Madly In Love and Broke As Hell

I remember the first time my Aunt Beth ever spoke of her glory days.

I had no job, she told me, I sold jewelry to get my first apartment, and I had rent-to-own furniture. 

I did not know what rent-to-own furniture even was.

I'd go in once a month to see my furniture, she told me, I'd wave at it and tell it how pretty it was. Then I'd turn in my payment once a month until it was paid off and I could take the pieces home. 

As a product of my fortunate upbringing, I could not understand such a thing. I mean, what did she sit on for all those months?

Lawn chairs. 

It puzzled my anxious heart even then, as I have always been a planner in desperate need of as much control as possible. How did my Aunt Beth even get by?

Well darlin', she shrugged, You just do what you gotta do. 

I've probably lived my entire life by that statement since that moment. You do what you gotta do. Never a word so true. And we revisited the story of her furniture the night before I left for Tennessee; the night before I was to embark on my "glory day" part of my story.

"I'm a little anxious," I admitted, "Excited. But anxious."

"Oh darlin'," she smiled again, "I think you're about to experience the best part of your life."

It's strange to think of what my life was like only a month ago. I had a routine. And I was comfortable. I was celebrating the end of student teaching with my cooperating teacher's baby shower and 21 incredibly enthusiastic five-year-olds, all wound up and ready for summer. I was tossing my hat in the air, receiving a diploma from Missouri State University and praying that I had passed my teacher certification exam. I was looking forward, never backwards; excited to move to my first metropolitan area, excited to have my first apartment completely to myself, and excited to be able to go out with my Nashville music man whenever I wanted.

I was applying to jobs every day, updating my resume at every turn and anxiously awaiting phone calls for interviews. Any time anyone called from a 615 area code, I would mentally prep myself for the tone I was to answer the phone and the things I wanted to make sure I said before meeting the principal in person.

The 615 calls always ended up being a telemarketer, or my apartment calling to say they'd fixed the locks on my door, or the pharmacy up the street telling me my prescription was ready. I always ended up more stressed than I was before. Go figure.

But nearly a week ago, I was cooking out of an electric skilled plugged into my living room outlets via extension chord (since my kitchen outlets didn't work), when my boyfriend walked in with a surprise. I froze when I saw the little round Kate Spade box in the corner, attached to a small envelope with my name on the front in Dylan's handwriting. A designer gift from my music man who was, while more established than I at that present moment, was by no means in the most comfortable position to afford such a thing.

The envelope contained a letter explaining that I was worth a little extra money, a little extra time apart, and a little extra struggle from a long distance relationship. It was a letter to remind me that we had made it five months through the most transitional part of our lives, and that there was certainly no intention of giving up this time around since we had already lost each other once. It was a letter to remind me that if we had reconnected after five years and done all this in only five months, there was no way to to fathom all that could happen for me, and for us, in the next few months. Or the next year. Or the next five years.

And so I found myself sitting on a blanket atop a cold apartment floor, adorned in golden spade earrings, eating chicken and rice with the love of my life. One small lamp was on because my electric bill came with a start up charge, and a bottle of champagne was poured into coffee mugs to splurge and celebrate my move since we saved money by eating last week's dinners together. I made no money that week, and I didn't know where rent would come from if I didn't get hired soon.

But I was hopeful.

And years from now, when my music man has won a Grammy for his productions... or when I am recognized as an educator who established schools in third world countries... or when sparkling wine can be more of a regular occurrence because finances are comfortable... I will still remember this night over all.

No fancy Italian restaurant can beat this. No five-star vacation can beat this. You do not make these memories employed. Or on a comfortable budget. Or in a furnished apartment with your electricity on.

Apparently you have to be madly in love, and broke as hell.

So here's to my new adventure: to everything it does and doesn't entail. Here's to my romance: full of spontaneity and more joy than I thought could ever come from another person in my life. Here's to my past identity as a failure: the suitcase college grad with a Bachelor's degree and a teaching license going unused; and here's to my identity as a present victor: the girl who will never stop fighting to care, to love, and to teach. (And to pay her rent.)

Would I have a job earlier if I had stayed in Springfield, Missouri? Maybe. There's no way now to know. But one thing is for certain...that particular life was not meant for me. Oh yes, it has been made very clear that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

Madly in love.

...and broke as hell.

This is part 2 of the Suitcase College Grad series.

For part 1 of the trilogy, visit The Suitcase College Grad. 

For part 3 of the trilogy, visit Today Is The Day!

The Suitcase College Grad

I'd been on the road all day when I stopped at a little town just outside of Conway, Arkansas. You know how it is. Or if you don't, you've seen enough movies to guess. You know, when the sweet, young, twenty-something waltzes in to small town America.

No one dares to speak to her directly, but she is clearly the topic of many other discussions, from everyone between the elderly couple at their regular diner table to the high school boys who work as car mechanics up the street after school. If the town was any more picturesque, I would've expected to see Ren McCormick fighting the dance ban at the courthouse down the road.

Who is she? the whispering voices escape from those leaning in toward the other members of their party, We've never seen her before. 

That's the small town way to say, I wonder what her story is, or to put it more bluntly, What on earth is she doing here? 

To this town, I was exotic. Either decently established or carefree enough to live off her limited wad of cash. Fiercely independent, and presumably quite lonely. A vagabond, perhaps, passing through on the way to her next lot in life. Or someone who reported to a job every morning and was taking some much needed vacation time.

When in fact, quite the opposite was true...

I haven't had a residential address for the past two weeks. I've been living out of a suitcase in my hot-pink childhood bedroom, already moved out of Springfield, Missouri but not yet moved in to Nashville, Tennessee. I was making this trek to Nashville alone, my family and movers and semi truck full of furniture to come later. But these small town folk would never know, because no one bothered to ask.

