At the urging of the Cody Prater, I have decided to write a blog about the soon to be over 2010. I'm not one for recapping a year. I never really think of the year ending in December because I am faced with 4 more months of school still at this point. My year ends in May, but for the sake of the rest of you non-educators, I'll give in to the whole January 1st thing.
Every year around this time, I find myself a little down about life. Generally, I am faced with New Year's resolution making that I don't really do, but am still forced to consider all of the things I should change or fix or start doing in the first place. I am also a little bummed around New Year's because I think it's somewhat sad to know that another year of my life has come and gone. I realize lots of really cool stuff has happened, but I am also forced to accept that my past keeps getting larger. I hate being reminded that life is leaving us...me. It's a downer I know. I'm supposed to be thankful for all that lies ahead of me. I should be appreciative that I have my health and numerous blessings to count. I am supposed to raise my glass to the positive milestones in each year and in preparation for the year ahead. And I do all of those things..I just do them with the nostalgic subdued nature I find myself in when another year has gone by.
However much I hate to see a year pass, I cannot help but be a little relieved to wave goodbye to 2010. In this year I have hopped numerous hurdles that literally exhaust me to think back on now. For instance, Cody and I bought a home in 2010. I love where we live now. I enjoy decorating it and buying new stuff to make it better. We have improved our home and really made it our own. But I can't tell you I would want to do it all over again. It's been a journey certainly.
Cody and I also got our two fur babies in this year. There were some rough dog moments in this year. We are out a pair of glasses, a coffee table, numerous pairs of socks and underwear, a watch, and various other items we probably haven't found yet. But as we are soon to celebrate Staley and Finny's 1st birthday, I can't help but be filled with love for our little nuggets. They certainly have made themselves an irreplaceable part of the Prater pack.
On a personal note, this year was filled with some interesting happenings. Professionally, I had a successful volleyball season. Coaching volleyball is probably something that means more to me than I verbalize or write about very often. From June to the end of October I find myself immersed in something that is so familiar and fun for me to do. I felt like I was a better coach this year than I was last year, and I hope this pattern continues into 2011. Hopefully, a few kids in Lavaca are better in some way after experiencing the wrath of Coach Schrodt/Prater for a few months each year.
And finally, the one thing that I am so glad that I will leave behind in 2010 is our wedding. It was great. I'm so glad we did it. I love the pictures. I love Cody. We have been married for all of 6 months now and I am as happy as the day we made it official. I am really happy to be married. I am also really happy to never have to plan and execute my own wedding ever again. Ever.
Each year around October I have my students in class create a narrative writing project that focuses on their own lives. One of the assignments within the project is to create a bucket list or life list. This year I found myself in front of a group of 14 year olds reading the same bucket list I created three years ago when I started teaching. As I went through the things I once dreamed of accomplishing, I found that numerous of them were completed. I own my own car, a home, I am married, I have a couple of dogs, I am financially independent. I have completed a lot of the things that only a few years ago I was hoping to accomplish one day. I realize that 2010 is probably the year of milestones for me.
I stored my bucket list in a folder on my desk when we were through with the project in October. The other day when I was cleaning my classroom, I came across that folder and realized that I need a new bucket list. As I marked off achievements of this year, I realized that all of the college kid Katy Schrodt aspirations are for the most part shed. In this year, I feel as if I have transformed from the kid that I was for the first couple years out of college into an adult. With a life. And a husband. And a home. And bills. The one thing that I think is weird about leaving behind the goals of yesterday is finding my way to new goals. I no longer need to achieve the really big things I once dreamed of doing. After all of the accomplishments were checked off my bucket list, I found myself sitting in my classroom staring at only a few items left. I still need to go back to Europe. I need to win a state championship as a coach. And I need to have children. My own children. That Cody and myself would create. That I would carry for 9 months. That I would squeeze out of my birth canal. That I would support with our money. That would live in our house. Whose car seat would be in my car. Whose life would intermingle with the rest of the Prater pack. And who would forever alter all of the newly accomplished milestones of 2010...I realized that day in my classroom that producing offspring is the main big thing left. And I also realize that kids are bigger than owning a home or getting married. Much bigger...At least there's always 2012, right?
Nonetheless, here's to a year of goodness. A year with family and friends. A year of accomplishments. Here's to my 7th New Year's Eve with Cody. Here's to the year ahead. And the year behind us. 2010 has been good. It's one for the record books.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
The Hat Store
Every time Christmas/really cold weather rolls around, I’m always reminded of Cody and me years ago. I guess some of the best moments we have had together happened when it was winter time (remember this statement later in this blog).
