Going Native

Does anyone else think that today’s technology culture has shaped our lives in unsustainable ways? That the so-called “convenience” now also means that life must be faster-paced, with more on our to-do list, simply because we can now “handle” more tasks with the help of our smart devices?

Does anyone else wind up staying up later to read or watch longer into the night on a lit-up screen?

Does anyone ever actually cook a nice whole-foods-based meal anymore, or is it all take-out and processed/pasteurized/overly packaged nommage?

Does anyone outside of Chicago and New York City ever walk instead of drive a car to their destinations (even half a mile away) anymore?

 

And am I alone in noticing that, after awhile (usually on the weekends), the way we live in the name of modern efficiency catches up to us, namely with sluggishness, mopeyness, and (eep!) pudginess?

 

Between an unfriendly gym scale and this research presentation by clinical psychologist Stephen Ilardi, I had a moment of uffish thought at lunch a few months back:

 

Here’re the highlights, if you don’t have time to watch: Dr. Ilardi argues that we’re in the midst of an epidemic, and doctors are having to prescribe more and more medication to help us deal psychologically with the effects of a life that, to all the generations before us, would seem simply unnatural. He also argues that by returning to our ancient ancestral roots in the way we eat, work, and move, we’ll return to mental and physical health. (And in case you were thinking, “But wait, didn’t pre-civilization humans live a really short life?” Vallois’ 1961 theory that life was short and violent was recently disproven; so long as primitive people survived the parasites and infections rampant in childhood, they actually lived to a robust age within a the range of life expectancies today, even with all our modern science.)

Ilardi’s argument matches up with what many of us have already noticed: that our twenty-first century life has hit the human mind and body hard, in ways that thousands of years of microevolution from a hunter-gatherer lifestyle couldn’t prepare us.

The frenzied pace, the terrible, nutrient-poor, saturated-fat and sugar-laden food, and lack of daily physical effort . . . These factors really do take their toll, even on the young. With most adults in the US on prescription meds and nearly half of our population overweight or obese and dealing with the ailments that come with it, we’re essentially turning into the mobility-chair bound creatures predicted in the futuristic Pixar film WALL-E.

“WALL-E.” (2008). Pixar Animation Studios. Behold, our fat future.

 

Let’s not also talk about the fact that being stressed, poorly nourished, and overweight becomes expensive quickly in terms of medical costs. In fact, it’s these combined “diseases of civilization” that are the biggest healthcare crisis we face in our world today in terms of inflating medical service demands, and with those demands, costs.

 

I don’t know about you, but I’d like to keep my medical costs down and actually enjoy life a little. . . and not wind up in a Hoveround chair.

 

So I thought about it how much civilization and its offerings actually affect my life right now.

I might have experimentally heave-ho’d my way into my pre-marriage skinny jeans and frowned at what I saw in the mirror after just two cozy years of happy marriage. A scale in my work place’s wellness center told me that it was only eight pounds’ gain since my big day as a bride—not huge, right? But then I did the math of four (4) pounds a year (4 lbs. x just 5 years = 20 lbs. . . . which makes a huge impact on a 5’4” frame).

Vanity, and health concerns, made me pause.

 

And then I remembered that I had trouble with stress-induced insomnia now and again.

 

And then I thought about the fact that depression ran in my family, and that at times, it tugged at me like a weepy child at my sleeve.

 

So I did a little reading and tried some baby steps to take myself back in time . . . to go more “native” in my thinking, as it were, by thinking about what my ancestors 500 to 1,000 years ago would have done to just live their lives. I came up with a few lifestyle modifications, and I thought I’d share these little experiments and what happened after, just to see if they encourage anybody else out there.

 

EXPERIMENT 1: Taking Modern Conveyances out of the Equation (Within Reason)

 

I quit taking elevators instead of stairs. That was a no-brainer.

Hubby and I started walking dates, instead of gabbing across our laptops in the evenings.

Ruth’s grocery-getter. Glamorous, no?

Then I took a bigger plunge and ditched my all-American car habit during fine weather in favor of a bike commute to work. Don’t be too impressed by this – it’s less than two miles from my apartment to my office door. Sure, it takes a little extra effort some mornings to pack my work pumps in a backpack while I roll out the door wearing yoga pants and sneakers under my skirt. But it also means I don’t have to schedule in some kind of fabricated, pointless gym exercises that day, which just feel unnatural, and as Dr. Ilardi explains in that presentation, are, actually, instinctually unnatural to humans and most animals. Gee, no wonder I hate working out.

Just two months later, this little change has meant getting my booty back (and core, thighs, calves, ankles, and gas money) without having to work in the extra expense in time and fees for the gym. It’s also given me the endorphins needed to just feel more cheerful overall. And it’s frankly hilarious to see the way people respond to me, all dolled up for work and riding along on a bike in a very non-serious-biker way. Sans matchy-matchy spandex top and bottoms, I somehow manage to look like a helmet-wearing Dorothy Gale stole the Wicked Witch’s bike most days, which the old folks walking the neighborhood in the mornings find very entertaining.

 

EXPERIMENT 2: Eating Like Hunting Is Actually Hard To Do

 

I bet you thought when I wrote “hunter-gatherer” farther up in this post that I’d wind up going all “Paleo Diet” in this portion of my experiment. Nope!

I did think about it, though, since it’s a pretty big fad right now and touts all kinds of ancient-world wisdom. But I started reading more about the dietary components and soon realized that this modern-day diet currently calling itself “Paleo” has FAR more meat in it than any of our ancestors ate on a typical prehistoric day.¹ In many places and in many seasons, when gatherable green food was plentiful, people didn’t expend the energy or risk the danger of hunting animals often bigger than themselves. Prehistoric hunters also didn’t catch anything to eat most days even when they tried to; based on the quantity of meat that researchers seem to think the ancients consumed, it seems like early humans hunted with considerably less hunting success than the big cats (for lions in a group, roughly 30% of capture-kill attempts actually succeed; for humans in a group, attempts vary from a 3%-30% success rate, depending on the size of game stalked, according to research like that done by Kristen Hawkes,who has published multiple studies of the Hadza hunter-gatherer people). Regardless, meat, for most ancient people, was reserved for seasonal feast times (when game was available and meat was a treat) or famine (when plant food was scarce).

But regarding the other animal product ruling the current Standard American Diet, the Paleo Diet is spot-on: dairy products, which came much later on the human timeline of edibles, were totally absent from our ancestors’ diets for millennia, and for most modern humans, are still too dense in saturated fats, casein, and lactose to be metabolized in our bodies well.

