minalisms

For those who haven’t heard the news yet: I’m pregnant. If all goes as planned, my baby boy will be born in mid-July, which puts me at right about the midpoint of my pregnancy.

I’ve been nudged by several friends and relatives throughout the past few months to blog about this news. But one of the reasons I haven’t is that it’s not simple describing what I classify as indescribable. How can you define something that’s so many things, often different things, to so many people? Like love.

Ben and I haven’t made any noticeable preparations for Baby yet. I’m still putting off all purchases of maternity clothes, and the soon-to-be nursery is still an office without order. Four-and-a-half months until labor pains and I already feel like a bad parent. I think I’m catching on.

There are reminders throughout the day: I am going to be a mom. Ben is going to be a dad. We are going to be responsible for the life of a tiny human being.

And that’s when I fall back to square one, where no words justify the emotion behind those statements.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’

Actually, who are you not to be?

- Marianne Williamson
“A Return to Love”

I’m sensitive to wasteful habits. This is why I have a particular distaste for Vegas. I have a hard time coming to terms with the gazillion watts of flashing lights, the platefuls of uneaten buffet food and, of course, the money that more often than not disappears into slot machines or dealers’ hands.

It’s just as agitating to spot waste on a smaller scale. My husband knows this. That’s why he’s careful to switch off lights when he leaves a room and knows not to wander too far away while waiting for running water to warm up. He knows that not respecting resources will ignite a fury within me that would scare even the Grim Reaper.

The problem is I have to keep this fury in check at work, where there is waste aplenty.

I’ve kept my mouth shut and my hands to myself in the ladies restroom, where women leisurely dry their hands while keeping the water running, just so they can use their wet paper towel to turn off the faucet.

I’m also full of guilt and remorse when I let my mind imagine the fate of leftover food from the cafeteria, or the scores of trash bags filled with Styrofoam plates and unrecycled plastics.

Seriously, folks! Who are we? Unapologetic, convenience-driven parasites?

The thing is, you and I may be fortunate enough to afford water, electricity, food and a home far away from a landfill, but others  in our very own world don’t have such simple pleasures.

Wise up, please.

Jesus and Saint Peter are golfing. St. Peter steps up to the tee on a par-3 and hits one long and straight. It reaches the green.

Jesus is up next.

He slices it. The ball heads over the fence into traffic on an adjacent street. It then bounces off a truck, onto the roof of a nearby shack and into the rain gutter, down the drain spout and onto a lily pad at the edge of a lake. A frog jumps up and snatches the ball in his mouth just before an eagle swoops down and grabs the frog. As the eagle flies over the green, the frog croaks and drops the ball. It’s in the hole.

Exasperated, Saint Peter looks at Jesus and asks, “Are you gonna play golf? Or are you just gonna fuck around?”

I went to dinner and a movie with my girlfriends last night. It was the midnight showing of “The Twilight Saga: New Moon,” the film adaptation of the second novel in Stephanie Meyer‘s four-part series, and, yes, we were among hordes of fangirls.

I don’t know what was more awesome: the two hours of girl talk throughout dinner or the deliciously bronzed and buffed Quileute werewolves on the big screen. Decisions, decisions.

There is one thing I am sure of, however, and it is that I am no longer fit to horse around until 3 a.m. on a weeknight.