Jigging at the Bit

I’m breaking up with Vegas.

These days I walk a fine line; a fine line I tell you. I go about my daily business as usual, but just beneath the surface boils an eager anticipation of the future. It isn’t bad, but it is distracting. It’s a willingness, a hunger, a craving for change that leaves me restless at night.

I recognize it from my other life.

It’s the heart racing power of 1200 pounds of muscle between your knees, sidling, prancing, snorting in frustration. Head tossing. Mouthing the steel – testing the tension on the reins. Asking when, when, when can we go…

I used to be the one holding the reins which was kind of fun, but now I am the one jigging at the bit. And it is Not Fun.
If you just showed up in this story, let me give you the rearview mirror version.

For twenty eight years I was a rancher. That went to hell in a hand basket and I hit the road with a new job. I fell into Sin City working a mine site about two years ago and so help me God, I’ve been hunting a way out ever since. Not that I don’t like my job (although for a while there it was touch and go). Not that I don’t have nice digs, or plenty of food. Not that my needs aren’t met here. More than met. Exceeded.

I just don’t belong.

I am a straggly mutt that strayed into the Kennel Club and can’t find the exit. I’m the homeless man outside the Casino. The prostitute in church. Like Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady, I have learned the jargon, the fashion, the ways of the city… but I open my mouth and the world around me jars to a halt.

It is City Mouse meets Country Mouse and I am the Country Mouse.

I don’t know what’s next for me and that is kind of making me crazy, I admit. I know I’m not going to be transferred to the outback. I know they won’t send me to the Middle of Nowhere. But wherever it is, it won’t be here and that’s okay with me.

I’m through with silicone breasts and tummy tucks and acrylic nails and hair extensions and men that look like women and women that look like skeletons. Don’t get me wrong – what happened in Vegas won’t stay here. Someday I’ll share the stories. But right now, I can’t.  I’m too ready to move on. Move forward. I’m ready to be anywhere but here.

That worries me for about a million reasons I can't explain, but if you're a horseman, you already know.
To put it plainly, I'm jigging at the bit. And that, my friend, is a bad habit. A waste of time that gets you nowhere and does not always end well... for the bit-jigger.

On Seeking Purpose and Not Finding It

I’ve been thinking a lot about purpose lately. About how we all have one. About how maybe we live it out, in spite of our mistakes and our best intentions.  In spite of ourselves.

About how we are all chosen for a purpose … and how we foolishly think we have a say in how everything is going to play out.

About Why.

And as usual, the hazy chaos of my thoughts finally settle like dust and find truth in the familiarity of a corral.

The gate fell open with a creak and the metallic chime of chain against pipe. All heads raised at the sound, ears swiveling inquisitively toward the source.  A lanky sorrel with a crooked blaze took one shuffling step forward to greet me. I slid my hand under his chin, up around the strong curve of his jaw to his ears. He nuzzled my shoulder affectionately. I ruffled his mane and ran my hand along his back but passed him by.  He was a good horse – had a nice smooth trot that covered the distance without reorganizing your organs, but a little bit clumsy at times. Definitely not suited for the job at hand. 

Next to meet me was the stocky roan. This bad boy had a chest deep enough to drive a Mac truck through.  He was my first choice for pen work but his hooves were soft. Even with shoes, it would be unkind to take him up the canyon. Maybe even a little dangerous – nobody wanted to take a spill onto a solid sheet of rock and I sure didn't want to take the chance of hurting him. So, I passed him by with a pat on his butt.

I needed a specific horse today because I had a specific purpose.

I found him standing quietly in the corner, hip cocked, head down, eyes deliberately averted, pretending he was not The One. A black tipped ear tracked my approach and at the last moment he took a step to the side in a half-hearted attempt to escape. An unspoken disapproval was exchanged and he halted, turned to face me, let me slip the rope under his jaw and around his neck.

To anyone watching it would appear the choice was random. In reality, it was anything but. I knew the bay: knew he had a trot like a jackhammer and could be stubborn. I also knew his hooves were like iron and he was sure footed as a mule. It might not be fun, but he would finish the job.

Though our lives may appear to be random, I don’t believe they are.  Just as the bay didn't choose me that day, the Bible says we did not choose God.  God chose us for reasons known only to Him. He knows things about us that even we don’t know.  He knows our strengths.  He knows our abilities.  More important: he knows the job that needs to be done and selects us with that specific purpose in mind. 

There are so many things I don’t understand. Why am I alone at this stage in my life? Why do have this sudden exchange of people I interact with daily? Why do none of them speak the languages in which I am fluent – Horse, Ranch, Art? What is my purpose in this place that is so very foreign to me?

I mull over this particular quandary a lot. On the drive to work. On the drive home. On weekends, when I hide in my apartment because I'm weary of the very strangeness of my life. I am like a dog, turning in circles, trying to find a place to rest. In the end, I have to admit – I have no clue. I simply don’t know. I can't know. I'm not equipped. That’s the point where faith comes in, I think.  Faith in something bigger, something smarter: I thank God for that faith because it is the only thing that gives me rest. 
And like that bay, when I feel his approach in the dusty corral I can turn away and try to escape or I can stop, turn, let Him slip that rope halter around my neck and follow him into the next great adventure.

In the words of Rich Mullins - I can’t see how you’re leading me unless you’ve led me here. Where I’m lost enough to let myself be led… and so you’ve been here all along I guess. It’s just your way. And you are just plain hard to get.