Yet in today’s Standard American Diet (aptly abbreviated as SAD), there’s meat or an animal product or byproduct at every meal. Too bad we aren’t prepared to deal with this diet physiologically—to the point where it’s killing us slowly with every excess forkful.

 

Please, consider the following (and check out the links to the sources I’ve done my best to embed; I was overrun with footnotes):

 

1. High-levels of animal protein consumption has been recently associated with higher levels of blood-circulating IGF-1, or insulin-like growth factor, which is linked as a growth agent for multiple forms of cancer (including colon cancer, which killed my dad at 54, and breast cancer, for which I carry a mutated gene).
2. Animal protein consumption, especially red meats and dairy, are also linked to incidence of stroke, both Type I  and Type II diabetes, and infertility in women, in addition to many other lifestyle-influenced diseases and metabolic disorders.
3. The evidence of the deleterious health effects from meat-heavy eating is so bad that even the pocket-stuffing-corrupt USDA (which is financially backed by multiple meat-industry sources, in addition to Coca-Cola) has gone so far as to risk the wrath of their sponsors by announcing in the 2010 revised dietary guidelines that it’s time Americans cut back on meat intake, calling animal and meat products “solid fats” so as not to raise too many hackles, although their referent is clear when one reviews text closely, as well as the new “My Plate” portion guide. The upcoming 2015 guidelines are anticipated to advise even less consumption of animal products as the “My Plate” recommendation graphic evolves while lobby groups that are sick of the silly political games holding back American nutritional reform sue the USDA (check out what the Physician’s Committee for Responsible Medicine did in 2000 and again in 2011).
4. Cow’s milk is hormonally and nutritionally designed to take a 90-pound calf and turn it into a 400-pound animal within a year, and even low-fat dairy products (including yogurt—the fastest-growing refrigerator staple this decade) metabolize in such a fashion as to promote weight gain in humans.
5. Roughly 75% of the adult population in our world is lactose intolerant or has some form of lactose maldigestion, with highest incidence in groups of African, Asian, Hispanic, or Native American descent (see source).   So many of us just aren’t equipped to digest the stuff, but we eat dairy anyway because it’s marketed to us at an insane rate (“Got Milk?” and “Milk Life” campaigns ring a bell, do they not?). Dairy also contains casomorphins, powerful opiates that keep us hooked on the yummy creamy, saturated-fat and hormone-laden stuff. Seriously. Go look it up. Milk contains morphine to keep babies calmly eating—and it affects humans equally as well as a little baby calf.
6. A diet-based population study from 2009 showed that non-vegetarian eaters have the highest BMIs on average (and it’s an overweight BMI, at 28.8) when compared against ovo-lacto vegetarians (25.7), pescatarians (26.3), and vegans (23.6). Note that the vegan average is the only one within the “healthy” BMI category. (BMI standards currently dictate that a BMI between 18.5-25 is “healthy”).
7. Lastly, consider that in 1909, the average American ate 123.9 pounds of meat per year and 3.8 pounds of cheese (which is 70% saturated fat. Seven. Zero.). In 2007, we ate 200.6 pounds of meat (mostly chicken!), and in 2005, we nommed on 31.4 pounds of cheese per year². And with nearly 100 extra pounds of those calorie-dense animal products going into our bellies, we’re fatter than we’ve EVER been.  The USDA’s stastical summary in its 2010 “The Total Diet” report indicated that, “Currently, the average American gains about a pound a year between the ages of 20 to 60 years” (p.2).

 

“The Power Plate” was created by the Physician’s Committee for Responsible Medicine in 2009, and it reflects decades of research on diet and longevity, which revealed a plant-based diet, sans dairy, was best. Note that the USDA’s “My Plate” has somewhat copied it, after PCRM laid on some pressure.

After reading all that, I was convinced to go more and more plant-strong in my diet, eliminating more and more animal products, and spacing out my meat consumption to the point where meat and cheese are now special treats – not everyday things.

Not to get too personal, but I’ll share a few things that have happened once I made these adjustments:

1. I’ve lost five pounds in roughly four weeks after I finally committed to this dietary experiment. (YAY!)
2. My seemingly-perpetual tummy bloat went down after I’d gone a solid week eating vegan meals.
3. My joints, which I never even really noticed were stiff before, loosened up, to the point where I realized I was bounding up stairs that I used to trudge upon as I made my way to work. I can’t really explain this, beyond saying that I just feel sort of weightless. Some research indicates that dairy and meat can raise inflammation in the body, so I guess being without it for a week or so made a difference.
4. I got an energy boost overall, to the point where I felt more productive.
5. Regularity, folks. Fiber makes a gal feel perky. (TMI?)

 

EXPERIMENT 3: Getting Rid of Synthetic Hormones

This step of my lifestyle experiment actually started far before I saw Dr. Ilardi’s presentation, but I put it last here because I was nervous about posting this controversial step. After consideration, though, I think it’s important enough to mention. It was a tough road, because it meant getting off the progesterone-based birth control I’d been on for the first year and a half of my marriage.

I didn’t take this step lightly; it was after months and months of debilitating insomnia, significant hair shedding, migraines, strange acne and weight gain that bloated my lower tummy (imagine a mini-Buddha belly), in addition to a depression so intense that I went to see a professional. My husband was all for trying something new—trying anything, really—to get back the girl he’d dated and married. I’ll continue some notes about this transition for you ladies in an upcoming rant on this subject, but suffice to say, I adopted a science-based natural form of control in January of 2013, and today I’m still not pregg-o and am feeling and looking so much more like my old, pre-pharmaceutical self. Everything is back to where it was pre-hormones, including my sleeping patterns—except for the acne. Still haven’t figured that one out. Who knows?

 

So, friends, this has been my journey back to nature and back to some older ways of living. And while it’s certainly not the mainstream lifestyle of a Millennial and still has gaps I need to modify, I’ve had no regrets!

 

 

NOTES (to keep this section small, I’ve included embedded links to most sources  in the post above. Do feel free to click into them where they appear in the text above):

1. Researcher Vaclav Smil at Colorado State reported in “Eating Meat: Evolution, Patterns, and Consequences” (2006) that, for prehistoric peoples, “animal foods provided generally less than 15 percent of all dietary protein” (p. 607); compare this figure with the 19-35 percent animal protein-basis in the trendy Paleo Diet.
2. Foods per capita figures from US Department of Agriculture Economic Research Service. Presented here by Dr. Neal Barnard: http://ajcn.nutrition.org/content/91/5/1530S.full

 

 

 

 

Dating Files #4.5: The Golden Ticket Goes to …

It’s cute how you all have high hopes for a romatic ending to my golden IMS Pole Day event ticket story.  Well, here’s the boring answer:

I gave up looking for a recipient and returned the extra ticket to the event office, where it was given to a patient on the wait list.  This was the resasonable solution, as the ticket was to the event area only, and would have bored to death any man who actually wanted to watch the race from something other than an air-conditioned tent with closed-circuit live TV broadcasting from the Track itself but not actually giving visual sight of the Track.