This weekend Cody and I went to Dallas for his company Christmas party. During our four hour drive, we had an interesting conversation about our relationship, and the way it has progressed over these almost six years we’ve been together. I learned a lot from this conversation about Cody and me as a couple and also about Cody as an individual. I realized after talking to him that I don’t give Cody enough credit. Because he is so relaxed and easy to get along with, I occasionally attribute this attitude to indifference. I always assume that Cody doesn’t really over analyze much of anything and instead just goes with the flow. The longer I have known him, the more I guess that he doesn’t really care about stuff that I think about a lot. Cody’s easy-going attitude sometimes frustrates me and leaves me a bit unfulfilled on occasion.
One of the weirdest parts about being married I have determined is that your husband (in my case at least) assumes the role that used to be filled by females. For instance, Cody and I hang out the way I used to hang out with friends who were girls. I’m not saying I don’t have any friends anymore. I just think that marriage lends itself to making married people one another’s fulfillment of many different roles. Cody is my husband, boyfriend, friend, caretaker, lover, handyman (Cody will want to insert a joke here), financial consultant, entertainment, etc. The different roles that we fill for one another are endless. I don’t think that this is necessarily a trait of marriage specifically, but certainly of relationships where people live together. In the past few months, I have found myself wishing Cody was sometimes more like a girl. When things happen that I want to analyze and talk about and reanalyze and talk about some more, I have found that Cody wants to watch ESPN. Don’t get me wrong, I love ESPN. I just occasionally wish that Cody wanted to analyze and evaluate the way I do on a regular basis.
Okay, so back to the point…I realized this weekend that Cody may not verbalize his thoughts and feelings like women, but he at least has those thoughts and feelings. I like knowing that Cody has analyzed and thought out the experiences we’ve had together just like I have. I like knowing that some of Cody’s indifference is probably a partial disconnect between the two of us. After I considered this for a while, I realized that Cody probably has these exact same thoughts about some of the same things I do. At some point in our Dallas drive discussion, Cody said he felt “like a weight had been lifted off his chest.” I realize now that I am not all that Cody needs or wants or wishes for all the time either. That thought seems fairly simple, but I realized that I never really consider Cody as having any emotional needs. This brings us back to the indifference perception I’ve had about him. I always think of our marriage in terms of me. I realized this weekend that I need to consider the we in Cody and me more often.
I know now that the next step in this process is for me to relay this conversation to my closest friends (just kidding, sort of). Yet, I know that I will not be able to communicate the meaningfulness of this conversation to people who haven’t been there for six years. And I come back to the solace that Cody is the only person who has been there in all of the ways he has been there for all these years. This thought process brought me back to all of the moments along the journey of Cody and Katy that have really stood out to me. One in particular seemed fitting considering the topic of much of what was shared in the Dallas Drive Discussion of 2010 (yah, the event has a proper name now).
One year in college during Christmas break, I had gone “home” to my parent’s house (across town). I think this was the Christmas of our freshman year which would mean soon to be 2005. Anyhoo, it snowed around the holidays that year, and I was barricaded in my home as usual (my mother acts like driving on slick roads is as impossible as walking on water). To my surprise, Cody and his friend Mitch braved the weather in Cody’s blue jeep to come and hang out with me. We all three found ourselves in my bedroom hanging out (awkward, I know). This was at a point when Cody and I were dating, I guess you would say, but we were not officially together. Before the end of the night, Mitch had fallen “asleep” (I think he was just a good friend to Cody and recognized CP’s opportunity to mess around with his new girl) on the floor of my room. Cody and I stayed up and talked and laughed and had a memorable night with one another. I found myself in the room where so many nights had been spent thinking about the unsuccessful male relationships I had endured throughout the years. All around me was high school, but right in front of me was Cody. I didn’t know that Cody would last as long as he did. I didn’t know that Cody would be my husband one day. But I did know that Cody was different than any guy who littered the pictures that hung on the walls of that bedroom. It was perfect. It was a transition from high school to college. It was a transition from being somewhat interested in Cody to knowing that he was someone that I really wanted to know better. It was a transition from “talking” to Cody to being with Cody. We did not officially become boyfriend and girlfriend, but the night was worth noting. As they left, I remember watching Cody and Mitch slide down the street I grew up on and never feeling so good about anything in my life. I remember walking back inside and immediately wishing Cody would show back up (no offense, Mitch. I didn’t really miss you much). I remember thinking that Cody was exactly what I needed at that moment. He wasn’t too much of anything. And he was just enough to differentiate him from high school. Cody has always been just enough.