We All Need a Hero

Returning to the workplace after such a long hiatus, you see things with fresh eyes. My heart isn’t hardened to The Way It Is yet. I see people struggling to balance the responsibilities of family and work; people who are afraid they aren’t getting it right; people who hurt. And it really bothers me. These people need a hero. Maybe not the kind with the cape, but at the very least, they need someone who can fly, you know?  Someone who can show them it’s okay to be wrong sometimes. It’s okay to fall down and skin a knee. It’s okay to fail.

In my office, I am the resident One Who Has Failed.

There is a large sign hanging over my desk. It reads: Ms Knowitall. Underneath that sign hangs another, smaller sign with the word Logic with a circle and a line drawn through it in the universal language that means ‘Hell No’. And beneath those two signs is a third, even smaller – a picture of a bat wearing eyeglasses. The fourth says Bullshit Taker Miracle Maker. And last but not least, my name. Not one of these names or signs were created by me. They have all been assigned by coworkers.

People coming into my office for the first time stare, but don’t often ask for an explanation and I don’t often offer one. It has been an evolution of identity and I leave it there to remind me I wear many hats, and not one of them is professional. I am not so vain as to think there’s a single thing I do, one single task I perform that cannot be performed by someone else. Someone younger. Someone smarter. Someone cheaper. Someone more experienced. Someone (let’s face it, I’m in a man’s industry) with a penis.

I lose keys. I am voraciously sarcastic. I have pranked every single person in the office to the power of 10. I am perimenopausal so I am either cold or hot but never allowed to touch the thermostat. I purchased a voodoo doll, clearly labeled, and hung it by the neck until dead on the wall over my boss’s desk.  Frankly, I’m not sure why I’m still employed.

But I am. And so long as I am, I will pack my Supergirl lunch box, don my hardhat and steel toes, and show up with a smile. Because there’s a job to do. There’s a problem to solve. There’s a team that is missing its court jester.

See, I used to think my job in life was to Be a Christian and Change the World for Christ. Then I thought it was to be a Mom and change my kids for Christ.  Then I thought maybe I ought to just work on changing me for Christ.  

Two years in Vegas and I realized something. I think I’m just supposed to be Me.

I mean, if Jesus wanted to change me, he would’ve done it himself, right? Before I was born and before I caught my clothes on fire during a meeting with the NRCS folks, before my static-cling red panties fell out of the bottom of my jeans in public, before I renamed that poor subcontractor “Hymen” on - God help me - every document known to mankind.

This whole stint in Sin City has been an identity crisis in reverse for me. Instead of concentrating on all the things I need to change about myself and others, maybe I ought to take a lesson from the bat with the eyeglasses… Bats don’t use their eyes to fly. They use the magical, mystical powers God gave them to navigate the dark night.

My magical mystical power is the Power of Laughter. Great Big Belly Jiggling Laughter. Nehemiah said it best. “The Joy of the Lord is your strength.” And you know what? I’m perfectly okay with that.

Because when you look down and see your panties hanging out where your feet go, you can either laugh or you can cry.

And I am done crying.

The Worm and I

Skepticism is not overrated. In fact, it ranks up there with breathing and not walking in front of trains when it comes to self-preservation.

For the record, I am a life-long skeptic.

I’m a skeptic, dammit. I don’t order diet pills or vitamins. I don’t even listen to AM radio.  

I just don’t do these things.

Liposonix. Non-invasive weight loss. No diets. No exercise. No way. Who buys that kind of malarkey?

Apparently, me.

It doesn’t hurt… that bad. It’s just a little burn.

Bull shit. It’s a little bit of a burn like when I put the cattle prod on my own foot and pulled the trigger. Yeah. That’s what it’s like. I raised a finger, signaling for the technician to pause in her torture before I twitched off the table like a fish flopping on the shore.

I drew a shaky breath. I don’t think this is going to work for me.

She actually seemed surprised. Clearly, she has not sampled the wares. Why not?

Because if you touch me with that thing again, I’m going to have to kill you.

Either the conviction in my voice or the drool dripping from my chin convinced her. Oh. Okay. Hmm.

I laid my forehead on my folded arms and felt the electricity leaving my body in jaggedy sparks. Holy hellfire it hurt.

You could try the coolsculpt.

What’s that?

It freezes the fat and explodes the fat cells.

Exploding fat cells works for me. I only have this one day off and I am already here, already on the table…already have the squares mapped off on my flanks like a Google grid. If at first you don’t succeed, try something else. That’s how I roll.

She scooted the machine over to me and drew out one long hose. I tried hard not to think of how much it looked like an alien worm, with its fat gaping mouth as she prepared my flesh for the suction cup. The worm pressed its lips to my flanks and began to inhale. I had to look away. It was just … wrong.

The technician asked me if it hurt. I shook my head and put in my earbuds, cranking up Joss Stone. After near electrocution and setting myself on fire, pain was relative. She dimmed the lights and left the room. One hour later, she was back and prying the worm off of my butt. I made the mistake of looking over my shoulder. 

For real. 

For real, there was a stick of butter beneath my skin. Frozen butter. Technician began to knead. The tickling sensation was unbearable. I pressed my face into the towel and banged my fist into the table, giggling like a sugared up five year old.

Roll. Reattach the worm on the other side. Repeat.

I woke up this morning and prayed no accident befell me on the way to work, lest I end up in the hospital. Because I’m not sure they’d believe THAT is how I got two giant hickeys on my ass. 

It can take up to 12 weeks to see the results. At that point, I'm supposed to be so impressed I will want to suffer through another session.

I am... skeptical.