Dream diary: Part 3

Do you ever get excited to go to sleep so you can find out what your next dream will be about? I do.

Jews and Nazis
The Nazis have taken over America and they will arrest you if you so much as look at a Jew. I let a Jew cut my hair because she was desperate (for money, I think, but I don't remember paying her), and eventually I got caught. My punishment was to have my birthdate tattooed on my arm and to be deprived of my walks for five years. Oh, and I had to go back to Domino's, of course, and Dad had to chaperone me on all of my deliveries. Which means he got all the tips.

Personal Revelation
A girl in my ward went to the temple with some heavy questions, and this is the answer she got: 8:17. Later that night, at exactly 8:17 p.m., a mysterious stranger (I think it was one of my uncles) told her to eat pasta. All of her problems were solved.

Once Upon a Family Reunion
I'm at a family reunion, only everyone is a fairy tale character, and none of us are actually related. (I never said my dreams made sense.) I think I was Belle, because Rumplestilkson Rumplestiltskin Rumple was always after me. Everyone was watching The Wizard of Oz in a room full of green food.

An Adventure with Brandon Sanderson
I was assigned to complete a super-secret quest, and who better to be my partner in crime than Brandon Sanderson? Although he didn't look like himself at all—he looked more like . . . the kind of guy who would star in a Hollywood adventure-quest movie. Our mission was to find an object hidden on a hill like the one Pacha lives on in The Emperor's New Groove. Magical guns and police-like fairies were involved. And I wanted to slide to the bottom of the hill on a mattress, like we used to slide down the stairs on boxes as kids. No idea if we completed our mission or not—stupid alarm clock.

My golf journey takes an unexpected turn

Usually when I'm offered something for free, I accept it.

Even if it's a 30-minute golf lesson. (With a PGA golf pro, might I add. The company I work for is cool like that.)

When I told my dad what I was doing, he took it upon himself to warn me about what was ahead:

"You do realize that you might like it right? Are you willing to take that risk?"

I laughed it off. I had more important things to worry about, like finding the driving range and not breaking the clubs a nice stranger graciously allowed me to use.

After a couple of lucky coincidences, I arrived at the driving range for my lesson, only five minutes late. My teacher handed me a lady-sized club, which meant it was too short. This was a bit of a relief, though, as using a too-short golf club drastically reduces the chances that you'll accidentally pound the club into the ground and snap it in half.

I was ready to begin. It was pleasantly warm, if a little windy, and I was surrounded by grass and sunlight, about to play a sport during work hours.

Maybe my dad had a point.

It was a very productive lesson. Since I started at the I've-only-been-golfing-once-in-my-entire-life-because-my-dad-never-took-me-golfing-when-I-was-a-kid level, I had lots to learn. My teacher recorded my swings and replayed some of them for instructional purposes. I've watched enough golf, unfortunately, to be able to recognize when someone knows what they're doing. My first few swings were pathetically wimpy, but by the end I could detect a little bit of athletic grace in my stance and swing.

And boy, did it feel cool when the ball actually moved more than a couple yards.

That's when my thoughts entered dangerous territory.

Maybe I'll start coming to the golf course on Saturday mornings to work on my technique. 

Are you seriously considering giving up your Saturday mornings for golf?

I think if I was good at this it would be a fair trade. Besides, Lorie says I'm a natural.

You don't even have your own clubs, freak.

Maybe I'll ask Santa to take care of that for me.

Only then did I realize what was happening: I was trying to figure out a way to incorporate golf into my life. Because it's—oh heck, I'll just say it—fun.

I tried to deny it the moment I made the admission. But let's look at it logically. Golf is a sport. I like sports. Guys like golf. I like guys.

I'm in.

The sad thing about spring/summer

Contrary to popular belief, spring and summer don't mean warmth.

Not if you work in an office all day.

We live in a world full of useful conveniences like smartphones and wi-fi and Netflix and thousands of other little trinkets (virtual or otherwise) that make our modern lifestyle so great. But the corporate world has yet to figure out how to combat the rising temperatures outside without overcompensating and freezing its residents for several months.

I recently packed away all of my sweaters to give my lighter apparel some breathing room. I haven't touched my boots for weeks. But here I am, wishing I had worn a turtleneck and boots instead of a short-sleeved shirt and sandals.

It's May 15, guys. It's just not right to be thinking about sweaters and suffocating footwear during this time of year. I shouldn't have to worry about cold fingers and whether I'm wearing enough layers.

Winter is over; all anyone wants right now is to be warm.

So today during lunch I am going to take my jacket off, get in my car, park it in the sun, and soak in the saturated warmth for an hour. It may not be enough warmth to protect me from the rest of my afternoon, but at least for a short while, I will be wonderfully thawed.

The trick to being happily introverted: Know your limits

Since I finished school, I've had two main goals: (1) enjoy not being busy and (2) have fun. (Pretty great goals, right? Lots of potential for growth here.)