As we drove home from Dallas this weekend, I realized that Cody and I have probably traveled a somewhat different road than a lot of young people who fall in love. We followed rules that most people simply push to the side as ideas that are unrealistic. Years later and a wedding later, I think Cody and I can both wonder “what if” about us, but it doesn’t matter. This weekend clarified for me that Cody and I are very much on the same wave length. Since we have been married, I feel like so much has changed that I have psyched myself into thinking that something should feel changed as well. I thought we should be different than we used to be. I have certainly over thought the concept of marriage. I think I have been wrong. We are still as connected (if not much more) than those kids making out on my bed five years ago. Cody and I are exactly the way we are supposed to be. We may not always have what we need at the exact moment we need it, but we will eventually find our way there. We wear all the hats we need to wear for one another. And if we don’t…I am confident we’ll find the hat store.
This weekend Cody and I went to Dallas for his company Christmas party. During our four hour drive, we had an interesting conversation about our relationship, and the way it has progressed over these almost six years we’ve been together. I learned a lot from this conversation about Cody and me as a couple and also about Cody as an individual. I realized after talking to him that I don’t give Cody enough credit. Because he is so relaxed and easy to get along with, I occasionally attribute this attitude to indifference. I always assume that Cody doesn’t really over analyze much of anything and instead just goes with the flow. The longer I have known him, the more I guess that he doesn’t really care about stuff that I think about a lot. Cody’s easy-going attitude sometimes frustrates me and leaves me a bit unfulfilled on occasion.
One of the weirdest parts about being married I have determined is that your husband (in my case at least) assumes the role that used to be filled by females. For instance, Cody and I hang out the way I used to hang out with friends who were girls. I’m not saying I don’t have any friends anymore. I just think that marriage lends itself to making married people one another’s fulfillment of many different roles. Cody is my husband, boyfriend, friend, caretaker, lover, handyman (Cody will want to insert a joke here), financial consultant, entertainment, etc. The different roles that we fill for one another are endless. I don’t think that this is necessarily a trait of marriage specifically, but certainly of relationships where people live together. In the past few months, I have found myself wishing Cody was sometimes more like a girl. When things happen that I want to analyze and talk about and reanalyze and talk about some more, I have found that Cody wants to watch ESPN. Don’t get me wrong, I love ESPN. I just occasionally wish that Cody wanted to analyze and evaluate the way I do on a regular basis.
Okay, so back to the point…I realized this weekend that Cody may not verbalize his thoughts and feelings like women, but he at least has those thoughts and feelings. I like knowing that Cody has analyzed and thought out the experiences we’ve had together just like I have. I like knowing that some of Cody’s indifference is probably a partial disconnect between the two of us. After I considered this for a while, I realized that Cody probably has these exact same thoughts about some of the same things I do. At some point in our Dallas drive discussion, Cody said he felt “like a weight had been lifted off his chest.” I realize now that I am not all that Cody needs or wants or wishes for all the time either. That thought seems fairly simple, but I realized that I never really consider Cody as having any emotional needs. This brings us back to the indifference perception I’ve had about him. I always think of our marriage in terms of me. I realized this weekend that I need to consider the we in Cody and me more often.
I know now that the next step in this process is for me to relay this conversation to my closest friends (just kidding, sort of). Yet, I know that I will not be able to communicate the meaningfulness of this conversation to people who haven’t been there for six years. And I come back to the solace that Cody is the only person who has been there in all of the ways he has been there for all these years. This thought process brought me back to all of the moments along the journey of Cody and Katy that have really stood out to me. One in particular seemed fitting considering the topic of much of what was shared in the Dallas Drive Discussion of 2010 (yah, the event has a proper name now).
One year in college during Christmas break, I had gone “home” to my parent’s house (across town). I think this was the Christmas of our freshman year which would mean soon to be 2005. Anyhoo, it snowed around the holidays that year, and I was barricaded in my home as usual (my mother acts like driving on slick roads is as impossible as walking on water). To my surprise, Cody and his friend Mitch braved the weather in Cody’s blue jeep to come and hang out with me. We all three found ourselves in my bedroom hanging out (awkward, I know). This was at a point when Cody and I were dating, I guess you would say, but we were not officially together. Before the end of the night, Mitch had fallen “asleep” (I think he was just a good friend to Cody and recognized CP’s opportunity to mess around with his new girl) on the floor of my room. Cody and I stayed up and talked and laughed and had a memorable night with one another. I found myself in the room where so many nights had been spent thinking about the unsuccessful male relationships I had endured throughout the years. All around me was high school, but right in front of me was Cody. I didn’t know that Cody would last as long as he did. I didn’t know that Cody would be my husband one day. But I did know that Cody was different than any guy who littered the pictures that hung on the walls of that bedroom. It was perfect. It was a transition from high school to college. It was a transition from being somewhat interested in Cody to knowing that he was someone that I really wanted to know better. It was a transition from “talking” to Cody to being with Cody. We did not officially become boyfriend and girlfriend, but the night was worth noting. As they left, I remember watching Cody and Mitch slide down the street I grew up on and never feeling so good about anything in my life. I remember walking back inside and immediately wishing Cody would show back up (no offense, Mitch. I didn’t really miss you much). I remember thinking that Cody was exactly what I needed at that moment. He wasn’t too much of anything. And he was just enough to differentiate him from high school. Cody has always been just enough.