Except the little girl with ringlet pigtails.

You see, kids are a little like dogs. Dogs can sense dog people. And kids can sense kid people. So when I sit alone at a diner in a southern small town, the first one to speak to me other than my waitress is a child.

"I like your shoes," she told me, pointing to my polka dot sneakers.

"Thanks," I smiled, "Yours are pretty cool, too."

She twirled around in her pink strappy sandals.

"Lexi, don't bother her!" a woman (I assumed it to be her mother) called toward us.

"She's fine," I reassured her. The woman stayed seated. She looked exhausted.

"You're here by yourself?" the little girl named Lexi asked.

"Yes, ma'am," I told her.

"No parents?"

"Not with me."

"Husband?"

"Nope."

"Cool," she said. And I laughed.

"Yeah," I realized in that moment, "It is pretty cool."

I paid my bill and tipped high because I was fortunate enough to never have to work food service or retail (I chose the daycare route instead), and waved the girl goodbye. I had to laugh when I saw my little blue car, stuffed to the brim with boxes and trash bags full of clothes. A lone traveler with her necessities (or items such as denim wedges she at least deemed to be necessities) leaving no room for a single other person in her car.

Well little Lexi... I've got a pretty awesome life awaiting me in Nashville. I've got a good apartment to live in and a man who loves me. I have no job, and no more than a couple hundred dollars in my bank account, but it's a good life. I have what's important, and I'll figure out the rest.

Sometimes you have to let go and let God, little Lexi. If you learn this now, maybe you'll be a less anxious lone traveler in polka dot sneakers one day. Maybe you'll be living out of a suitcase and passing through another small town on your way to another state. Maybe you'll be ready to start a life with your high school sweetheart after five years of waiting, and maybe you'll start searching for a job doing what you love most.

I hope you do. Because you said it best, kiddo.

It's pretty darn cool.

This is part 1 of the Suitcase College Grad series.

For part 2 of the trilogy, visit Madly In Love and Broke As Hell. 

For part 3 of the trilogy, visit Today Is The Day!

In Constant Bloom

"What does your boyfriend do?"

That's the question of the hour here in Springfield, Missouri...as every other graduate is sharing their most recent job offers and the only thing for certain in my life is that I am moving to Nashville.

"He's a music producer," I will answer, and their eyes light up. I usually kiss goodbye every opportunity to discuss my education career after that. After all, no one wants to hear about how you might be a teacher come August when you can instead tell them about the movie premier you attended last week at the Country Music Hall of Fame for Brad Paisley's visual album.

Thus begins my life as the Plus-One; the sweet, perky, well-mannered girlfriend at her musician's side. Not a single person in Springfield could see how my life could get any better. I have no job and I have no apartment, but dang, she gets to go to the coolest stuff! 

It's amazing how different the two worlds really are, seeing as I spent the past week in a city where you are ten times more interesting if you aren't in the entertainment industry. My boyfriend lives in a house with a musician and a film editor. Every friend of his I meet is an artist or editor or writer or entreprenuer. It would be far more welcomed to introduce myself as a freelance blogger than it would be to introduce myself as a teacher. That's the kind of thing his friends expect.

"I'm a kindergarten teacher," usually warrants one of two reactions:

"Why?!" is one of them, to which I will smile and explain that just as music is their gift and purpose, kiddos are mine. This reaction I understand. But the other makes my blood boil.

"Awww!" people will gush, "That's just so cute!" 

Yeah, it is cute, I suppose. We sing. We laugh. We get a lot of hugs. Our day ends at 3:30 and we get summers off. We may not get paid very much, and we aren't always very respected by the doctors and business owners and successful musicians of the world. But when these doctors and owners and musicians suddenly have a 5-year-old of their own... It becomes a lot more than cute. 

Suddenly, they're concerned with academics. How will their kids learn their letters? Numbers? Colors? Will they be able to read? Write? Count? Will they be able to use the technology tools of their generation? Will they appreciate the arts and the world around them? Will they take part in discussions and form thoughts for debate?

And what about their behavior? Where do they actually learn respect? How can you be sure they will gain responsibility? Will they be able to listen? To focus? Will they develop the positive mannerisms needed to lead, to follow, and to know when to do what in a team? Will they be kind? Helpful? Encouraging and humble?

And as if that's not enough for a new parent to worry about... When these kiddos graduate, they'll be expected to be confident. Curious. Passionate. They will need strong character and a good sense of humor. A positive mindset is key, social tact is required, and multiple interests are preferred.

I'm not in a cute profession. I'm in a beautiful profession. I don't make products to sell or medicine to distribute. My product is people. I do not do the same things doctors and business owners and musicians do, but I am the reason these professions exist, because I trained them. Could you imagine a doctor who didn't know how to read the patient chart, or couldn't locate their patient's arm to give them a shot? Could you imagine a business owner who couldn't keep up with the budget, or a musician who didn't understand counting or syllabic rhythms?

Of course not. That's what I do. That's what I teach.

And the best part is that I'm never bored. I'm never a perfect teacher. I'm always learning and changing and growing, right along with my kids. We are all flowers in the process of blooming; all learning to love ourselves despite where we are in the process of "success," as if success can truly be measured by reaching a certain point.

So no. I don't get many free passes to the Country Music Hall of Fame. But I do get to love my life every single day, because I love kids and I love learning. I love waking up and planning my own work for the day. I love never doing the same thing twice. I love getting paid to do what I've always wanted to spend my time doing. I love being in constant bloom.