This is the last time I will blog a depressing blog on this subject. I promise. In fact, I wasn't going to do it, but when I told Libby this story, she liked it, and when I told my mom the story, she kept saying "That is just the best story." ALL YESTERDAY AFTERNOON.
So what better to do when you wake at 6 am on a Saturday than tell a story?
Without going into too much specifics, let me just tell you that I had a rejection this week. By a boy. I knew I wasn't going to hear what I wanted to hear, but I'm one of those girls who just HAS TO GO FOR IT. (I'm still waiting for that personality trait to pay off.) I just needed my feelings out in the air. Bad move? Probably, but whatever. It happened.
Timeout. Anyone else seen Mat Kearney's "Ships in the Night" video? Could he sing if he was sitting on his hands?
I take rejection WAAAAAY too personally sometimes. Every time, actually. I will literally sit there for a very long time and try to dissect what exactly was wrong with me and why exactly I wasn't good enough for something. (This does not only happen in the area of boys. It can be with my own family, even. Or jobs. Or any manner of silly thing.) But in my defense, being rejected isn't really anything that's easy and you just go "OK! COOL! THANKS FOR CRUSHING MY MOST OF ME!!" and then skip through a flowery meadow. But I still didn't need to take it as hard as I did.
It. Was. Ridiculous. I seriously don't even know who that Thursday Katie was.
When I got home for lunch on Thursday, I pulled into the garage and just sat in my car and ugly cried for awhile. Through the swollen, puffy slits in my face that I now called "eyes", I looked up and through the tears I noticed one of the old clear tubs that contains my precious childhood artifacts. I could see the outline of Squeaky Mouse, and Bunny, and then I saw the face of a little lion that I had never named and quite frankly, I'd forgotten I'd even kept him.
"HAH!" I bitterly said out loud, "Betcha wish you could go back to THOSE DAYS." and I got out of my car and slammed every door I could find. (Again. Totally mature.) I went in, sat on my couch, watched "Sherlock", yelled, pet Cordy, and did everything BUT eat. (Why? Because someone would notice I wasn't eating? *rolls eyes*)
I got back to work, and I was there for about an hour when I could feel the tears well up again and I had to excuse myself to the bathroom. Sometimes it's nice working at a place with public restrooms. There's a certain anonymity that comes with it. You don't have to worry about people knocking on the door and asking "Are you OK in there?".
I locked myself in my favorite middle stall and buried my face in my hands and prayed "Lord, I just do NOT GET THIS. I've been locking myself in this stall and having this conversation with you since last NOVEMBER. WHAT THE HECK!?!? What is it about him that reduces me to an angry, ridiculous, kicking, screaming, crying, temper tantrum throwing maniac? I never even threw temper tantrums like this when I was a KID!!" (My parents can back me up on that.)
And then God ever so gently reminded me of one.
I was waaaaay too old to have a temper tantrum. Like 10 or 11. Yeah. It's embarrassing. (Almost as embarrassing as being 27 and doing the same thing, but I digress.) I was going through this "BUY ALL THE STUFFED ANIMALS!!!" phase. (I was probably too old for that as well.) If I felt a "connection" with one, I HAD to take it with me and give it love and a wonderful home. (And write stories about it. When I was a kid, I didn't have Instagram so I wrote stories instead.)
My family and I went to Walmart one night (it must've been quite the outing because even my Dad went, and he friggin HATES Walmart) and of course my brother and I asked to go look at toys. (Even now, when I'm at work and I hear kids ask their parents "CAN I GO LOOK AT TOYS??!??!" it brings a smile to my face.) We went to go look and I went straight for the stuffed animals.
And theeeeerrrrrrree he waaaaaaasssss!! The cutest little tiger you ever saw. He had the cutest eyes, the cutest little eyebrows, and he had a stuffed body with limp legs and huge stuffed paws. He almost looked like a little puppet. Oh! And the best part? He had a little voice box and he ROARED. I know. I know. It was simply too much.
When Mom and Dad came back around, I attacked them immediately.
So, I snuck away in order to attack my only other option: my brother.
"Ok." (He was considerably easier to persuade.)
So I informed my parents of our new plan, and their response?
This resulted in me CRYING and BEGGING and PLEADING and just being overwhelmingly unruly and stupid. It also resulted in lots of weird looks from strangers. I vowed then and there that I WOULD be returning for that tiger.
It was the mid 90's, and my mom actually painstakingly planned her trips to Walmart, so it would be at least a week before I made it back. When I got there, the tiger was GONE. But there was a lion like it, so it would just have to do. I would not be defeated.
As I exited the stall after that lovely trip down memory lane, I was like "Ok. Fine. Thanks for reminding me of that stupid story, God." And I wiped my eyes and went to go get a drink out of the drinking fountain. I was just about to take a drink when it hit me: The little lion face I saw peering out of the clear tub at lunch, the lion I hadn't thought of in YEARS and actually kinda forgot I even HAD, was THAT lion.
What in the HAIL?!?!?
Why would I even look up and notice that tub when I was on lunch? What would've caused me to even THINK to look up when I was crying my face off in my car?
Sometimes, you don't get the tiger you want and beg and plead for. And sometimes the lion seems like your reluctant second choice, but in the long run, it might be a better choice and you might need it.
He's one dapper dude. Look at that face.
Also, he can rock the shades.
It was "fun" digging him out of the tub when I got home. It was on the tippy top shelf and so I had to take off my heels, stand on an old DQ chair in the garage, somehow perch over the lawnmower AND a bicycle, move a Christmas tree box, and then attempt to pull him out of the middle of the tub. It obviously worked, but I was hoping my body wouldn't pull a "Grace" and end up a crumbled bag of bones on the garage floor.
Here lies Katie: She was retrieving a stuffed animal for a metaphor.
P.S. Little Lion Man needs a name. Any suggestions?