As we drove home from Dallas this weekend, I realized that Cody and I have probably traveled a somewhat different road than a lot of young people who fall in love. We followed rules that most people simply push to the side as ideas that are unrealistic. Years later and a wedding later, I think Cody and I can both wonder “what if” about us, but it doesn’t matter. This weekend clarified for me that Cody and I are very much on the same wave length. Since we have been married, I feel like so much has changed that I have psyched myself into thinking that something should feel changed as well. I thought we should be different than we used to be. I have certainly over thought the concept of marriage. I think I have been wrong. We are still as connected (if not much more) than those kids making out on my bed five years ago. Cody and I are exactly the way we are supposed to be. We may not always have what we need at the exact moment we need it, but we will eventually find our way there. We wear all the hats we need to wear for one another. And if we don’t…I am confident we’ll find the hat store.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Untitled
I recently had a person (who shall remain nameless) remark on how much she loved my blog. She then went on to provide me with her philosophy on blogging. She told me that she thought it was so “pretentious” of “all these people” who blog about these really deep topics and try to pretend like they’re teaching a lesson or something. In response I told her I thought it was pretentious of people to blog about what color they’re painting their wall or a weekend recap in which they recap nothing at all or an update on their weight loss progress. I’m not sure if this person was trying to call me pretentious, but I figure I’ve been called worse.
In honor of a lover of my blog, here’s a very pretentious post about death.
Last Thursday I attended a memorial service (different than a funeral I found out) for one of my relatives. I hate funerals. I knew that going into the day. I also found out that I hate memorial services. I know, I know. You’re thinking that it’s not anything too unique to dislike funerals. I get this, but I really hate funerals. As I sat in the front row of Eastside Baptist Church I started to realize why I hate funerals so much. Aside from the obvious and most dominant reason (someone has died that I was obviously connected with in some way), I think I also hate funerals, because it is an in-your-face reminder that life is flying by right in front of your face.
As I generally do when I attend a funeral, last Thursday I found myself trying to occupy my mind with something other than depressing thoughts about the loss of a loved one. As I sat there looking at flowers and critiquing Christmas decorations and considering how uncomfortable my shoes were, I realized that Eastside was the setting for one of the most vivid memories I have from high school. Early in high school I saw a band called Stephen Speaks perform in the exact same sanctuary where the funeral was held last Thursday. For some reason I remember everything about that night. I remember what jeans I was wearing. I remember who all was there. I remember where in the sanctuary I was sitting. I remember everything about that night. I have been in Eastside twice in my life. Once for that Stephen Speaks concert and once for the funeral. I found myself (in an attempt to detach myself from the terribly sad commentary that is often found at a funeral) thinking back on all the tiny details of that night in high school. I literally felt like I was remembering someone else’s life. It felt so long ago to me. The teenager sitting in the first pew of that church seemed completely foreign to the adult that was sitting in that first pew years later.
I feel like people (or maybe it’s just me) remember their lives in decades. I have a pretty good grasp of who I was up to 10 years ago. Beyond 14 years old memories almost feel inaccessible to me now. For example, I don’t remember what I looked like when I was 12. I remember very little of the small stuff from years and years ago that I still remember about high school. As I considered that night with Stephen Speaks years ago, something a switch flipped inside of me. I didn’t want to be sitting in that pew at that church last Thursday. I didn’t want to have to remember who I was as a teenager. For a few moments I wanted to be a teenager again. I was frustrated and sad and there was depressing music already playing. People were crying (I assume for the loss of a loved one) and then it hit me…
I don’t hate funerals solely because of the pain caused by losing a loved one. I hate funerals because they’re a reminder to everyone that time is ticking. It took a sunny day in 2010 to bring me back to a night years ago when things were simpler. As I scanned the room last week I realized that there is hardly anything left of that kid at the Stephen Speaks concert. I was sitting next to my husband. My family was there, yes. But it was an older, different family than I knew years ago. The whole situation was different than I wanted it to be. Discomfort in my reality often times makes me think back to the safety of my past. Things were good at that Stephen Speaks concert. Although I am certain that if you could talk to Katy Schrodt circa 2002, she would have plenty of issues and complaints about her present situation (would that not be awesome to be able to talk to a younger or older version of yourself?). Things are always different once you have enough time to find a place for them in your memory. I hate change. I take comfort in the routine of certainty. Unfortunately, as is evident by funerals of loved ones, very little is certain. That’s a bummer. It’s a bummer for 24 year old me and it was also for the teenage me. Maybe less has changed than I think.
