A Quitter's Manifesto

I started to call this "In Defense of Quitting." But now that feels wrong...that implies that quitting requires a good defense.

You better have a damn good reason, otherwise you stick it out. Quitters never win and winners never quit! This is America and if we do one thing well it's persevere.

Well, not me.

I will quit the shit out of things. I will quit so fast your head will spin. I literally can not count the number of jobs I have had in my eleven years of adulthood. I think it falls comfortably between fifteen and twenty, but who is counting? Not me. Not anymore.

And let's not even go into the higher learning institutions I have ran away screaming from. There have been four. Soon to be five, as the prompting of this writing is the fact that I am quitting Aveda Institute's esthiology program. Cue "Beauty School Drop Out" from Grease. I know. What kind of jerk can't suck it up and finish a trade school?! This one. That's who.

A little background...

Growing up, my parents were firmly in the camp that you do not let your kids quit anything. Ever. (Disclosure: I adore my parents, they're darling people. They would be the first to admit that perhaps this method did not serve them or us well all of the time, so don't think I'm throwing them under the bus here. Trust me, we have had countless laughs and tears shed on this very topic.)

So when I consistently came home in tears from sixth grade nearly every day for months on end, BEGGING, pleading, and eventually threatening to physically throw myself on the ground and not attend the middle school my parents insisted I get a boundary exception and go to, of course they would not relent. My demands were simple: let me transfer to the school I should be attending based on our address, the one where all of my friends since Kindergarten go to. OR, let me go to the Vancouver Arts School so I can focus on playing piano. I'm good at that and I love it! But for the love of Jesus, do not make me go back to Alki Middle School.

This persisted until eighth grade when I realized they really weren't going to budge. During this time, I was also in sports. I was decent. I was tall which was a huge advantage for basketball. I had played softball from the time I was five, so I was good at that. I was never fast, but my height in basketball and decent shooting ability helped balance that. In softball I learned if you don't run fast you better learn to hit hard. Don't get me wrong, sports are great and I learned a lot. I'm grateful for most of my time spent playing and I know my parents never wanted anything but to provide my with all of the opportunities they could.

But I burnt out on sports years before I was actually allowed to quit. I remember one explosive fight with my dad who accused me of not wanting to play and having a bad attitude. "I KNOW, THAT'S WHAT I'VE BEEN TELLING YOU, I DON'T WANT TO PLAY!" I shouted. He informed me if that was the case, fine. Don't bother getting up for the tournament tomorrow, you can just quit. SWEET SWEET RELEASE! YES! I felt like a weight had been lifted, it was magical. I knew my parents adored me and we would work past this but the important thing was I had been heard! I could FINALLY quit...and then at 6am, pounding on my bedroom door and dad yelling at me to get up for the game. I should have known.

I don't know anyone with more tenacity and perseverance than my dad. That man...wow. His drive and motivation to run his own successful businesses and often work 18 hour days when I was young, it's remarkable. I admire it, I truly do. And I inherited a lot of my dad's personality. But not all the chutzpah, you know?

My mother would tell you I'm more like my father. Shes referring to our temperament and hot headedness. She's not wrong, I definitely take after my father in that regard (although I have seen her throw a hissy with the best of them!) But I am also a lot like her, especially as I get older. We all become our mothers to varying degrees, don't we? My mother is a caretaker extraordinaire. She keeps us all together and well. She is a fiercely loyal friend. She's someone I would absolutely choose as a friend as an adult, and I have. I believe my friends would tell you I have inherited these traits from my mom. In fact I know they would, they have told me.

I give you this background and tell you these things to shed some light on people who quit and quitting in general for those who don't understand. I quit things. I do not quit people. I make friends and keep them. They're stuck with me, much to some of their chagrin I'm sure. Another common misconception about people who frequently quit jobs or school, is laziness. I hesitate to write this, it feels weird. But I'm going to say it because I am so disgusted and sick of this stereotype. I do more volunteer/charity work than you. Okay, that was inflammatory. No, not all of you. But I will say without question or hesitation that I do more than the majority of my friends. And that is not a slight to you, dear reader. It is to say that if you think in my lapses between school or work that I have not filled it with purposeful, important work...well, you could not be more wrong. In the times that I have had a break and not held a paying job or been in school the last few years, those have been the times I have had more on my calendar and been busier day to day than any time when I have held a job. Because I'm not inherently lazy. I couldn't be with my genes. Auberts and Foxes, they don't sit still well. We fuss over people, often unnecessarily, but we do it none the less.

