Teddy's Laugh (Or What Happens When A Girl Says Cray-Cray)

[Zis is what happens when I go to Pot Belly when I'm stressed and find myself having a mighty need to write about one of the workers' laugh. Also, did you know that if you type "Full Body Laugh" into Google, the first thing that pops up is Jensen Ackles? You do now.]

His laugh is utterly intoxicating.

It’s dramatic and over the top and makes him erupt into full-bodied giggles.

And I got addicted the very first time I heard it.

I’m not going to lie, I really judge people by their laughter.

Those boys who barely even smile when they laugh? Or those girls who nervously giggle as they twirl their hair in mysterious ways as some kind of human flirtation?

Yeah. I hardcore judge them.

But when Teddy laughs, there is no room for judgment.

I met him for the first time a year after I moved to Nashville. That was after my doey-eyed-everyone-has-my-best-interest-at-and-if-I-just-smiled-enough-I-could-make-everyone-be-nice-to-me phase.

Yes. Go ahead and laugh. I deserved it.

When my boyfriend whom I moved to Nashville for just stopped texting or calling me back and I found out six months later it was because he got some Cindy or Kimberly or Rachel pregnant because I saw it on Instagram, when my landlord jacked up the price of rent a hundred bucks just because he could even though he knew that would mean me choosing between rent and eating every month, when my cat died and my boss laughed heartily when I asked if I could take a half day and then finally said, “Oh, you’re serious,” yeah.

That’s when I knew the doey-eyedness stage of my life was over.

I felt like a walking cliché, to be honest.

Small town girl moves to the “big city” of Nashville to change the world by taking pictures and teaching yoga to kids, ends up being a bartender at a halfway-classy-halfway-shady hipster bar, gets defeated by mean big city.

They would make my life into a desperate Hollywood film if only I had more romantic encounters instead of coming home every night to crackers and popcorn and People Magazine.

One night, a particularly rich group of hipster thirtysomethings-without-children came into my bar and were feeling saintly apparently because I went home with more in tips than I ever had in my year of bartending. So I decided to spoil myself with some of the money and get something for lunch other than ramen noodles and stale oyster crackers.

I had loitered outside of this one café lots of times, wishing I could make the pennies in my pocket magically turn into dollars so I could afford a $15 sandwich. The smells that came out of that place were not from this world, and it felt like they were taunting me.

But that day, I felt so cool as I walked in and proudly ordered a turkey-and-mushroom-on-wheat, sparing no expense and getting a side of sour cream and chive chips and a pickle with my water.

“No fountain drink?” the guy behind the counter asked me with a smile as he handed me my water cup.

“Let’s not go too cray-cray now,” I said, too hungry to think about the words before I said them.

I froze, my hand still outstretched for the water cup but not reaching far enough to actually take it from him.

Had I really just uttered the phrase cray-cray? I looked up in horror, ready to accept the mockery I deserved from this attractive mountain man making my sandwich.

But what I got was the laugh.

That amazing, refreshing, whole-hearted laugh.

“Oh man,” he said, wiping his eyes. “You made my day, sugar.”

I smiled brighter than I had in a year.

The Rainboots

[One time when we were in London when I was a kid, it was raining and I was grumpy because of the rain when we came out of the Starbucks from breakfast. There was a woman across the street who was wearing an amazingly fashionable outfit, complete with a blazer and skirt. And rainboots. The image of this professional woman wearing her rainboots on her walk to work stuck with me for years, and I've finally written it down.] 

Bryant couldn’t stop staring at her rainboots.

They came halfway up her leg, sitting a few inches below her knee. They had a green zig-zagging design on their gray background, and fit snuggly against her leg.

But it wasn’t really the rainboots themselves that caused Bryant to be unable to look away.

It was more the fact that she was wearing a professional blazer, skirt, and tights above the rainboots.

She shifted from one foot to the other as she stood in line to get her morning coffee, pulling out a book from her sachel.

Bryant chuckled to himself. Nearly everyone else in line – and all around the coffee shop – were on their phones.

She was the only odd ball with a book in line.

He leaned over in his chair to try and catch the title of her book, knocking over his bottled water in the process.

She looked up from her book at the sound of the bottle hitting the floor, her eyes searching for the source of the sound.

She caught sight of Bryant leaning down to pick up the bottle, gaining his eye contact when he straightened.

They looked at each other for a moment before she broke into a smile. Bryant sighed softly and smiled back.

“Next. Next!”

She started, realizing the barista was yelling at her. Quickly, she walked up to the counter.

Bryant strained to listen to her conversation, but the shop was far too crowded for him to hear.

However, he saw the barista’s face change from the robotic, fake half smile to a genuine grin as she said something Bryant couldn’t hear. The barista let out a loud, robust laugh, causing his whole body to shake. While Bryant still couldn’t hear, he smiled at the proud look on her face from making the barista laugh.