By the time I walked out of the funeral, I had pretty much come full circle (in my defense it was a long service). I got caught up in the suckiness of a funeral. There is nothing good about it. I realized that my life is going to keep on moving regardless of whether or not I want it to. Since then Cody and I have decided that we want to go to Europe this summer and sow our wild oats. So maybe that’s the good in remembering someone else’s well lived life. Maybe it helps the rest of us to remember to keep on moving.
Take that, you non-pretentious blog writers.
In honor of a lover of my blog, here’s a very pretentious post about death.
Last Thursday I attended a memorial service (different than a funeral I found out) for one of my relatives. I hate funerals. I knew that going into the day. I also found out that I hate memorial services. I know, I know. You’re thinking that it’s not anything too unique to dislike funerals. I get this, but I really hate funerals. As I sat in the front row of Eastside Baptist Church I started to realize why I hate funerals so much. Aside from the obvious and most dominant reason (someone has died that I was obviously connected with in some way), I think I also hate funerals, because it is an in-your-face reminder that life is flying by right in front of your face.
As I generally do when I attend a funeral, last Thursday I found myself trying to occupy my mind with something other than depressing thoughts about the loss of a loved one. As I sat there looking at flowers and critiquing Christmas decorations and considering how uncomfortable my shoes were, I realized that Eastside was the setting for one of the most vivid memories I have from high school. Early in high school I saw a band called Stephen Speaks perform in the exact same sanctuary where the funeral was held last Thursday. For some reason I remember everything about that night. I remember what jeans I was wearing. I remember who all was there. I remember where in the sanctuary I was sitting. I remember everything about that night. I have been in Eastside twice in my life. Once for that Stephen Speaks concert and once for the funeral. I found myself (in an attempt to detach myself from the terribly sad commentary that is often found at a funeral) thinking back on all the tiny details of that night in high school. I literally felt like I was remembering someone else’s life. It felt so long ago to me. The teenager sitting in the first pew of that church seemed completely foreign to the adult that was sitting in that first pew years later.
I feel like people (or maybe it’s just me) remember their lives in decades. I have a pretty good grasp of who I was up to 10 years ago. Beyond 14 years old memories almost feel inaccessible to me now. For example, I don’t remember what I looked like when I was 12. I remember very little of the small stuff from years and years ago that I still remember about high school. As I considered that night with Stephen Speaks years ago, something a switch flipped inside of me. I didn’t want to be sitting in that pew at that church last Thursday. I didn’t want to have to remember who I was as a teenager. For a few moments I wanted to be a teenager again. I was frustrated and sad and there was depressing music already playing. People were crying (I assume for the loss of a loved one) and then it hit me…
I don’t hate funerals solely because of the pain caused by losing a loved one. I hate funerals because they’re a reminder to everyone that time is ticking. It took a sunny day in 2010 to bring me back to a night years ago when things were simpler. As I scanned the room last week I realized that there is hardly anything left of that kid at the Stephen Speaks concert. I was sitting next to my husband. My family was there, yes. But it was an older, different family than I knew years ago. The whole situation was different than I wanted it to be. Discomfort in my reality often times makes me think back to the safety of my past. Things were good at that Stephen Speaks concert. Although I am certain that if you could talk to Katy Schrodt circa 2002, she would have plenty of issues and complaints about her present situation (would that not be awesome to be able to talk to a younger or older version of yourself?). Things are always different once you have enough time to find a place for them in your memory. I hate change. I take comfort in the routine of certainty. Unfortunately, as is evident by funerals of loved ones, very little is certain. That’s a bummer. It’s a bummer for 24 year old me and it was also for the teenage me. Maybe less has changed than I think.
By the time I walked out of the funeral, I had pretty much come full circle (in my defense it was a long service). I got caught up in the suckiness of a funeral. There is nothing good about it. I realized that my life is going to keep on moving regardless of whether or not I want it to. Since then Cody and I have decided that we want to go to Europe this summer and sow our wild oats. So maybe that’s the good in remembering someone else’s well lived life. Maybe it helps the rest of us to remember to keep on moving.