All of this to get to the point. So why do I quit? It's not laziness, I typically feel good when busy. Maybe it's rebellion against not being allowed to quit things as a child, but I kind of doubt that plays more than a smidgen of a part in it. I've been thinking a lot about this lately. I have an innate ability to recognize that something I'm doing is not serving me well and then WALK THE HELL AWAY. Which as it turns out, according to some friends as well as the internet, is actually a decent skill. (Now, this is not true of everything. Carbs don't serve me well, but they're so damn enjoyable I will never quit them until the day I die. Pasta, I wish I could quit you.) It's something I've always had, but was unable to exercise until adulthood. I recently had a friend tell me this was something she enjoyed about me. You see, I don't feel trapped by what is referred to as "sunk-cost." Sunk-cost is what it sounds like. Cost or time sunk into something. People often feel stuck doing something because of the time or money already spent, even when it does not serve them well to stay. I do not. Money comes and goes. I'm not bothered by not finishing something I paid for. Just because something remains unfinished does not make it a waste or not a valuable lesson or experience.

My husband being the Steady Freddy that he is enjoys routine and knowing that he is in a career he will stay in until he retires. And that's great. But when times at work have been rough for him, I have expressed that I don't expect him to stick anything out in misery for our financial benefit. I suggest off the wall ideas like us buying an espresso stand, one of those mobile ones, and we'll just travel around and do that! I think my crazy ideas are one of the things he loves about me, but Brett has a lot of my dad in him in that he has a need to provide stability for us. I'm grateful for that. He also understands, I hope, that I don't hold him to a higher standard than I do myself. We're resourceful, smart people. There are always going to be jobs for us.

I used to let it bother me when friends and family would comment on my flighty nature, my job hopping, my unpredictability. Those days are over. I owe no one (save my husband and Jesus) a defense or reason or explanation for quitting. It's just a part of who I am. And some of you will view it as a weakness and say things about me needing to stick with things, it's good for me, it builds character, etc. I would tell you I have a lot of character as is. I like my character. It took me the better part of thirty years to like who I am. I really like who I am. It's actually amazing, it's the only upside of edging closer to thirty every day I've found, I like myself better and better.

So what's next? Well, in true Jen fashion I already have a job lined up thankyouverymuch. So I'll do that. It sounds right up my alley and fun. And yay, we'll have more money for some upcoming trips! And yay, it's part time and affords me the flexibility to continue my volunteer commitments!  I have spent the last decade trying to figure out what I want to do, what I want to be...I think I finally figured it out!

I want to be the wife Brett deserves. I want to be a mother to the foster children of Clark County. I want to be a mother to our future biological children. I want to love my friends and neighbors in tangible ways that make them feel known and cared for. I want to pursue new relationships with all kinds of people. I want to spend time being a better sister and daughter. I want to pursue God daily.

Everything else will work itself out just fine. I will do and be a great many things in my life. Just wait and see.

The Day I Learned To Love My Body

I tend to hate most articles written on the topic of body image and loving your body. I find, for myself at least, that they miss the mark. The most recent one to earn my disdain was one that went viral, showing pictures of "real" women and their post-baby bodies. Some had cellulite and stretch marks, some you would never believe were pregnant three months earlier, they represented a wide range of women. And most people re-posted it touting it as being a victory for body image issues and shouts of "Yeah! Screw the media and their unrealistic ideas! Go us! Women!" could be heard across Facebook. So what is my damage, you may ask. Why do these kinds of articles hit a nerve and make me want to tell every woman re-posting this crap, "YOU ARE MISSING THE MARK! STOP!"

I'll tell you why.

First, these "body after baby" articles always imply that I somehow just don't get it, or am less of a woman or not part of the club because I have not given birth to a child. These articles purport to put women who have given birth and have the chutzpah to shed their clothes and pose for a camera up on a pedestal. Now, I'm not saying they are not brave or awesome women. I'm not saying that in the slightest, and if posing nude post-baby helps them get their sexy back, then that is just fine by me, though I wish they would do it truly for themselves and not make the appearance of their bodies the focal point of an Internet article. Here is why these articles rub me the wrong way: THEY ARE STILL FOCUSING ON THE OUTWARD APPEARANCE OF BODIES OF WOMEN.

