Stealing Joy

I had heard of it, in passing.

I even recognized the characters’ names, somehow?

But I had never actually engaged. 

Through the advice of coworkers, two weeks ago I began watching episodes of FixerUpper.

 

I’ve had a strange urge 

to burn our house to the ground 

ever since.

For the three people left in this world not familiar with the show (I was one of you, only weeks ago), Fixer Upper is a home improvement show hosted by a young, charismatic couple that transforms dumps into dream homes…in one episode…with humor…and a perfect budget.

Every project they complete is fresher, brighter, and more charming than anything I’ve ever lived in. Sorry, Momma.

They just don’t build shiplap bathrooms made to house frozen baby calves over night.

Chip and Joanna are like your admirable, adorable older cousin and his wife who live states away that you keep up with only seeing the highlight reel (Christmas letter). Even after seeing them every so often (Tuesdays at 9:00 EST), you leave feeling just a bit envious of the amazing work they do, the ease of which they do it and the allure of the Texas life they live.

And that’s why 

I have a terribly hard 
time watching the show.

I have to tell you something.

In hopes that maybe by telling you – and only you – I’ll do a better job of holding myself accountable.

I do this thing. Not often, but every once in a while.   

I’m aware of it, only once it begins.

And I cringe each time I let myself do it.

Still, every so often, it happens again.

I let comparison creep into my mind and 

I quietly begin to discount the positive things in my life.

I see a beautifully renovated Fixer Upper house and I forget about how far along our home has come.

 Today our home is filled with ranch and family history. And walls. None of which you can buy at Magnolia Market. 

I see someone begin to take impeccable care of him or her self and I wonder why I’m ok with WhirleyPop for supper when Cody is out of town.

I see people younger than I chasing beautiful kids around and worry: Am I going to be an old Mom?

But isn’t it so easy? The comparison thing. 

Isn’t it so easy to watch good things unfold for someone else, then quietly sit back and think: I’d like to experience that, too. If only just a little.

In a time where we have access to every intricate detail (whether we want to or not) of a family’s highlight reel, it’s so easy to watch our own behind the scenes footage unfold, and compare. If only by saying something as simple as: I like what they did in that space; I’d like to completely renovate our bathroom. 

Side note: A plumber is seriously coming to our ancient farmhouse today – on the day of this writing. If he can’t figure out something quickly, I’m taking the lightening rods off the roof and letting the problem sort its self out. 

Anyway…

Comparison, in moderation, is not necessarily an evil. In fact, it typically encourages the desire to do more or do better.

So when is comparison a bad thing?

When it begins to steal your joy.

Again: 

When is comparison a bad thing?

When it begins to steal your joy.

Proverbs 14:30

A heart at peace gives life to the body,

but envy rots the bones.

When you expend enough energy comparing anything that you have (or don’t?) to others, 

that you’re too worn to seek out and enjoy the wonderful things in your camp, 

the rot has already set in.

And by “someone else’s beauty”, I mean someone else’s

Career, path or professional success

Family, heritage or history

Home, house or furnishings

Friends, social scene or status

Appearance, confidence, or closet

Health, strength or energy

Location, proximity or zip code

Winnings, success or trophy case

Body type, body type or body type

Children, legacy or rendition

Schedule, production or obligations

Someone else’s Life.

Theodore Roosevelt once said: 

"Comparison is the thief of joy."

What a simple, profound way to think of something so common in our every day life. 

Do you find yourself - if only just a little - comparing what you have to what others do? What about comparing your life's path and timeline to other people's? Why do that to yourself?  God made your life's story uniquely for you. Only you were meant to live it. 

You lock your car when running errands. 

You use a password to securely lock your personal information online. 

Certainly, you lock your home up when you leave for an extended period of time. 

Why?

Because you don't want a thief stealing the physical things that are important to you. 

So why - why - would you allow 

conscious comparing to trespass 

into your most guarded possession: 

- your heart -

so it can

steal your joy?

A Warm, Glowing Fiasco

We never say the words, but every so often Momma and I ask for opportunities to be miserable. 

We’re alike in that there is no place we’d rather be than home. On any given Friday night we’re happiest at home with a box of Triscuits, sharp cheddar cheese and a 2-hour Dateline Special. With the deadbolt locked…and taking turns checking it during every commercial break. But sometimes we do leave home and venture into what one might call situations.

We once sat in line for four hours during  Tire Drop Off Day. You want a good glimpse of the people in your tiny part of the world? Go ahead and tell the public they can dispose of all tires for free during one Saturday only. Then sit in a parked truck for four hours and watch. That’s a blog for another week. We survived, but it was the only time I seriously thought my Momma might consider leaving Dad. He had sent us to town that day in the farm truck with a bed full of dry rot tires, some stale airplane peanuts in the console and two cookbooks. Like I said, a story for another time. 