And by "have fun" I don't just mean watching reruns or resurrecting old projects or reading through an entire library—I'm talking about the "get out into the world" type fun. Unfortunately, when you're an introvert, this kind of fun is often more work than it is play.

All those high school stomps I went to in an attempt to have a social life? Work. Reluctant appearances at ward activities? Work. To exacerbate the problem, I've also wasted many a Friday night feeling guilty for passing on possibly memorable social experiences to hide in my room.

Sometimes I was hiding out of fear, yes, but sometimes I was hiding because I needed to be alone. Period.

After years of lofty goals, predictable failures, and mini triumphs, I think I've finally figured out what my limits are: 1–2 non-routine social activities a week. If I can meet that quota, I know I can happily skip out on other things and allow myself to recharge, guilt-free.

For example, earlier this week I was debating whether I should go to FHE. I knew I had a bridal shower and a wedding to go to later in the week, so I ceased the I-must-force-myself-to-go-to-this mind game immediately and enjoyed a lovely evening at home instead. Not only did I conserve energy by staying home, but I also conserved energy by not torturing myself with an endless pro/con list regarding the significance of going to this one activity.

I've been a much happier introvert since I figured this out. There's been much less internal turmoil over my own shortcomings and much more effective use of my energy. Sure, I'm still fully capable of working on those shortcomings, but I have a much better feel for when I should push myself and when I should just let myself be.

An introvert who abides by his or her limits as much as possible = a happy introvert.

Dream diary: Part 2

It's been an exciting few weeks, dreamwise. None of these will make my Most Awesome Dreams Ever list, but they're worth sharing.

The Case of the Shrinking Shoes

Okay, this is actually the most mundane dream I've ever had. All night, I dreamed that I was loading and unloading the dishwasher and trying on shoes. The only interesting part is that the shoes kept shrinking and expanding.

The Japanese Spy

We're about to leave for our vacation when Dad announces that a Japanese spy will be accompanying us. Mom and Dad are deeply concerned that we will be offended by her immodest outfit, but all I care about is the fact that the spy is requiring us to wear masks (masquerade ball type masks) for the entire trip. And apparently, Dad's plan is to drive me, Mom, and Kimberly to California, drop us off, and then turn around to pick up Tyrel. I was trying to explain to him the idiocy of this plan when I woke up.

The Moral Dilemma

I wish I could remember the specifics of this dream, but basically I was on this epic moral quest and old guys kept trying to get me to stray off the strait and narrow. But I CHOSE THE RIGHT. To be honest, I think it would have been a much more interesting dream if I had succumbed to evil temptations.

Domino's, Again

I'm checking my schedule at Domino's, confused for the 547th time as to why I'm still working there, and I notice that my manager has scheduled me to close the next day. In Indianapolis. (Which was in Ohio, for some reason.) I'm supposed to open in Payson the next day, and I'm only allowed to travel by boat. So I sail to Ohio and work for a couple hours, narrowly escape a knife murderer, and then head back to Payson. When I walk in the store, my manager tells me it was just an April Fool's joke. I was still mad about it a couple hours after I woke up.

Feast of Plenty
The night before Fast Sunday, I dreamed about drinking orange juice and eating brownies. Rude.

What to do on a gloomy weekend

Several months ago, one of my coworkers unintentionally annoyed another coworker by commenting on the beautiful sunshine outside. (Apparently, even the weather can be a testy subject for some people.) The guy then launched into a five-minute rant on why he hated sunny days because they made him feel like he was supposed to be happy and productive.

I had never heard anyone complain about sunshine unless it came with scorching temperatures before, but the guy had a point. I don't like being told to be happy and productive, either. Sure, most of the time I am willing to adopt a cheery disposition and productive demeanor when the sun isn't blocked by rainclouds or an inversion. But sometimes I want to exercise my right to be moody and lazy, regardless of what's happening outside. That's when the yellow ball in the sky becomes that annoying babysitter who talks to you in a high-pitched voice and says that you can have an extra chocolate chip if you put your dishes in the sink, smiling serenely at you as if it never occurred to her that she couldn't sweeten you out of a sour mood.

That ploy didn't work on me as a five-year-old, and it doesn't work now, either. I will find a way to get away from that sunny sweetness, whether it means locking myself in my room or shutting the blinds.

The only problem is, I usually feel guilty doing so. Which, of course, makes me even more mad.

Last Friday, when the subject of weekends came up, I delivered my line "I don't really have any plans this weekend" with as much enthusiasm as the person who said she was planning a family barbecue. Then someone else said the magic words: "It's supposed to rain this weekend."

Since I was in the clutches of a Mad Friday, this was the first piece of news I had received all day that made the corners of my mouth twitch upward. A gloomy weekend was just hours away. This meant that it wouldn't be a fireplace-and-balcony-sweeping type weekend, accompanied by four hours of sneezing. It meant it would be a stay-home-and-watch-TV type weekend, free from guilt and expectations.