Here’s the cute ending, though:

After I finished working the event, I just wanted to go home. Maybe it’s because I’m a girl (and not a Danica-kind of girl), I could care less about watching a bunch of shiny, over-horsepowered cars zoom around an oblong track after seeing it in action for about three minutes.  That, and the over-aged frat boys hanging out in the Track yard were getting drunk and taking their shirts off to reveal copious amounts of gynecomastia.  Or maybe I was feeling overwhelmed at the foot traffic of over 15,000 people moving about in one place in search of a late lunch before their favorite driver went to the qualification round. At any rate, I was hot and tired, and I was done.

As I made my exit, I came across a small boy crying–a dark-haired, freckled boy maybe seven or eight years old.  He was looking around feverishly, obviously lost, and clutching his lunch box.  I thought I looked very unscary in my sneakers, ponytail, and children’s hospital tee-shirt, so I decided I could probablly approach him without scaring him further.

“Hey, bud. Are you lost?”

Sniff. “I can’t find my dad. Anywhere.  He was supposed to be going to the car–and I can’t find the car–and—”

My nanny instincts took over, and I started walking the lot with him, asking him where he thought the car was.  He sniffled and eventually got us close enough to a spot where I saw–being marginally taller than the boy–a 40ish year old man looking around with a worried look. 

“Looking for someone?” I called out.

And the man answered, “Yeah, my–”

“Dad!!!” squeaked the boy, recognizing the voice.

I still had my super-special Indy car garage pass, and I had no intention of using it. And the kid was still shaken and tear-stained. “Here, this will get you into the garage for free to go look at the cars.  Go ahead and take it. I won’t go.”

“Seriously? Awesome!!!”

So that, dear friends, is what happened to the other half of my own golden ticket.  So worth it, don’t you agree?

Lesson is:  calling up boys is silly when God decides to call you. 🙂

 

Dating Files #4: I have an (extra) golden ticket.

So, my job gave me tickets and garage passes to the Pole Day event at the Indy 500 Track on Saturday.  Granted, I’m stuck running PR and photography at an event there for the major hospital corporation I’m now working for as a marketing intern.  But now I have an extra ticket and parking pass, and I’d really like a guy to use them.

I called my brother (now heading to California for a week; he’ll be gone Saturday), my cousin (his paternal grandfather just died–funeral is Saturday), my uncle (has a ticket already–figures) . . .  and yes, even an ex-boyfriend who really liked NASCAR and the fast track (also already has tickets, but was very flattered).

And now there are a few other exes I could call… and I feel very silly digging into my personal archives.  Not that it isn’t good to reconnect in a friendly fashion and give a guy a chance for a free day of wandering around the Motor Speedway, but it is a rude awakening to discover that I’ve gotten so busy that I’ve essentially run out of men.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m still looking. I’m working in an office building all week long, and I’m visiting in a hospital twice a week, with young men buzzing around somewhere, I’m sure.

But where are they?

Nominate your ticketeers in the comments.

 

Lessons from My Ligament: Installment #3 of the Dating Files

Every few years–since my show choir days, actually–I’ve had issues with my left hip.  Too much tango dancing? You’re not walking tomorrow.  A rough, 4-mile hike uphill at Hanover? Sorry, kid–you’re gonna ache for days. 

I’ve had it looked at now and again. It’s my stupid IT band that’s the problem. For those not in the athletic know, the IT band is an overcompensating tight-wad of a ligament.  It’s one of the longest in the body, stretching up the length of the outside of the thigh from the iliac crest* (the edge of the hip bone) and down to the insertion point at the tibia below the knee.  It supports the alignment of the knee as it undergoes weight-bearing and stress from lateral flexing (like a tango twist).  Mine does a sucky job. 

That long white strip of fibrous tissue is the IT band. Illustration credit: SportsMD.com

I recently started running again, with the intention of pushing myself to join a running group at the hospital where I work.  So I’ve been training, increasing the duration of each run every week.  And I wasn’t stretching well enough, apparently, because that IT band got tight and a little achy.  When I set up tables for a hospital event on the 17th of April, I started feeling shooting pains in my hip, which I later learned was a result of my IT band rubbing and snapping across the  femoral epicondyle as my bent  knee moved from a flexed position into an extended position while I lifted displays and moved tables around.  By the time the event was over and I’d hit the fifth aisle of the grocery store during my after-work errand, I was seeing stars behind my eyelids and gritting my teeth. 

I came home with what I’d managed to stuff in my basket, and then I laid myself right down on the floor until I could get to bed. It literally felt like my whole hip was spasming with heat and needles, stabbing down the top of my thigh. I was crying like a baby.  I admit it.

And Mom was a mom–that means she brougth tissues, ice, and Oxycodone.

And, oh, blissful pharmaceuticals! I finally slept several sleep cycles through for the first time in days, waking up in a puddle of melted ice and a mildly throbbing hip.  It was great.  

And I felt like my lesson had been learned: I need time to stretch before running myself ragged, both physically and emotionally.

Then Mr. J called—yes, that Hispanic guy I went on a date with in Dating File #2 that I reallly didn’t want to see again–and he KEPT calling, even after I texted him and told him I was nursing an injured hip and planned on sleeping the weekend away under the fuzzy blanket of painkillers and anti-inflammatories.   Apparently, his English either reallly sucks, or he can’t take a hint.  He called seven times and left three text messages.

The upside is, he gave up after his tenth attempt and after he left a bratty voicemail message about how I obviously couldn’t appreciate/respect his concern for me enough to call him back.  ::Blah, blah, blah, insert the tiny whine of a miniature violin played by a Siamese cat in a sombrero. . . ::   I might have fallen for his guilt trip if he hadn’t stepped in his own trap by ignoring/disrespecting my obvious wish to be left alone to sleep and heal.

So, for those of you who’ve been asking what happened to Mr. J, there’s your answer:  Gone in a huff.

In the days following–full of intense time at work planning for another event, one of our biggest annual PR events (c.1,00o guests), to boot–it occurred to me that, while it was a good thing for this communication cut to happen in the case of Mr. J at this time, I’d run this script before with men during times of stress.  And that’s not a good thing . . .

While I’m sure many of you would agree that it’s understandable that, with my father’s death looming in the background, I was a bit of a basket case over these past months, and especially in the final year of his life.  But that makes two years now—TWO YEARS–of a running streak of failed relationships usually caused by my own flake-outs and inability to handle romantic relational stress on top of the major transitions in my life. 