Momma and I are on the right. 

She called me Sunday morning:

“Can I call you back when I get in the car? I’m trying to get out the door to church,” I asked in haste.

“Well I’m walking into church now (her way of revealing that my time is no more valuable than hers). Do you want to go to Warm Glow after church?” Momma asked.

I knew what I wanted to do, but I also knew the timing couldn’t be any worse: this was Christmas open house weekend at possibly the largest public attraction in our area: Warm Glow.

 

I grew up just minutes from Warm Glow, a candle shop once the size of a two-car garage that has more recently expanded into 80,000 square feet of candles, signage, home décor, beer, wine, hand crafted soaps and other wild things that I’m certain your brain could never even dream up. It’s every most women’s dreamland and every man’s nightmarish hell. 

Check out the amazing products at  Lonely Windmill Farm 

In my life B. C. (before Cody) I invested a small fortune into Warm Glow turning my first house into a beautiful little home. Now A.C. (you get it) those scented candle rings and sparkly burlap lampshades hide in mouse-proof (I do the best I can) Rubbermaid tubs while I now prefer to decorate with anything that can be rinsed off with a garden hose. Guys are gross.

Anyhow…

Knowing that this weekend was the biggest shopping weekend for Warm Glow (like, thousands flock to this place), I accepted the challenge and told Momma I’d meet her at BSG after church and we’d carpool the 4.7 miles to Warm Glow for an afternoon of shopping for things that will be in Rubbermaid in 25 days.

I drove over I-70 and our grand idea of self-inflicted pain really struck; the parking lot was packed, the lawn was covered by vehicles and cars were winding down the long driveway, parking by the road.

“Well this was stupid,” Momma said. I kept driving. Misery loves company and I was about to rub elbows with 1,500 of my very best friends. Once inside she told me we didn’t need a cart since we’d be here only 20 minutes. I knew better and grabbed a cart then threw my purse and coat inside. Might as well get comfy. I should have worn yogas.

We were on a (suicide) mission to find only a few, very specific things:

Momma: 1 Red, 1 White and 1 Green candle for a centerpiece.

Me: Two candles for upcoming gift exchanges.

BOOM GOES THE DYNAMITE

I got my steps in, though my Fitbit was resting peacefully on my nightstand. We actually walked the entire width of the store three times looking for a damn peppermint candle – the white in Momma’s festive trio. We couldn't do Evening Mocha or Coconut Cream or Creamy Vanilla Bean. Nope. Nothing smells like Christmas like a Merry Mint candle burning next to a Northern Pine burning next to a Cranberry Stardust. At one point I didn't know if we were going by color or the fact that Momma made her list on an empty stomach.

However, during our voyage for the perfect Merry Mint, we visited with:

1 old nursing colleague

2 high school classmates

 1 FFA friend

3 people we tried to avoid for the sake of time

8 Facebook friends, one of which I asked how wedding planning was going only to learn there would be none. Jean’s Boots Lesson #1,271: If you can’t recall many Facebook posts about said wedding planning, best to not even mention it.

And 378 children looking for

Santa, Mrs. Claus and….Elsa.

Momma got more excited about Elsa being at Warm Glow than a 60-something should. It’s the Grammie in her, I guess. She asked me to wait in line to see Elsa so I could get my picture with her to send to my niece Marlee (6).

I found a few holes in this proposal:

I’m 30-something and have frankly never seen Frozen.

I forgot my Frozen costume.

I’m 30-something.

I couldn’t see the end of the line.

I’m 30-something.

If I did stand in line looking like Buddy the Elf compared to everyone else, who in the heck was going to take the picture? 

Momma got an iPhone just over a month ago and has Facetimed me something like 68 times since. There was no way I was going to teach her how to use the camera today. 

I came up with a better solution and asked Elsa to pose for a solo photo in between toddler hugs. The only thing that could have made this more awkward for this amazing sport of a gal would be if I were a 57-year-old male.

We then found the bird display and stocked up on birds for Momma’s old bird tree, which sits at the top of the landing and terrifies every grandchild old enough to focus their eyes (Georgia is just so very young, give it time). I’m including pictures for my friend Cheyanne.

 

When the day was said and done, in our cart we had 14 candles, 6 candle plates, 4 creepy birds, 3 bags of candle chips, 1 Christmas present I can’t discuss and a box of wine. Yes, on a Sunday. There was a winery on display in the corner of the Watering Can (Warm Glow’s garden center) and Momma somehow found them while looking through the Fairy Gardens. 

Who am I kidding? We were as lost as last year’s Easter egg and that card table with a wine display seemed like a mirage. But it was real! Twelve bottles, real.