She walked to the pickup counter, engrossed in her book once again, the smile still on her lips.

“Grande iced coffee with caramel for Sarah.”

Her smile brightened as she slipped her book into her bag, reaching for the drink.

Sarah.

A good name.

She slowed down as she passed Bryant, smiling again before raising her cup in a toast and nodding to him, taking a large gulp.

He laughed, raising his own cup back at her.

She pulled her raincoat around her tightly as she stepped outside into the rain, splashing her feet playfully in a puddle before walking away and onto her day.

Day Whatever: The Rage Of Emotions

Hey, remember that time I said I was going to blog every day for 40 days, and then I did it? 

Yeah, me neither. 

Actually, I do. I'm just pretending I don't. 

That ended pretty quickly, really. I tried to keep up the pretense that I was still somewhat committed to that goal. But even that fell through. 

I tried, I really did. I would go to blog, and then just stare at a blank page for awhile, try to force myself to write something, remember how angry I get when I try to force myself to write when I don't know what to write, then close my computer dramatically, thinking that no one would notice if I didn't blog that day. 

Maybe not. But I noticed. 

Here's the thing I finally realized the other day: I'm not writing right now. And I'm doing that intentionally. 

I go through lots of phases where I don't write. I think every writer does at one point or another. 

But I don't think I've ever gone through a phase where I'm not writing because I don't feel worthy of writing. 

Which is where I am right now. 

Let me rephrase, or rewrite, or something with that. 

I want to be writing. Dear lord do I want to be writing. I know I was instilled with a lot of things when I was created by my Creator, and one of the big things I think I was instilled with was the need, not just a desire, to write. 

Write a schedule. Write a play. Write a short story. Write a letter. Write a work email. Write a brief. Write a scene. Write a sentence. 

Just write. 

Some people have music as their best friend. Some people have chocolate as their best friend. Some people have their husband or wife or cat as their best friend. 

I have words as my best friend. 

But I don't feel like I should right now. 

I don't feel worthy of words. 

I am a constant range of emotions these days. 

I actually first wrote out rage of emotions on accident, a typo. But the more I think of it, the more rage works better than range. 

I am a rage of emotions. 

I have the emotion of uselessness on a daily basis. I don't want someone to have to come up with things for me to do, I want to be busy. I want to be DOING things. I want to feel that if I didn't show up for the day, it would matter. 

I have the emotion of loneliness. A wonderful people person of a girl told me recently that marriage is not an automatic gift, that God doesn't give us a husband when we are good enough or following Him hard enough. If we would grow closer to God by having a husband by our side, if we could be even more impactful in God's will by being married, then it will be in His plan for us to be married. If we can do more to bring the glory of God to the world by being single, then we will be single. End of story. That is true. I want that to be true in my life. But that doesn't stop the ache of loneliness when so many people I know are being found by a love of a man. 

I have the emotion of anger. Anger because of the uselessness. Anger because of the loneliness. Anger because I don't appreciate this phase of life God is allowing me to walk through. 

I have the emotion of apathy. I'm too apathetic to pursue life. Sometimes that's just the honest truth. 

I have the emotion of tears. Yes, crying is an emotion all in its own. I think the older I get, the sappier I get. I cry at commercials these days [some commercials are just really sweet and powerful, okay?]. But I also get teary-eyed at beautiful sunsets. At church when people are feeling God's presence and uplifting their hands. At a kiss in a television show because the characters are just beautiful together and it finally happened. At a co-worker snapping a little too harshly. My tear ducts seem open and over eager to prove they work these days. 

I have all these emotions, and I feel like I need to get a better grip on them before I can approach words. 

This is not good. 

You do not want to be around me when I haven't written for several weeks. 

Writing is quite literally the only way I stay sane. 

Maybe that's why I haven't felt very sane the past few weeks. 

I know how to deal with lots of reasons for not writing because, as I said, I have been through them. 

I have been through the phases where I only write fan fiction. I know how to get over that. 

I have been through the phase where I just write plays. This is a phase I know to take in measures and strides and not pursue it too hard because I tend to get burned out most easily in this phase, so I have learned the tricks to this phase. 

I have been through the phase where I'm just too apathetic to write. This phase is the easiest: Go people watch for an hour with a notebook. I will come back with twenty story ideas, guaranteed, that I feel I must I must get out right there and then. 

I have been through the phase where everything I write is sad, where everything is too happy, where everything is just a sapfest, where everything is dark and twisted. I tend to know how to get out of these respective phases. 

But coming to write, trying to put pen to paper to come up with something real and raw, only to feel unworthy, like I don't deserve to write because I am a mess, this is a new one. 

So bear with me as I figure this one out. It may take awhile. 

Also. 

Sidenote. 

Welcome to my new obsession, friends. Be prepared for me to not be able to shut up about this.