Would you like to know what I did this weekend? 

I had a Lord of the Rings marathon. Because that's what you do when it's raining outside and you have to keep the heater on. I watched all three extended versions without any distractions—no cross-stitch, no people complaining about the seven endings to The Return of the King—just 11 hours of pure bliss in the beautiful world Peter Jackson brought to life. 

I highly recommend this immersive experience. You might be a little heartbroken when it's all over, but I assure you it's well worth it.

Chocolate and the Atonement

Easter is kind of a strange holiday for me. Probably because I rely on the calendar to tell me when it's supposed to happen. When the date hops around every year, it's a little harder to find that holiday mode.

But Easter is starting to rise in the ranks of my "favorite holidays" list. I like that it sneaks up on me every year, because that means I don't put as much pressure on Easter to fulfill all of my holiday wishes. It comes, and it's a day slightly more special than normal.

There are other reasons to be a fan of Easter, of course.

1. Easter candy. Easter candy is the best of all holiday candies. Especially since it comes right after Valentine's Day, which mass-produces medicine-flavored hearts and tries to pass them off as candy, not to mention it also puts things in chocolate that have no business being there.

2. Spring. I've never had a gloomy Easter, at least not that I can remember. I think it's one of the laws of nature that the sun must be shining on Easter. And this year, spring seemed to blossom overnight, just in time for brand-new, pastel-colored Sunday clothes.

3. Time to reflect on the greatest gift we've ever been given without the commercialization that surrounds Christmas. Don't get me wrong—I love Christmas—but the religious significance of Easter is easier to appreciate.

Easter celebrates the resurrection of Christ, but this year my focus shifted slightly to the Atonement.

1995, the year I turned eight years old, was my baptism year. Most of my Primary lessons that year factored in baptism at some point, and I remember a couple baptism-themed family home evenings as well. But this was what stuck with me above all else: at seven years old, I wasn't accountable for my sins, but at eight years old I would be. In other words, I could commit murder if I wanted and still go to heaven, as long as I did it before my eighth birthday.

With my eighth birthday just a few weeks away, I hatched a plan. I was going to get all the sinning out of my system while I still could. Then, once I turned eight, I would be a perfect little angel. My teachers had explained the concept of the Atonement to me, but repentance sure sounded like a bother. It seemed much more reasonable to just skip that step altogether. Sure, the world hadn't seen a truly perfect person since Jesus, but I was convinced I would be the second.

That is, after I was baptized. No reason to be perfect until I absolutely had to be.

So I set to work. I didn't do the dishes when Mom told me to do them. I hit my little sister. I refused to go to bed on time. I didn't share my toys.

To my mom's relief, I'm sure, the morning of my baptism finally came. I said good-bye to my sinful past and put on my halo.

My moment of truth came a few days later. Mom was taking a nap, and I wanted a snack. I opened the fridge, thinking I'd maybe have a bowl of applesauce or something. But out of the corner of my eye, calling to me seductively, was the chocolate syrup. Mom had said over and over again that chocolate syrup was only for ice cream, but sometimes I secretly poured some into a baby bowl, heated it in the microwave, and ate it plain.

The timing was perfect. No one was around, and Mom's door was shut so she wouldn't even hear the microwave or smell its delightful contents. As long as I disposed of the evidence, no one would ever know that I had disobeyed.

I should have known that chocolate would be my downfall.

Halfway through my bowl of chocolate, I realized with a jolt that Jesus probably wouldn't sneak chocolate from the fridge while his mom was sleeping. And he probably only ate a respectable amount of chocolate syrup on his ice cream, not the entire river of chocolate I liked to dump on mine.

That sealed the deal—I was no longer perfect.

Rather than feel ashamed of myself, though, I actually felt a little relieved. The pressure was off. I could make mistakes just like a regular person now.

I quickly learned how silly it was to demand perfection of myself in everything, but it took me a lot longer to grasp the concept that I actually needed the Atonement in my life. I thought it was only for the major stuff, like breaking the law of chastity or overcoming addiction.

On top of that, I have this independent streak that makes it difficult to accept help. And suffering in silence for an eternity is usually a more inviting prospect than asking for help.

But even though I'm from the "you can do anything!" generation, the fact is, there are some things I simply cannot do. And I'm not talking about things I physically can't do like roll my r's or sit on the orange slide my nephews like to play on (and, as of yesterday, jump over). I'm talking about the trials I can't overcome on my own. The times when my best still isn't good enough. When the burdens of life are so heavy I have no choice but to pass them on to someone else.

Of all of God's creations, human beings are the most glorious. But we're still, well, human. We can do a lot, but we can't do it all.

That's why the Atonement is more than just a wonderful, selfless gift. It's an essential tool we all need, whether we want to acknowledge it or not. And it's already been paid for by love.