Apparently, I, like my bitchy IT band, don’t handle being put through too many paces at once without the chance for some downtime to stretch, grow, and recuperate. 

So, I’m trying to figure three things out with God right now:

1.   How can I get the downtime to gently stretch myself emotionally in a relationship?

2. How soon can I do number 1, based on my emotional recuperation from the major changes in my life and the PTSD-induced effects of caring for my father during his dramatic decline and slow, drawn-out, suffering-filled death?  (Seriously, people, if I’m ever terminal with cancer, just shoot me or give me an OD of something. I’m not going through the organs shutting down/brain-chemistry-and-mind altering scary shit my dad did as he died.  And I’m not putting my kids through the nightmare of witnessing that, either.)

3. How am I ever going to encounter a potential mate in my current work life scenario, and how am I going to trust God during the waiting period?

I don’t have any answers to any of these questions, really, just hopes.  God only knows–and I’m trying to trust him again.  Ironically, Anne Rice is helping me do that.  That’s right–vampire authoress-turned-Christian-Anne Rice.  I’m reading Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt, the first book in her religious series exploring the childhood and youth of Christ.  Fascinating?  Yes. I’ll be writing more about it once I finish.  It’s definitely worth your read, just because of the wrenching humanity of the young Jesus coupled with Rice’s intense historical research that places him in probable ways amidst some fascinating circumstances surrounding the early Jewish rebellions against Rome.  Picture Jesus as a precocious child who knows too much and too little all at once and often feels overwhelmed and very small—and very human–during a brutal time in history that did little Jewish boys no favors.  Oh, and he occasionally spaces out and sees angels, which freaks people out.   I’m in chapter 10 of 30 or so.  We’ll see what happens.

To read more about Anne Rice’s conversion, visit her website here.

 

The Dating Files: Post the 2nd

I’ve written a post or two about how I feel about dating in the past (See my post on why current dating practices suck by clicking here.)  But I think you can tell that this new series aims to be a little less academic.  Random poetry written late at night is often more expressive than a five-paragraph essay, in my opinion.  And I’m glad you’re enjoying it, even if you don’t quite know what to make of it (and I don’t always, either). 

 I’m now one week out from that first date I wrote about in the last Dating Files post.   In the aftermath, I called Mr. J back once about a day later, and he was gracious enough not to press for feedback or ask for date two quite yet.  I think he could tell I was still stewing.  However, he did call/text at least twice a day throughout this week, which was making me a bit antsy (stalker, much?). 

Part of this, I understand, comes from our cultural differences.   I am Anglo in heritage, primarily, and he is Hispanic.   His tendencies, to me and my English courtesy-based-wait-at-least-18-hours-before-calling for-the-second-date-rule, seemed invasive.  To him, they were complimentary and meant to express continued interest.   He’s just now figuring out that he’d made me feel flighty and cornered, since I only just this afternoon called him back.

But to my feminine intuition’s credit, I was right to take some time and distance to consider the things I’d learned about him on our date and during our conversations before and after.  

For starters, I was able to accurately relay to him this afternoon that I felt that our cultural differences, when combined with our age difference, were hard for me to overcome at this life stage. He is over thirty, and he spent most of his childhood and adolescence in Mexico. His knowledge and experience of modern American popular culture, dating culture, politics, language, and even technology all reflect this.   Needless to say, it was hard to feel like we had more in common than an interest in salsa dancing and a shared love of Johnny Depp’s films  (We went to go see “Alice in Wonderland” last week).  It also forced me to stretch and focus really, really hard on my Spanish, which is rusty, to the point that his hour-long conversations gave me headaches from simply trying to keep up.  He was having to stretch to understand my theological perspective (which, admittedly, is complicated, even when I discuss it in his own language), my aspirations for love (no, I’m not your typical postmodern female who will accept dating/shaking up for several years before even considering marriage), and even my references to rather common books and films (at least, in English).   

I think you get the picture: I was struggling to keep up and struggling to drag him along with me, in every encounter. We just didn’t fit. 

He accepted this graciously, remembering that I was young, and conceding that I was the first American girl he’d dated. And then he decided, while we were being honest with each other, to tell me that he was divorced, and that he had two children here in Indianapolis  (ages 10 and 14) that he neglected to mention on our first date or in any of our eight phone discussions. Huh.

I know, realistically, that since I didn’t find my mate in college (or, because I was a depressive psycho in college while my dad was dying, I ruined those chances I might have had), I am now entering a wider and less-polished dating pool, full of minnows, sharks, and slimy eels who have various degrees of education, sexual experience, and relational expectations.  I have even accepted that I might, like my mother, wind up marrying closer to age 30 than to 20, and marry a man with some baggage (my dad was previously married for a few years, with no children, before he had his divorce). 

 But a divorced expatriate with two children, an actively meddlesome ex-wife, no desire to pursue better English or education, and no plans to (re)marry any time soon?  No, God, no.

So here’s my early evening poetry.

A Decent Man

“Dear, God,” I said, “I need a seasoned Jewish matchmaker double-quick

because I am tired of the finding/chasing/dating/dumping/hurting/waiting schtick.

The record shows that I clearly seem to stink at choosing my own mate,

and at $50 a month for aliterate (yes, a-literate) goonies, eHarmony isn’t so great.

My matchmaker friends are quickly running out of stock and luck,

so I’m begging here, God: please,  please,  just send me a guy who doesn’t suck.”

God smiled a Cheshire grin at me, then winked, and then he said,

“Dime con quién andas, y te diré quién eres, m’ija.  Así encontraremos tus errores.”

And I answered, “I’ve been hanging with my friends, mis amigas–las mejores–

who accept who I am, but don’t reflect my values, or my belief in you,

but I would have thought these men who met me knew–”

And God raised a hand to interrupt me, smiling still, and sad.

He didn’t speak, but I understood.  And, briefly, I was mad.

“Are you saying this is my fault? For chilling with my friends?

Drinking a little, dancing a lot– all these things are just trends,

things I enjoy innocently. Are you saying they give the wrong idea to men?”

He said, “Like in appearance attracts like in substance, child.

The players, the slicksters, they see only a girl being wild.

You can’t expect them to know that you want quiet,

solid character, and goodness when you’re standing in a riot.