Take that, you non-pretentious blog writers.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
You Must Be a Biker
I have been a bit challenged with coming up with topics to write about lately. There has been plenty of stuff happening, I just haven’t found anything that would transfer to a blog very well. However, yesterday I went to Wal-Mart and was checked out by a large black woman named Tabitha. Tabitha provided me a lovely experience that could only happen in Wal-Mart that reminded me of a perfect topic to address on the internet…
Tabitha: “Oh, you must be a biker.”
Me: (look of confusion, consideration of what she means by “biker”) “Why’s that?”
Tabitha: “You’re glasses. They look like you [sic] a biker.”
Me: “Oh, ok. I’m not.” (starting to get a little annoyed because it’s Wal-Mart and for some reason all Wal-Mart employees check out items at the rate of 1 item per 10 seconds.)
Tabitha: “You one of those stern people. What you do? You a drill sergeant?”
Me: “Nope. I teach English and coach.”
Tabitha: “Oh, I could see that. You be screaming at those kids like ‘do this, go faster, do this.’”
Me: “Yah, I guess so.” (finally I’m waiting on my receipt, slowly starting to walk away)
Tabitha: “What kind of bike you got?”
This was the conversation I had as I was trying to leave Wal-Mart. The reason I found this intriguing was because A. Tabitha thought I drove a motorcycle because of the blue glasses I got in St. Martin (not exactly biker glasses) B. Tabitha asked me if I was a drill sergeant.
I get this type of question ALL of the time. I have random strangers tell me to “Smile” on a regular basis. People ask me if I’m “okay” all the time. My kids make sarcastic remarks about me looking “excited” about stuff. I don’t get this. I never think to tell someone to smile or cheer up or look excited. If they don’t look excited, they probably aren’t. Who am I to think that I should tell someone how to look? Also, I am confused as to why people ask me these things. No, I do not walk around with a big, goofy grin on my face all the time. On a regular basis, I am not generally happy. On a random Tuesday afternoon at Wal-Mart when all I want to do is go home, it doesn’t come naturally to me to smile at every human I see. I smile when I think something is funny. I don’t smile just because I am so delighted to exist that every moment I must grin. I have determined that my natural demeanor is not one of happiness. At the same time, just because I am not smiling, that does not mean that I am upset about something. It means I am indifferent. At Wal-Mart, I am indifferent. At work, I am generally indifferent. Early in the morning, I am ALWAYS indifferent. The look on my face is one of neutrality. I believe that if I smile all of the time, my smile will have less meaning. It’s like cuss words. I don’t cuss all the time. I save a few select cuss words for those moments in my life where I really need to make an impact. I don’t want to cry wolf with my smile. I figure I will save it for experiences that make me want to smile. So, no, I am not upset. And yes, I am okay. And no, I am not excited. I will certainly let you know when I am unhappy about something. I will also make a point to look happy when I am. All the rest of you smile-whores out there, stop asking me these weird questions.
Tabitha: “Oh, you must be a biker.”
Me: (look of confusion, consideration of what she means by “biker”) “Why’s that?”
Tabitha: “You’re glasses. They look like you [sic] a biker.”
Me: “Oh, ok. I’m not.” (starting to get a little annoyed because it’s Wal-Mart and for some reason all Wal-Mart employees check out items at the rate of 1 item per 10 seconds.)
Tabitha: “You one of those stern people. What you do? You a drill sergeant?”
Me: “Nope. I teach English and coach.”
Tabitha: “Oh, I could see that. You be screaming at those kids like ‘do this, go faster, do this.’”
Me: “Yah, I guess so.” (finally I’m waiting on my receipt, slowly starting to walk away)
Tabitha: “What kind of bike you got?”
This was the conversation I had as I was trying to leave Wal-Mart. The reason I found this intriguing was because A. Tabitha thought I drove a motorcycle because of the blue glasses I got in St. Martin (not exactly biker glasses) B. Tabitha asked me if I was a drill sergeant.
