Still a little bit of your words I long to hear

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

When you don’t have a lot of friends, places instead of people become the company you keep. When I need intellectual stimulation, I go to the library. (Of course, this is also where I go for brain candy.) If I want a little culture I’ll wander through an art museum. And if I crave the easy camraderie of conversation with an old friend, O’Henry’s is my destination.

No, it’s not a perfect substitute. I would take Heather or Alisa or Megan (or Lara or Alison or Sarah or Philip or Rob or Natalie or Apryl or…) any day. But a lonely Friday night at O’Henry’s is better than the same at home.

Okay, so here I have to pay for my company. A $2 cup of coffee is much easier than a $2000 sorority. Still, my mood lifts just a bit when I’m sitting with the fireplace surround and soothing folk music.

And y’know, I’ve also adopted accessories for entertainment. (Yeah, I’m crazy. But you already knew that.) You’re more likely to catch me in my glasses if I’m feeling a bit shy. Though they’re just metal and plastic, the thin layer separating me from the world offers some comfort.

My pink trenchcoat is my secret weapon: it’s the ‘pretty maker’. I don’t care what I’m wearing or my mood; when I’m in my pink coat, I feel a little special. And I’ve got a hat that I’m just saving for a day when I feel a little funky and unique.

Hey. When your cat is your closest companion, you’ve got to find entertainment somewhere.

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

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

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 got years to wait around for you

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Before I graduated, someone told me that job hunting is like dating. I told her I hoped the analogy would break down, because I suck at dating.

Turns out she’s right.

Instead of dropping off with desperation, my standards have gotten higher as I peruse job listings. I would rather be single unemployed er, work at Starbucks than settle for the wrong job. People tell me that I need to chill out, that it’s not for the rest of my life… but I don’t want to settle for something I strongly suspect will leave me miserable.

I overthink the hiring process in the same way I analyze dating. It’s been x amount of time since they called. Surely they’ll call today! I jump whenever the phone rings. I consider carrying the phone in the bathroom so I’ll hear it from the shower. (No I haven’t done that for a boy–but I know women who have.) I check my email obsessively–maybe they’ll show interest that way. It’s very much like having a huge crush on someone who is only vageuly interested in me.

As the days continue to pass, I quit making excuses for them. It must be me. I’m the problem. Were my ideas not engaging? Maybe I came across as an airhead. What if it’s my age? It can’t be my age! I didn’t tell them my age!

Even as I obsess about every possibility (rereading my submissions and wondering if they googled me and found something they didn’t like), I remind myself that there’s nothing wrong with me. I can write, I can edit, I am capable. (I’m good enough, I’m smart enough and goshdarnit, people like me!) Maybe they have chosen to hire someone else, but that doesn’t change who I am.

Much like when a really great guy passes through my life, the standards have been raised. I’ve seen what’s out there. I now know it’s possible to find a position where I seem to fit, a position that evokes more than a lukewarm, “yeah, I can do that” response. It’s not worth settling for a marketing job or a loosely journalism related position that pays pennies. I might have to serve lattes to make it in the meantime… but I can do that.

But you know, when they notify you that they’ve hired someone else… it’s a lot like being dumped. This application process lasted almost as long as most of my relationships, and the ending isn’t all that different.

I wanna hear what you have to say about me

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

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.

Red, red rhine

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I’ve learned a little secret this week. It doesn’t matter what I’m wearing–whether it’s flannel PJ pants, a bleach-stained Alabama sweatshirt and fuzzy slippers or my “fat jeans,” a flannel shirt and cowboy boots–when I’m wearing red nail polish, I feel like a sexy lady.

Red, Red Rhine by OPI

I never wear finger nail polish, much less red… I’m pretending it’s in honor of Valentine’s Day (though it’s really more in honor of me getting bored and painting my nails).

Something about the handwriting made me save every scrap

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Joey: (looks at a girl walk in) see ordinarily I would talk to her, but my confidence is shaken did I sleep with her? Did I not sleep with her?
–The One with the Sharks

I’ve said before that the older I get, the more I relate to Friends. (That might explain why I watch at least six hours of the show a week.) One of tonight’s (many) episodes resonated on multiple levels. Maybe Joey was talking about confidence in his sex life… but just because don’t have one of those doesn’t mean I can’t relate.

Over the past nine days, I’ve doubted my ability in one of the things I’m best at: writing. When I received a critique from my professor on my master’s project, it was harsher than I anticipated. I began a massive revision of the project, and I think it’s going well. (I have until tomorrow evening to complete it, so we’ll see.)

But in the process, my very foundation has been shaken.