Go where there is good work, and peace, and kindness, and then,

You’ll be surprised to be surrounded by so many decent men…”

Ah, good advice.  Good advice.  But then, that’s God talking, so don’t be surprised. That about wraps up this post.  But before I go, I am going to up my flagging hit counts for the blog with a dash of Robert Pattinson news that’s all over the web this week. In light of Rob’s obvious humility, and Obama’s obvious hubris in the form of the recently-forced passage of a bill that conflagrates our Constiutional rights, I thought this news was pretty. damn. funny:

Robert Pattinson tops Obama in Time‘s list of influential people

New Statesman

Published 02 April 2010

Time Magazine has released the preliminary results of its poll on the 100 most influential people in America.

The final list, based on the votes of the American public, features several Hollywood actors at the top.

According to the preliminary findings of the poll, conducted by the American news magazine every year, the US public seem to find English actor Robert Pattinson, known for his role in the Twilight trilogy, and the US talk show host, Conan O’Brien, more influential than President Barack Obama.

The initial results were based on the first 5,000 votes counted.

The poll asks votes for leaders, artists, innovators and icons who they think merit spots on 2010’s list of the 100 most influential people in the world.

The poll has nominated 200 individuals and calls for votes before it finalises the list.

From Fablife.com's report of the TIME poll. I thought it was clever. See link below to their article. Hail to the---er, God save the---Oh, what the hell. America, let's just go back to being ruled by the British, so long as it's Rob on the throne. 🙂

There’s a more detailed article on the subject here, as well as this clever bit of Photoshoppage (above, which looks great except for the fact that Rob is equally as tall as Obama in real life. Tru fax!).

 

The Dating Files

Spring is here at last, and with it, the first rush of solar-induced testosterone in men.  Under the influence of said rush, men tend to ask Ruth and other girls out on dates.  Ruth sits up afterwards sometimes and thinks—and the men probably wish she wouldn’t.  The next few posts will center around some of these musings, from a girl’s perspective, that will be aimed towards both my male and female readers.  Because, guys, let’s face it–how often do you get the chance to pick a girl’s brain on this subject?  And, gals, who doesn’t want a postable forum for discussing this topic?

So, first, a bit of weird-random poetry, courtesy of being awake too long after a date…

 Manicuring

Before the date, I grabbed a buffer and a clear-coat lacquer for a hasty manicure.

Over dinner, his sad and touched-up self-disclosures over antipasti brought the thought: is this a man—I–cure?

During the bask ing rays of male attention before the silver-screen glow comes the man: a cure, 

who offers a shiny bit of polished compliments to cover chips on a broken, grief-discolored heart.

And post-date come the decision-making moments: oh, the manic you’re in.

 

The Uncelebrated Love Affair of the Single Girl (and Guy)

It’s nice to be surrounded by loved ones on Valentine’s Day.  I know I’m glad to be wrapped up in my little circle.

Most people assume I’m referring to family-love as my form of consolation on Valentine’s Day. No, that’s lame. Everybody’s mommy, daddy, auntie, granny, and so forth, loves them.  And I’m not even talking about sibling love (phileo, in Greek). I’m talking about the rare relationships between friends who are the same gender—and who are so close they’re almost like siblings or, in some cases, more like mind-reading soul-mates. 

Also referred to as “homosocial love” (sounds kinky, but isn’t), this in-gender bond phenomenon is considered more common in women, as we gals tend to form very supportive, emotional relationships with each other rather than basing our relationships off of shared mutual interests.  This relationship between women is referred to in the Urban Dictionary as “sismance” (as in, sister + romance).  However, “bromance” is the more common street term to find, and it refers to this relationship when it happens between men. That’s right. Guy-on-guy love that isn’t sexual.  Sound weird? Not really.  This concept is so old, it’s actually Old-Testament (more on that later).

In either case, the homosocial relationship prepares those involved to become better companions, spouses, and yes, even lovers, in their future relationships.  And unlike heterosexual romance, these relationships rarely break up and leave gaping wounds. Usually, they’re life-long.  That’s why they’re awesome.

So today, I’d like to dedicate this post as a tribute to my sistas.  You know who you are, even if your picture’s not up here.

The Benefits of Bro-/Sismantic Love

1. The Mirror Effect

In Spanish, there is a saying: “Dime con quién andas y te diré quién eres,” which means, “Tell me whom you walk with, and I will tell you who you are.” 

This phrase has been handed down for centuries with the éclat of a proverb because it’s a truth that our brothas and our sistas reflect our inner selves.

Sometimes, girls hike together, too. And wear the same color. L to R: Ash, Me, Liz

I can see this happening when I’m with my best gal pals. Our borders of self become small and blurry when we’re together in a couple, flock, or herd. Part of this blurring occurs through the momentum of communal activity: we cook together, eat together, pee together, shop together, and go over the men in our lives with a fine-toothed comb together.   We also blur identities by crossing physical borders: we borrow each others’ clothes, do each others’ hair, makeup, and fingernails. We even crash at each other’s houses and liberally partake of each others’ caches of tampons and feminine pads. We moan about being female together, since our bodies are so similar and share the same bizarre functions.   If we’re the same size, we borrow each others’ shoes. And we relate to each other so well emotionally that we sometimes feel like we ARE in each others’ shoes. 

With all this bonding, we come to see ourselves through each other’s eyes, and measure ourselves against our friend’s accomplishments and their praise.  Sometimes, to our shock, we see our own faults, fears, and insecurities in our companions.  That’s why our best friends can be our wake-up calls—and are the only ones really qualified to call us out when we get out of line.

2.  Synergy to Synthesis

Many great friendships are founded on the attraction of inherent similarities in personality, interests, or talent.  When those similarities meet in the same room, they synergistically intensify, whether because of mutual unconscious encouragement, or outright healthy competition subsisting between parties.

Old friends are the bestest. L to R: Maggers, Me, Thiana, Wenders. Average years of acquaintance: 13.

My best girl-friends are all bright, knowledge-hungry readers. We read different genres of literature, but we talk about what we read and encourage each other to stretch and read more. We write, too, and we read each others’ writing; we are tough and gentle critics by turns. We’re also into adventure, to varying degrees, and we challenge each other to take risks through subtle remarks and suggestions.  Sometimes we even assist each other to get where we need to go through provisions of food, funds, or emotional support. As you can see, my sistas are an energizing force to be around—and that’s why we don’t get tired of each other, even after (for some of us) more than a decade of acquaintance, or even years of living together as roomies.

Roomies settin' sail in wild tropical print. L to R: Miss Hannah and Moi.

 

 

 

Now, I can sense some of you guys reading this and yawning, not seeing much here to interest anyone with a set of bullocks. But consider this: bromances have turned mere men into kings and messiahs through the principal of synergy.

While I could name some bromanced politicians who climbed to the top on the shoulders of their helpful friends, I’d rather tell an older, more touching story of man-love.  Have you heard of a shepherd kid named David who happened to slay a giant named Goliath?  Sure you have. Do you also remember that he eventually became the King of Israel?  Do you know how he got there, especially considering that the old king, Saul, kept trying to kill him?