I get this type of question ALL of the time. I have random strangers tell me to “Smile” on a regular basis. People ask me if I’m “okay” all the time. My kids make sarcastic remarks about me looking “excited” about stuff. I don’t get this. I never think to tell someone to smile or cheer up or look excited. If they don’t look excited, they probably aren’t. Who am I to think that I should tell someone how to look? Also, I am confused as to why people ask me these things. No, I do not walk around with a big, goofy grin on my face all the time. On a regular basis, I am not generally happy. On a random Tuesday afternoon at Wal-Mart when all I want to do is go home, it doesn’t come naturally to me to smile at every human I see. I smile when I think something is funny. I don’t smile just because I am so delighted to exist that every moment I must grin. I have determined that my natural demeanor is not one of happiness. At the same time, just because I am not smiling, that does not mean that I am upset about something. It means I am indifferent. At Wal-Mart, I am indifferent. At work, I am generally indifferent. Early in the morning, I am ALWAYS indifferent. The look on my face is one of neutrality. I believe that if I smile all of the time, my smile will have less meaning. It’s like cuss words. I don’t cuss all the time. I save a few select cuss words for those moments in my life where I really need to make an impact. I don’t want to cry wolf with my smile. I figure I will save it for experiences that make me want to smile. So, no, I am not upset. And yes, I am okay. And no, I am not excited. I will certainly let you know when I am unhappy about something. I will also make a point to look happy when I am. All the rest of you smile-whores out there, stop asking me these weird questions.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Oh Baby, Oh Baby
I think it’s funny how life has such a logical progression, despite how few people actually follow it. When you graduate high school, you go to college. When you date someone at least a year, you marry them. When you get married, you have a baby. I occasionally find myself dreadfully bored with the predictability of my life. I have been one of those people that follow the rules, make sure step 1 is completed before step 2. I’ve never deviated from the path people assume others should follow. I have watched family members and friends do all sorts of crazy stuff. 8 year bachelor degrees. Illegitimate children. Stints in jail. Vegas weekend weddings. I have watched others do that stuff and generally laughed at their irresponsibility. However, at the same time deep down inside of my rule following soul, I have envied those people. The ones who made their own rules and created their own path, even though it was generally out of laziness or promiscuity and resulted in a divorce 3 months later or other life-altering repercussions that people still talk about behind their backs. Not me. I literally cannot think of anything I’ve ever done that was off the wall.
I have found myself recently being bombarded with the next step on the recipe for a successful life…Dun, dun, dun BABIES!!! They’re everywhere. People just had babies. Or just found out their pregnant. Or just started trying to have babies. They’re at walmart. They’re in the halls after school wreaking havoc in a generally non-baby high school. They’re in magazines. They’re peoples’ Facebook profile pictures. Those untrasound pictures that really look more creepy than cute. And certainly are not of any interest to anyone other than the humans who created that weird, blurry, alienesque image. They’re everywhere. Babies are everywhere. Baby names, baby books, baby clothes, baby cribs, baby bottles, baby diapers, baby squeals. Babies, babies, babies.
In my perpetual attempt to follow the rules, I have recently found myself considering having a baby of my own. I do believe that Cody and I have genes worth passing on to future generations. I want to have some children. I am intrigued and humbled at the thought of reproducing some little athletic, intelligent, beautiful child that I get to raise. The other day I went so far as to count months in intervals of 9 to decide when the best month to get pregnant would be. Scary.
Then it hit me. Babies are the one thing in this world that you should not let anyone else motivate you into having. Everything else is reversible. College degrees will always be there. There are jobs you can get with a criminal record. Most STD’s can be cured or at least contained with modern medicine. All of those things can be fixed to some degree. But a kid is a kid for 18 years. A kid is a kid 14, 15, 16 years after it comes out of your womb. It’s all the sudden sucking every ounce of money you can make out of you and eating your food and waking you up in the middle of the night and having sex way too early with questionable partners and disrespecting you as if you didn’t push that 8 pound lump of flesh out of your birth canal. I am not ready for a baby. Or a child. Or an early adolescent. I am not ready to reproduce. This universe can show me the cutest pictures its got with the most perfect infants all cuddly and quiet looking. It can make me run into the most precociously adorable 5 year olds that remind me a lot of me at that age. It can force all of my friends around me to get pregnant and recount all of the wonderful things about a baby. It can make every person I come in contact with on a daily basis ask me when I’m going to have a baby, and all I’m going to do is keeping shaking my head no. I am not going to give up my life. I am going to be selfish and sleep in late and waste money and do what I want to whenever I want to do it for as long as I’d like to do it. My biological clock is not ticking, but my selfish clock is ticking loud and clear and I’m holding on to the awesome life I’ve got right now for a while longer. Babies can wait. I’ll just play with everyone else’s until I get my own.
I have found myself recently being bombarded with the next step on the recipe for a successful life…Dun, dun, dun BABIES!!! They’re everywhere. People just had babies. Or just found out their pregnant. Or just started trying to have babies. They’re at walmart. They’re in the halls after school wreaking havoc in a generally non-baby high school. They’re in magazines. They’re peoples’ Facebook profile pictures. Those untrasound pictures that really look more creepy than cute. And certainly are not of any interest to anyone other than the humans who created that weird, blurry, alienesque image. They’re everywhere. Babies are everywhere. Baby names, baby books, baby clothes, baby cribs, baby bottles, baby diapers, baby squeals. Babies, babies, babies.