I have three near-complete articles waiting to be polished and submitted. I won’t graduate from the University of Alabama unless these rewrites are successful. After the events of the past week and a half, I no longer trust my ability to determine whether or not these articles are any good.

I fully agree with my professor’s criticism of the series. He offered useful advice. I think I’ve put that to use and transformed this from a ho-hum sophomore in college piece of work to a project fitting for a graduate student.

But what if I didn’t? I cried for over an hour the night I received his e-mail. I went to work the following morning feeling shaky. I’ve had bouts of anxiety ever since.

I’ve battled those fits in the only way I know how: through prayer. I sat in bed after a night of editing and rewriting and turned to one of my favorite chapters of one of my favorite books of the Bible. As I reread an oft-quoted passage in 2 Corinthians, truth hit me anew:

His grace is sufficient for me. His power is made perfect in weakness. Therefore, I will boast, because when I am weak, then I am strong.

My worth isn’t found in my writing. (It’s a damn good thing, too—this entry will testify that I’m not always at the top of my game!) Performance doesn’t make or break me. I try so hard to have it all together, because I’m a perfectionist, because control is my pet sin. I think I’m doing well most of the time.

That’s a lie. When I think I’m strong, I’m at my weakest, because I’m ignoring my need for Christ. I’m overlooking how the gospel applies to my everyday needs.

When I admit that I’m fallen, I rely on Christ to lift me up. Maybe the series I’ve worked so hard to save will meet my committee’s standards—but maybe it won’t. That frightens me, almost to the point of indolence.

But look at how far He’s brought me. I reflected the other day on the path from Tallahassee to Alabama. I’ve seen God’s hand all the way. Who am I to think He would abandon me here?

(And yes, if you happen to be reading this and it happens to be sometime before, oh, 6:30 p.m. on Tuesday, November 30, and you happen to want to edit my stories… please say so. I’ll be forever grateful.)

I still haven’t found what I’m looking for

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I was listening to The Joshua Tree while I was getting ready this afternoon (yes, I’ve been lazy this weekend) and I thought, “If I were ever to run a personal ad, that would have to be my headline.” And then I realized how odd that thought was. Why on earth would I ever run a personal ad?

Every so often I realize I’m dissatisfied with my life. It seems to happen on a cycle of sorts… maybe it’s every two years. I’m not sure. In any case, I wake up one day with “Why Georgia” sentiments on the mind, and it takes a lot to shake it.

I think it might be ’cause I’m a little bit crazy.

This sense of dissatisfaction took root during spring of my senior year at FSU. I made several attempts to shake it: I convinced a couple of friends to skip class and go hiking in Georgia with me. (For the record, that remains one of my favorite days of my life. I was very satisfied.) I decided not to accept the job I had lined up and started applying to grad school instead. (Ask me sometime about my GRE experience. It was one of the most disgusting moments of my young life.) I spent a summer in California. And eventually, I picked up and moved to Alabama.

It was a good move. I was ready to leave Tallahassee. I don’t know why, but when it’s time, you know it. Though the transition to Alabama was hard (I still don’t think I’m settled there), I knew it was where I needed to be.

Well, I’ve got the itch again, and I don’t know what to do about it. Quite frankly, I don’t know that I need to do anything about it.

We’ll just call it senioritis, though I didn’t know that was an option in graduate school.

In any case, I’ve found myself longing for FSU over the past couple of weeks. More accurately, I’ve been reminiscing about FSU in the Spring of 2002. I have no interest in moving back to Tallahassee, thankyouverymuch. I actually like Birmingham very much, despite its pollution and my lack of employment.

You know what I think it is? I miss the community. I remember my final week as an undergrad… it was filled with precious moments with what were then dear friends. My only all-nighter of my college career took place that week, and involved BBQ ribs, fountain swimming, Playdoh, popsicles, John Mayer and Risk. I passed the hours the following night at a coffee shop while I wrote, curled up between two friends on an old couch. I remember calling a close friend to cry while I was on my way to a graduation party. I was surrounded, both literally and figuratively, by people who loved me.

That’s not the case anymore. I can’t downplay the importance of long distance friends–many of my favorite people live far, far away. But neither can I ignore the value of friendships in the city where I reside.

There’s no easy solution. I don’t even know if I’ll be in Birmingham for longer than a month or two. I’ve got to keep pushing, even though I don’t really want to. And maybe eventually I’ll find a few people who appreciate my special brand of crazy. 🙂

Who do you think you are?

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I mentioned last week that I was reading Pledged: The Secret Life of Sororities. One of the many issues Alexandra Robbins touched upon during the course of the book is the idea of charity. Greek organizations claim to have at least some degree of service orientation, but so often service is directly tied to their money.