Partly, it was God. Got to admit that. But it was also Jonathan, David’s best friend in the world—who was, as it happens, the son of King Saul.  Lady Gaga could write a song about the potentially doomed nature of that bromance. (Sing it with me: “I want your sling-shot/I want your sheep fleece/ I want your everything as long as it’s freee…”)

Picture this:  Young David has just killed Goliath.  Saul’s a bit freaked out that a thirteen year-old can do this, but he is forced to keep David around because he sees that his own son, Jonathan, has become such close friends with David that they have made a pact to be brothers-in-spirit. Specifically, the scripture says,

“Jonathan became one in spirit with David, and he loved him as himself… And Jonathan made a covenant with David because he loved him as himself. Jonathan took off the robe (of princehood) he was wearing and gave it to David, along with his tunic, and even his sword, his bow, and his belt” [1 Sam.18:1ff]. 

 In old-testament covenant terms, Jonathan symbolically offers all of himself to David—his royal position and power, his strength of arms, and all of his possessions, even the shirt off his back. 

Cima da Conegliano. "David and Jonathan." c. 1505

Not surprisingly, old King Saul comes to hate David when David rises to fame as a great warrior throughout the land. Saul’s jealousy drives him to the point that he orders his attendants and even his son, Jonathan, to kill David, but Jonathan stands up to his father in front of the whole court and challenges this order.  Saul backs down, but Jonathan becomes afraid for David’s life. Jonathan then makes another pact with David, this time in secret, promising David that he will tell him if he thinks his father is plotting to kill him again.  When Jonathan uncovers evidence of such a plot at a feast a little later, his father flies into a rage and accuses him of giving up his birthright as prince to side with David rather than his own father. Jonathan dodges his father’s angrily thrown spear and rushes off to warn David and help him escape.  He and David both weep at their emotional parting when Jonathan sends him off into exile for his own safety—but David “wept the most,” fearing for Jonathan’s safety in Saul’s court (1 Sam 20:41). 

In the end, Jonathan’s secret support, his transference of power, loyalty, and identity to David, and even his self-sacrificial death in battle alongside Saul all work together to launch his buddy David onto the Israelite throne.  It’s no wonder that the newly-crowned King David opened his first day of court with the lament,

“How the mighty have fallen in battle! . . . I grieve for you, Jonathan, my brother; you were greatly beloved to me. Your love for me was wonderful, surpassing the love of women” (2 Sam 2:6).

That’s intense.  Jonathan set a new standard of giving up one’s life for one’s friend—one that could only be beaten by Christ’s ultimate act of love for mankind itself.  As a side-note, I think the last bit of David’s lament might also have been the line that later coined the phrase, “Bros before hos.”

Which leads me to another benefit of a good bromance/sismance.

3. Your Brotha/Sista Has Got Your Back, Baby.

Like no one else beyond your own mother, your brotha or your sista is there for you. Shoulder to cry on? Here ya go. Place to sleep? Sure—have an extra pillow. Food to eat?  No prob; I got the tab.  You know how it goes, and you couldn’t be more grateful.

But beyond the basic necessities, our soul-friends are there in other ways as well.  They respect us. They don’t tell our secrets.  They won’t sell us out.  They offer us the promise of confidentiality and safety—another mind outside our own to share our private burdens and concerns.  Like true spouses to our soul, they don’t use what they know about us for anything but our own good.

I’ve got to post this little example of some tight-lipped lovin’, just because I found it so striking because Hollywood is such a dirty, backstabbing town. Did you know that top-billing Twilight superstar Rob Pattinson claims to have the same two best friends he’s had since he was twelve—and that one of them is fellow actor/model Tom Sturridge?  Did you also know that comments about Robert Pattinson made by close friends like Tom can be sold to tabloids for big (and I’m talking B$I$G) cash? Did you know that tags for RPattz consistently up my hit stats for this blog?  Or that Tom Sturridge could get extra publicity for his own acting career by spilling some major secrets from those two years when he and Rob were roomies crammed into a tiny apartment while they struggled as young actors in London? 

Tom and Rob dress like hobos when they're not filming, modelling, or going to award shows. Here, they're taking the chance to pick on each other after Rob attends the Young Hollywood Awards. 'Cause that's man-love, man.

Lucky for Rob, his devoted Tom is a true bromantic. Check out what Tom did when a Bullz-eye.com interviewer pressed him for the dirty dishes on his brotha a few months back:

J1: These days, is it a blessing or a curse to be friends with Robert Pattinson?

Tom: Um… (Long pause) As his friend, I really just don’t want . . . there are oceans of words written and spoken about him and his world, and I don’t want to add to them.

J1: Well, let’s put it this way: since all of this has happened to him, has your friendship changed at all with him, or is it pretty much the same?

Tom: I . . . (Long pause) Again, as his friend and to be fair to him, I don’t want to be the one to . . .

J1: (rather huffily) That’s fine.

Tom: I’m not being weird. I just don’t want him ever to have to pick up a piece of paper and see me talking about him. It would just be . . . weird.¹

Weird—and wrong, Tom. Good call, man. Good call. Now there’s a fella who knows what it means to be a loyal friend.² 

4. Growing Together, Even Oceans Apart

My sistas are separating spatially across the country and the globe at the moment.  But that doesn’t mean we don’t visit our blog pages, catch up on email, or randomly call each other to catch up (like Maggers did last night. Love you!). We try to help each other to bloom where we get planted, rather than losing or forgetting our connection when we’re apart. 

Liv takes a pic as I say goodbye to Tayls, Kate, and Liz before graduation. Sad times from May.

We blog/email/call to talk about fears and insecurities, only to have them replaced with encouragement and praise.  Nothing vulnerable in us needs to be kept private, frightened, or shameful—we talk it out, walk it through, or just listen.  We come away feeling closer, in spite of the distance. And we come away feeling a little stronger and more courageous inside our own adventures. We grow better, bigger, and braver as people.  I think that’s why we wish we had men like us in our lives, who could love us this supportively.

So, you guys reading this blog, get yourself a brotha and start practicing some bromantic moves.  Your future wives will thank you.

And as for my sistas, may the sismance continue. I love you all.

Happy Valentine’s Day! 