They are not focusing on the strength or the amazing things the female body can do. They are simply focusing on the outward appearance. And I hate it. I hate it so hard.

Anyway, I want to share with you about the day I learned to love my body. Because no amount of reading "real women have curves" centric articles, no amount of my husband telling me how he loves my body, no amount of anyone telling me anything could have created the shift inside that happened last Sunday.

Last Sunday. January 19th, 2014. I did a half-marathon in Disneyland.

I am not in excellent shape. I did not train hardly at all. I WAS TERRIFIED. 

I signed up for this race with my best friend with the expectation that I would commit to about 9-10 weeks of training in preparation for this day. Didn't happen. I could not get motivated to save my life. There was not anything in me that wanted to train for this race. I can't explain it, I wanted to participate but I just couldn't drag myself to the gym. In retrospect I believe it was the feeling that I was so out of shape and so ill-prepared, I think I thought "why bother?" 

So, the night before the race I'm laying in bed and I'm cursing myself for not training and then for reasons unbeknown to me, my nana appeared in my head. Nana has been in a wheelchair for about 20 years. All of the sudden, I'm picturing very vividly my nana in the stands at one of my softball games as a kid, cheering me on. And then, tears. Tears in my eyes. And all I can think is, wow. I'm laying here complaining in my head about being signed up for a half-marathon I didn't train for and what would my nana give to be able to walk even just one mile? And then the wave of gratitude hit me and I began to thank God for giving me legs that work. Strong legs that I often curse as being too big. I claim to believe in a God who formed me in His image, and yet I curse the very body He has given me.

The gratitude did not stop that night. I awoke the next morning excited and with a feeling of peace. I am healthy, I have legs that work, and the rest is all mental. Period. I can absolutely do 13.1 miles. 

My bestie and I at the starting line at 5am.

The race began and we wound through Disneyland and California Adventure for about the first six miles. I was feeling great, couldn't stop smiling and loving it. Then the race went out onto the streets of Anaheim. And there weren't as many marching bands and costumed Disney characters cheering us on. Then the eighth mile hit and I was pretty much over the whole thing. 

I began to pray. Not for strength or the will to keep moving. I began to pray a prayer of thanks. Thank you, Lord, for legs that work and a heart that beats and lungs that rise and fall. Thank you, Jesus, for the financial means to go on a trip like this with my best friend. Thank you, thank you, thank you. And then tears filled my eyes again as they usually do when I feel heard by the Creator of all things good and right. 

As I kept on going through the last three miles, I never ceased thanking God for my body. I crossed the finish line and immediately burst into tears. I don't think I have ever been more proud of a physical accomplishment and it came over me in waves of emotion that I can not describe. It was beautiful. I WAS BEAUTIFUL. Dripping with sweat and bags under my eyes from the 3:30am wake up, I posed for a picture.

Normally I pick apart pictures of myself immediately after they are taken. I wish my arms were thinner, I wish my stomach was flatter, I wish my face were less round. Not this time. I looked at the picture and just saw strength and beauty. And that feeling has not left me. 

My body is strong and powerful in ways no picture can do justice. I can run races and climb mountains and bring human life into the world with my body. My body embraces those in times of sorrow and in joy with abounding hugs. This body has rocked babies to sleep and slid into home plate and jumped in lakes and rode down mountains. My body is so much more than a picture, or how it looks. I am strong beyond words and beautiful beyond description. 

Something incredible happens when you see yourself as TRULY beautiful and strong, from the inside out. All of the sudden, you want to take care of that body. I kept waiting to lose weight to feel good about myself, and now I realize I had it completely backwards. I needed to feel good about myself first. I needed to know my worth and strength and beauty never were in the numbers on the scale. They weren't in the numbers on the scale when I was 21 and 40 pounds lighter and they aren't in the scale now. My weight has NOTHING to do with my beauty. And the freedom that comes from believing that with every fiber of my being...indescribable. Here's to a healthy life full of adventure and activity, rest and running, broccoli and cake, water and wine. Here is to balance and loving ourselves, from the inside out.