I remember cynically observing this when I was in a sorority myself. Our biggest philathropy of the semester was a rock climbing party at a local gym. Other sorority and fraternity members paid money for the chance to climb and win prizes in the party-like atmosphere we established.

“This isn’t service,” I thought bitterly to myself. “This is ridiculous.”

I approached the pages of Pledged with the same attitude – until reality got the best of me.

Maybe many Greek organizations are more focused on social functions than service. Maybe the primary difference they make in their community is achieved through mommy & daddy’s money.

But isn’t that more than what I’ve done?

What a hypocrite I am to think myself better than someone because I’m not affiliated with a Greek organization (anymore). Yes, I have several friends whose Greek involvement has been a major factor in their college career. But on the whole, I still tend to look at sorority girls with disdain.

Meanwhile, I sit in cozy suburban home and focus on what I can do to make my life better. I plot what shoes I need to complement my winter wardrobe and pore over Web sites to find job openings. I read countless novels each week, and buy $3 lattes because I’m too lazy to make one in my own kitchen.

That’s not the lifestyle Christ has for me. These aren’t necessarily bad things, but they are far from loving my brother and allowing my faith to be reflected in everything I do.

The truth is, I’m ashamed. I don’t want to help other people – when I made a list of life goals a few weeks ago, that virtuous mission wasn’t on there. It’s not that I wish people ill. I’m just too damn self-centered to do much about it.

I visited a nursing home on assignment for my magazine while these thoughts were stirring in my head. Initially, I was reluctant to spend two hours there. Nursing homes aren’t exactly my favorite place to be, and I was afraid I’d be uncomfortable. But I resolved to do what I must to get the story. “Besides,” I thought, “my presence will probably mean more to these people than my discomfort means to me.”

Two hours later, I drove through the streets of downtown Birmingham with a heart made heavy by conviction. I didn’t have anything to offer those people. More than anything, I observed the ministry I was reporting on and smiled at the residents in their beds.

But the enthusiasm of the chaplains got to me. I’ve received so many blessings. Why am I so reluctant to bless others? I’ll tell you what, changing my attitude isn’t going to be easy. Though I have time to spare, I while it away watching A Makeover Story and Friends. But if you would, join me in praying for my selfishness and for how I can serve God by serving others. It won’t be the easiest change I’ve made, but it will be among the most worthwhile.

My blessings are in front of me

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I pulled up to a five bedroom house with a Lexus in the garage and instantly thought I had the directions wrong. Before I could react, my college roommate strolled into the garage and confirmed my location. How can a 23 year old already own a house bigger than my parents’?

(With the help of a well-to-do husband, it’s not so hard I guess.)

I quickly began the comparison game. She’s got this spread; I live with my grandmother and drive a Nissan. Her hair and make up always look just right; I still break out at 23. She’s got a successful career; I’m still in school.

In some ways, she epitomizes the American dream. It’s easy to compare things that stand out about her with things I don’t like about me. But there’s a big difference between what I want and what I need.

I’d be lying if I told you I wouldn’t like owning a big house in a ritzy neighborhood and driving a fancy car. I battle against those and other temptations on an almost daily basis, especially as I go through this time of uncertainty and job hunting.

The good news is it sends me back to prayer, seeking God for perspective. The good news is I don’t need any of those things. I have a place to live. I have a car to drive. (I rather like my car, actually.) I have a God who orchestrates my future. Therefore, I have security.

And you know, I don’t know what the future holds. I hope I’ll begin an exciting (and at least to some degree, successful) career in just a few months. But there are no guarantees.

What is success, anyway? The material trappings money can buy do appeal to me, perhaps because I didn’t have a lot of that as a child. (Or perhaps just because I’m human.) But when I conjure up a meaningful career, money doesn’t have a lot to do with it.

Instead, I’m looking for a job that is worthwhile. Okay, okay – that’s vague. You won’t see it going in the “objective” section of my resume. (I don’t have an “objective” section on my resume!) But it’s important.

The work I complete at my current internship may not have an eternal impact, but the relationships I form and the work ethic I cultivate do carry that possibility. Maybe I will write or edit for a Christian publication, but that’s not necessarily my goal. I aim instead to work at everything as unto the Lord, regardless of who’s paying my bills.

Maybe someday that’ll bring me a well-decorated home with an attractive husband and two adorable children (and my cat – can’t forget the cat!). Maybe it won’t, either. As difficult as it sometimes is to remember, those things aren’t my American dream. Faith is.