XXOXX

 

 -Ruth

_________

Notes (skippable unless you’re a Twihard):

1. The Tom Sturridge interview is here: http://www.bullz-eye.com/movies/interviews/2009/tom_sturridge.htm
2.  Tom’s more loyal to Rob than most Hollywood wives are to their husbands . . . Hence, all the joking in the Twilight Fandom about their bromantic relationship that I keep running across. If you’re obsessive enough to be curious to see whether the rumors are true, or if the man-love is even real, here are a couple cute videos made by fans and admirers who couldn’t help but notice their close bond: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jtLurR1XMEY;  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UoQ39wCiT8Q (This latter one is a clip in which a clever/crazy fan surprises Rob by wearing a “TomStu[rridge] Loves You” tee shirt to an autograph signing. Rob’s VERRY British schoolboy reaction from the left hand side = priceless. And the follow-up comment by Rob about the incident is here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DKOC26o77fk).

 

Ruth Sees London, Sees France, is Happy to See Return of Underpants

Quick post, for my girls (and what the heck, for my guys, too). I saw an article today and just had to do a happy dance (without a wedgie).  I long ago predicted that the boy-short panty, while a bit more modest than its so-popular miniscule predecessor, would come to rule; with that, I hoped that low-cut jeans and whale-tails would become (thankfully) extinct.  Turns out I was right on both counts—only because I’ve been noticing a trend towards modesty in this economy that lately, with the exception of Lady Gaga, women as a whole are now embracing.  Just thought I’d share the news about the death of the thong and the super-low rise jean:

www.cosmopolitan.com/celebrity/fashion/thongs-0210?click=cos_new

What do you think? Will you miss the thong (butt-floss, t-strap, super-wedgie, slingshot)? Or do you prefer the “cheeky” shorts that leave a teensy bit more to the imagination and keep one covered when they slide above the hem of one’s low-rise jeans?  I for one think it’s a fashion-forward step, and it will help gals feel and look a lot more respectable.

 

Christians Are Bad at Sex (Or at Least, Handling it): Part 2

Sorry for the wait, folks.  I’ve been working at the restaurant and fighting off being sick (which means sleeping a lot, rather than staying up late and writing). Thanks for your patience. Without further ado, here is the second half of the essay.

How Christians Can Get Better at Sex (Or, at Least, at Handling It)

When they’re out in the dating world, Christians would do well to remember Jesus’ advice to his disciples, which was in the last post, but here as a reminder:

“I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. Therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves.  Be on your guard against men.” (Matt. 10:16-17)

When it comes to sex, too many Christian young adults are “doves” who completely lack the “shrewd” predatory knowledge of the “snakes” of this world. Knowing too little about sin, sex, and evil, as well as the tendency to create well-intentioned-but –impossible rules to safeguard against sin, can trip up a genuinely God-chasing Christian in some potentially devastating ways.

Innocents Mired in Ignorance: How the Doves Get Bitten by Serpents

The first danger, of course, comes about from lack of knowledge about sex in general—a gap of ignorance that usually plagues the sheltered, homeschooled Christian. When the world intrudes on the happy-puppy bubble of the sheltered Christian, that Christian suddenly faces a sexual situation for which he or she had no preparation or defense.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to define common sexual terms to an over-sheltered Christian gal-pal of mine who stood in the middle of a conversation and blindly (deafly?) didn’t even realize what she was laughing about while she tried to fit in.  If she’d been solicited for a “blowjob” in high school, I think she might have thought someone wanted her to inflate a balloon animal.

Funny?  Yes. Tragic and dangerous as Hell?  Ohmybunnies, yes.  This girl needed to learn the ways of the serpents and fast—and that meant she needed to study some Parseltongue (yes, that is a Harry Potter reference; it refers to the language of snakes).

Herpetologists-turned-Ophidiophobes: Hiding From the World and from Sexuality

On the other end of the scale, we have those Christians who have seen and heard enough of our sex-saturated culture to decide that they would like to find ways to shut themselves out of it completely–and away from all the serpents hidden in the grass.  These are our paranoid law-makers in the purity movement, those like Leslie Ludy , who, after being scarred in the battlefield of the early high school dating game, pulled herself out of public school in order to keep her virginity intact. She now counsels girls not to even kiss a man until they’re at the altar.1    Others, like Joshua Harris, counsel against close contact, being alone with one’s love interest, and even hand-holding.

Holding hands is really evil. See these sea otters? Totally going to Hell for their lusty thoughts as they float along.

A good idea? You decide.  All I’ll say is, it’s not exactly biblical.  The bride in the Song of Solomon sure mentions kissing prior to the wedding, even complaining that she’s upset that they can’t respectably steal kisses in public until they’re married (Ch. 8, v. 1).  Apparently, it’s natural for lovers on the edge of commitment to have that kind of longing; there is no judgment against it from a “God-voice” in the text.

Again, I have to wonder what all of this phobic treatment of sexuality does for their future intimate relationships.  I will say that it certainly doesn’t help Christians to have a great influence in the modern dating world, since many of these Christians retreat from that as well, preferring small Christian circles of “courtship” where these rules are adhered to and accepted.

Modest vs. Maddeningly Frumpy

Another side-effect of this movement involves a big emphasis on modesty. Now, I am a fan of modesty on principle, just because I know how visual men are.  I don’t do miniskirts and I try to keep my pitiful cleavage hidden, just so I don’t tempt some poor soul into some really dirty thinking. Also, I don’t want to look like a whore.  Just sayin’.

However, take a good concept like modesty, give it over to the paranoid-Christians, and it becomes a kind of law-enforced frumpery.  In an attempt to deter the sexual instinct, Christian women (and men) begin looking less like pretty, innocent doves and more like drab pigeons.  Or like Puritans.  (Heck, not even like Puritans–those men wore really tight pants back in the day, and the women actually defined the shape of their waists with stays and aprons.)

Some of you might think this is a silly point to bring up, since a shapeless wardrobe and a lack of cosmetic sense isn’t spiritually dangerous.  But I think this kind of hyper-modesty is a symptom of a nasty trend of scripture-twisting that is as risky as it is ugly.

A lot of Christians justify their drapery (sorry, I won’t call that stuff clothing) and their rules against makeup based on 1 Timothy 2, in which Paul tells little Timmy about his hopes that their little communities of the followers of the Way (early Christianity) would “live peaceful and quiet lives in all godliness and holiness” (v. 3).  One of the suggestions/desires Paul lists to this end is one about modesty:

“I also want the women to dress modestly, with decency and propriety, adorning themselves, not with elaborate hairstyles or gold or pearls or expensive clothes, but with good deeds, appropriate for women who profess to worship God.” (v. 9-10, NIV)

Paranoid Christians take this to mean that we shouldn’t wear clothing that shows the shapes of our bodies (it’s too sinful, even if skin is covered), and that makeup, ear piercings, or anything that would alter our so-called “natural” appearance should never be worn, since it can be distracting to the opposite sex.