If you’ve never been to Warm Glow, it’s a must-see attraction while traveling I-70 between Indiana and Ohio. The concept of the perfect candle began in a couple’s basement just down the road from BSG and has grown into this really incredible shop tucked away in rows of Indiana corn. At the same exit is a Dairy Queen, so you can spend your kids’ inheritance on hearth candles then blow your last $15 cash on Blizzards just across the way. That’s assuming you didn’t eat Warm Glow ice-cream while shopping.

The afternoon turned out well and Momma and I left feeling as tired and broke as we did after Tire Drop Off Day. Our legs and pocketbooks hurt, but we reconfirmed something that day:

We just weren't cut out for 

some social events unless they involve 

cheese and  Keith Morrison. 

Fantasy Pinterest

I was trying to get on my shoes and brush my teeth before church Sunday when I passed Cody in the living room, grabbing his iPad. 
His iPad, rushing out the door on a Sunday morning?

"I'm going to need you to drive to church this morning, if you don't mind. I need to update my fantasy football team," he said.

I got one foot in and laughed. "Are you kidding me?" 
"No...all of my players are injured. Except for that Martavis - the Pittsburg Steeler - he's out for drugs."
That stung a little. 
"Fantasy Football is so ridiculous!" I continued, giving my hair one final spritz (fog) of FrizEase. 

Cody defended his hobby as he filled two travel mugs of coffee. "I mean, I'm sure there is a fantasy Pinterest or something that you could play in."

I stopped dead in my boots. 

He, actually, didn't know how right he was. 
There was a Fantasy hobby I could lose myself in. 
It's called Pinterest. 

Someone else does all the work - and makes it look good. 
Guys are spending time drafting players that would never realistically be on the same team. 
They're talking about playoffs four months in advance. 
They're investing time, energy and effort into crafting a line up that they'll track closer than a trophy buck this fall. 
But they'll never step foot on a football field. 
And you. 
Look at where your decisions have led you. 
You think you have enough time/patience/stamina to recycle your old toilet paper rolls into customized greeting cards?
You think you have enough time/patience/stamina to turn peanut butter and jelly sandwiches  into cake pops?
You think you have enough time/patience/stamina to recycle your kid's basketball t-shirts into a tent? 
You think you have enough time/patience/stamina to make a button necklace?
No. 
Let someone else throw that pass, make that tackle or super glue their fingers together - and to the dog - while you just sit back and watch. 
That's what HGTV and ESPN are all about. 

It makes us strangely competitive.

All of the sudden, Cody is talking about players' performance like he personally trained them. Like he has a true stake in this running back's performance. 

"He should have had that!"

"Why in the world would he have done that?!"

And, he talks to his friends about where "his team" lies compared to theirs. 

Ahead. 

Behind. 

Still reeling from Luck's performance during the first two games of the season. (Calm down. He did this last year, too. I think the wind blows his beard in his eyes.)

And Pinterest has created and stimulated this strange need for us to create the most perfect family photos, most perfect wedding, most perfect fall outfit, most perfect meal, most perfect mud room, most perfect engagement photos and most perfect birthday cake for the princess at home. 

Who are you trying to impress?

It did not work. 

Stop. I can't even. 

Stick to Cinnamon Toast Crunch. 

It's expensive. 
I have no idea what kind of investment (do you see the sarcasm dripping off of that word?) Cody has in Fantasy Football. Does it cost money? Don't answer that. 
Let's talk about all of the money you've spent on powered sugar, scarves and chalk paint. 
Enough said. 

Name cropped to protect the innocent. 

You're welcome, Emily. 

It's not real; None of this is real: 
Actually, sir, Andrew Luck doesn't even know you exist. Why are you so hung up on his Sunday performance? And Martavis doesn't care who you are. Which is probably a good thing. 
And "your team" realistically belongs to m(b?)illionaires like Robert Kraft, Jim Irsay, Martha Ford and Dan Rooney. Do you think they get hung up on a pass interference?
No. They have another cocktail. And fire someone. 
And you, Pinterest Pam, the reason your outfit doesn't look as amazing as her's?
You're a real, beautiful size 10. 
She's a 0. 
Which is only a size if you still shop at American Eagle. 
The reason your make up didn't turn out like her's?
You don't have a make-up artist, professional photographer and studio. 
The reason your wreath doesn't look like her's?
Well, frankly, you're not crafty. And that's ok! That's why Hobby Lobby exists. 

And, you're Pinning quotes like this, trying to find your true heart. 
Or something?
Honey you need to step away from the iPad and get some rest. 

Listen, I love Pinterest as much as anyone

But I've come to realize that - frankly - Fantasy Football has nothing on Pinterest when it comes to removing us from reality and planting us smack dab into an unrealistic, candle-lit, burlap-covered life. 

Fantasy Football or Fantasy Pinterest: Which is worse?

I mean...

You're making your husband eat salad out of mason jars. Get ahold of yourself. 

Photos courtesy of Pinterest and Pinterest Fail. Thanks for submitting them.