when line dancing is the activity of choice for the evening. Unlike any other establishment in the Tallahassee area, Stetsons on the Moon supplies the opportunity for students to enjoy a country and western style of dancing, a style of dancing that has spawned from what we now think of as old west throw downs and barn dances.

CJ traced her line dancing history back as far as nine years, to the days when she was in 7th grade. It was around that time when CJ was first introduced to arguably the most recognized line dance, The Electric Slide. She quickly realized that line dancing was a likeable upbeat way for her to participate in many of the school dances and also to interact with others. “It’s a bonding experience,” she says. The Electric Slide cleared the way for slightly more complicated dances and CJ soon learned to “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” and to do the “Achey Breaky Heart,” a dance set to the music of Billy Ray Cyrus’s popular (only heaven knows why) country song of the same name. It was also during her middle school years that CJ would receive gifts from her grandmother that were thematic to line dancing. For many years, she received pairs of cowboy boots as both birthday and Christmas gifts (she estimates a total number of six pair). An instructional videotape explaining the steps of many line dances followed the boots, and CJ was well on her way to the line dancing prowess she now exhibits.

CJ explained that her knowledge of line dancing carried on even to high school where she performed dances with not only the Mandarin High Mustang Cheerleaders, but also with Pop Warner at a halftime show for the NFL’s Jacksonville Jaguars. She even enjoyed line dancing at Walt Disney World’s Pleasure Island. It was not until her senior year of high school in Jacksonville, however, that CJ danced at a nightclub devoted to country line dancing. It was then that she began to frequent the Crazy Horse Saloon. The more she participated at the Crazy Horse, the more she enjoyed the now more complicated dances. It was this enjoyment for club line dancing that would transition CJ’s club attendance from the Crazy Horse Saloon to Tallahassee’s own Stetsons.

Between brief pauses during she would converse with her cat, Emma, CJ also discussed with me what one would generally expect regulars at Stetsons to wear and more specifically what she often wears. She took a moment to retrieve her preferred boots from the back of the house and then excitedly displayed them on the table. The design on the boots was simple enough and they were colored a traditional black, but the true story behind the footwear was the wear on the bottoms. It was obvious that the size 7.5 cowboy boots had seen quite a bit of action. Jeans were described as a must and should have boot-cut legs and a low-rise waist. Her belt always matches her boots and large belt buckles are “never out of place.” A simple tank-top suffices as wear for the upper half of the body. “Ideally,” as described by CJ, she would wear a cowboy hat to complete the outfit. She doesn’t own a hat of her own, but, with what I detected as a hint of jealousy, she described my own hat, a black Bailey ‘rider’ style, as being well-suited for the event and something she would certainly wear.

With as much time and effort that CJ has invested in line dancing, it is certainly reasonable that she would want to share her pastime with others. It should be no surprise, then, that she will hold line dancing lesson sessions at her home from time to time in preparation for those who are to visit Stetson’s for the first time. Being a personal friend of CJ’s, I have been privy to witness and even participate in these sessions on more than one occasion. As many as fifteen people will form lines in her living room (a living room that reasonably fits ten) and watch intently as CJ instructs them step by step in dances such as the “Funky Cowboy.” Because most of those who attend her lessons are beginning line dancers the atmosphere is extremely relaxed despite distractions such as the lovable household dog, Contessa Topaz, jumping and yapping in hysterics at CJ animated feet. With the aid of a few of the more experienced dancers, of which I have the privilege of being counted among, CJ succeeds in sending the first-timers onto the Stetsons dance floor feeling much more comfortable than they otherwise would have felt.

When asked what makes a good line dancer, CJ promptly replied that “it’s more than just knowing the dance.” She described that a talented line dancer will display confidence and style. The dancer should “make the dance their own” and simply have fun while doing it. A mutual friend, Kevin Shoemaker, was given as an example for someone who exudes such qualities and other important attributes such as endurance, determination, and rhythm. According to CJ “he is the guy who all the other boys want to be.” Such lofty compliments are promising to the up and coming line dancer as he was also described by CJ as having improved from being “pretty clueless.”

Friday evenings are rarely boring for CJ. Although her escape from the school week is not what one might presume from a student at Florida State, it provides her with a much needed release. To CJ there is something that is just plain fun about line dancing at Stetsons and, as very few would disagree with, “there’s something therapeutic about listening to good music.” The Bellamy Brothers perform a popular country song entitled “Redneck Girl.” To mention this song in reference to CJ is perhaps one of the kindest compliments you can pay her. As she’ll be sure and tell you, beneath the exterior of this 21 year-old Florida State graduate student lies the heart of a true redneck girl.