But 1 Peter 3:3 clarifies what’s really meant here:

“Your adornment must not be MERELY external–braiding the hair, and wearing gold jewelry, or putting on dresses …” (emph. added)

In other words, it’s not the adornment that is the issue; it’s the lack of internal beauty to back it up that the apostles wanted to warn us against.

Makeup is evil. Here is Ruth, dragging herself, and maybe some men, down to Hell because she cannot resist eyeliner and lipgloss.

Adornment is never explicitly frowned upon in scripture, and is often given to the most important women in the Good Book, including the beautiful Sarah (Abraham’s wife), Rebekah (wife of Isaac, see Gen. 24),  Esther, Abigail (David’s first wife, whose beauty kept him from killing a man in a fit of fury), the Shulamite bride in Song of Solomon, Israel’s female incarnation in the famous metaphor (Isaiah 16), and even the bride of Christ described in the Book of Revelation.   As for cosmetics, we know that Esther underwent months of beauty treatment in the Persian palaces and used cosmetics in her bid to win the heart of the king and save her people.  Heck, even Moses and Joseph would have worn guyliner in Egypt, both as a symbol of their status and as cosmetic enhancements. God appreciates and celebrates beauty, and doesn’t condemn those who do the same.

Moreover, God designed both men and women to be visually stimulated, men especially so.  When godly single women decide to dress themselves hyper-modestly, it often sends men the message that they are sexually unavailable, and often makes them look unattractive as well.   These mistaken impressions make it hard for these women to compete in the current dating market—and they get unfairly passed over.  Men who underemphasize the importance of a well-maintained appearance and gentlemanly wardrobe likewise get passed over by women seeking an attractive mate.  This issue, created by an over-emphasis on modest dressing and anti-sexuality, has even been covered in an article by Boundless Webzine’s Candace Watters, entitled “Not Enough Beauty.”  In this piece, Watters admits, “knowing that men have to fight their sin nature … is not justification for women to neglect their outward appearance.”2  I’ve talked to a lot of Christian women who use this excuse as a reason not to lose weight, wear more tailored garments, or put on makeup, and I’ve also heard it from some men who claim they want a woman to “love them for who they are,” rather than for their biceps.  As a result, I now have a sneaking suspicion that many Christians are really just using the whole modesty issue as justification to get away with not trying very hard, and that’s bad stewardship of our bodies.

So you see, ugliness really is a problem in Christian churches—it’s not just my pet peeve.  Worse, in their attempt to shut down those naughty sexual instincts by dressing themselves in the modern tailor’s equivalent of flour sacks, paranoid Christians not only fly in the face of biology, stewardship, and even God’s taste, they condemn the sacred connection between the sensual and the aesthetic.

Their attempts at severing of that connection is a great poverty, and not what God intended for us.  Not to mention, unsexy to the detriment of relationship potential. eHarmony is full of nice Christian guys who are not sexy at aaallll. And it frustrates the heck out of a girl like me who is saving sex for marriage and would like to have it with a Christian man who turns me on. Too much to ask?  Apparently, yes. If I don’t stop being matched to twenty-something-aged men already gone soft in the gut who wear elastic waisted pants with pleating on the trouser-leg, I’m going to get desperate and ask God to strike me blind so I can get married off to the first Christian man on my match list who has a nice voice.

And . . . that’s enough for my rant on ignorance and prudery.   I want to close this discussion with some considerations that are more elementally vital to the topic of Christian sexual ethics.

First, I think we can all agree that the act of sex is intended to be sacred.  But does that necessarily mean that it is something to be feared, or something to be respected and revered?  I would contend that Christians who treat sexuality as something that is dirty or frightening or wrong in-and-of itself are going against the way God would have us treat his gift for us.  Sex, with all its emotion-altering, pleasure-giving, and generative power, should not be treated lightly, but neither should it be treated like Satan’s dark secret.  For Heaven’s sake (literally) educate your kids and yourselves on the subject; don’t avoid it like the plague.

Second, concerning our flesh, we as Christians need to decide whether our bodies are inherently evil as a result of the Fall, or if our bodies still hold good instincts and beautiful desires that have been merely flawed, turned awry, or “bent” as C.S. Lewis calls it in his novel, Out of the Silent Planet.  Reread the first few chapters in Genesis for yourself tonight, and see what you make of it.

Finally, I’d like to close with a scripture that is often overlooked, but may help us to better understand how God views our struggles with the flesh:

 “As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him; for he knows how we are formed, he remembers that we are dust.” (Ps. 103:13-14)

This is a reminder that we shouldn’t judge ourselves more harshly than God does.  The occasional lust is just a sign that we are still dust, and hormone-ridden little dust bunnies at that.  Take those urges and pursue marriage–which is a God-honoring use of those feelings.  And if you’re married, go have fun messing around with your spouse. That’s God-honoring, too.  Hooray for sex!

References:

1. Ludy, Leslie. Authentic Beauty. Sisters, OR: Multnomah, 2003.  45-62.
2. Watters, Candace. “Boundless Answers: Not Enough Beauty.” Boundless Webzine. <http://www.boundless.org/2005/answers/a0001400.cfm&gt;.

 

Notes:

In 1997’s extremely popular Christian pop-culture-forming book, I Kissed Dating Goodbye, author Joshua Harris argues that Christians

“have to understand purity as a pursuit of righteousness. When we view it merely as a line, what keeps us from going as close as we can to the edge?  If sex is the line, what’s the difference between holding someone’s hand and making out with that person?  If kissing is the line, what’s the difference between a goodnight peck and fifteen minutes of passionate lip-lock?”

He concludes that the only way to keep ourselves pure is to “flee as far and as fast as [we] can from sin and compromise” (91).   This leads him to give all kinds of advice on how couples should behave—extending laws of nearly no-contact—in his follow-up book, Say Hello to Courtship.  Harris steps into legalism here and begins to ignore important things like intention in one’s behavior in a relationship. Is it sinful to express affection and longing to your fiancée?  I argue that it isn’t—that it’s a natural and necessary stoking of the fire that will be lit in a passionate marriage; Josh argues that it is  simply because such behavior can tease one’s beloved with the prospect of sex that can’t be righteously be fulfilled yet.  Please note, dear readers, that even Harris admits to having trouble keeping his eyes from lusting after his fiancée.  I giggled when he admitted it with a terrible sense of shame, like it was something Satanic.   I think God might have chuckled a bit and wished he’d included a verse in the Bible that told over-anxious gits who desire to foreswear all natural desires to just get over themselves.  I’m sure God wouldn’t tell them to follow the other alternatives: to join the Gnostics or the Buddhists, who view flesh as either entirely evil or as an illusion, respectively.