In my perpetual attempt to follow the rules, I have recently found myself considering having a baby of my own. I do believe that Cody and I have genes worth passing on to future generations. I want to have some children. I am intrigued and humbled at the thought of reproducing some little athletic, intelligent, beautiful child that I get to raise. The other day I went so far as to count months in intervals of 9 to decide when the best month to get pregnant would be. Scary.
Then it hit me. Babies are the one thing in this world that you should not let anyone else motivate you into having. Everything else is reversible. College degrees will always be there. There are jobs you can get with a criminal record. Most STD’s can be cured or at least contained with modern medicine. All of those things can be fixed to some degree. But a kid is a kid for 18 years. A kid is a kid 14, 15, 16 years after it comes out of your womb. It’s all the sudden sucking every ounce of money you can make out of you and eating your food and waking you up in the middle of the night and having sex way too early with questionable partners and disrespecting you as if you didn’t push that 8 pound lump of flesh out of your birth canal. I am not ready for a baby. Or a child. Or an early adolescent. I am not ready to reproduce. This universe can show me the cutest pictures its got with the most perfect infants all cuddly and quiet looking. It can make me run into the most precociously adorable 5 year olds that remind me a lot of me at that age. It can force all of my friends around me to get pregnant and recount all of the wonderful things about a baby. It can make every person I come in contact with on a daily basis ask me when I’m going to have a baby, and all I’m going to do is keeping shaking my head no. I am not going to give up my life. I am going to be selfish and sleep in late and waste money and do what I want to whenever I want to do it for as long as I’d like to do it. My biological clock is not ticking, but my selfish clock is ticking loud and clear and I’m holding on to the awesome life I’ve got right now for a while longer. Babies can wait. I’ll just play with everyone else’s until I get my own.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Where Did October Go???
I have recently sucked at blogging. I have found myself sprinting through October, which as a volleyball coach October seems to be the most ridiculous month ever. The good thing is that volleyball is over and I have one post that I have been meaning to share for three weeks now...
We all know that October is breast cancer awareness month. I find I have a love/hate relationship with this month. I appreciate and am grateful for all of the press that breast cancer awareness gets. I am glad that so many people want to fight and support such a worthwhile cause. However, I often find myself a little sad when I see pink ribbons, because it takes me back to some moments in my life that have been a bit rough. Nonetheless, I am happy to believe in a cause that I would like everyone to support in hopes of one day there being less women effected by breast cancer.
At some point throughout this month, I wore a pink ribbon on my shirt for a few days at school. One day I had a couple of boys ask me about the ribbon. I responded that it represented breast cancer awareness and was naturally responded to with immature giggles from boys. I didn't think a whole lot about it. I think men of all ages want to giggle when they hear the word breast. I told myself it wasn't malicious and that they were simply too young to understand the significance of a pink ribbon. Later that same day I had two girls ask me about the ribbon and respond that they thought breast cancer awareness was overdone. They didn't know why only breast cancer got all the hype and they thought it was stupid...There are only a few moments where I allow myself to get on my high horse about personal issues as a teacher. I don't feel that it is my responsibility to impart my beliefs on impressionable teenagers. But on that day I did.
I decided to first of all freak out on the two girls and explain all of the reasons why breast cancer deserves all of the "hype" it can get. I then went on to reprimand the entire class of kids because that's what teachers do. The next day in class I created an assignment solely to teach those two girls and my immature boys a lesson. We wrote a definition paper in which you define an abstract concept like poverty or depression or loneliness or family or something along those lines through your personal experiences. I modeled the assignment by sharing my own definition paper I had written on breast cancer...Here's what the 9th graders at Lavaca got to experience that day.
I worried the entire time. While the other kids cartwheeled without a care in the world, I attentively watched the door waiting on my mother’s return from the grocery store. Since she had reassured me over and over again of her speedy return, I had managed to begin my gymnastics practice with a relatively small amount of worry. I thought of every possible mishap that could take place. Bloody car wrecks and grocery store robberies filled my brain. When there were only fifteen minutes left in my practice, I began arranging an alternate ride home from the teenager who was teaching my class how to do a front roll off of a small trampoline. I recounted the entire situation each time I reached the front of the line, including my prediction that my mother had been in a terrible wreck. The only consolation I got from my instructor was a confused look and the claim that she had not heard any sirens, so my mom was probably fine. In the end, my mother returned from the store blaming an incompetent check-out person at Harps for her lengthy trip to the grocery store. And most importantly promising to never leave me again.
All of my life I have feared my mom leaving me. My fear held me hostage for years until I learned to believe in my mother’s devotion. For instance, I did not spend the night at friends’ houses until I was convinced my mother would return the next morning. In my childish world, I worried that my mom would get sick of me and one day decide to desert me when I least expected it. I was a “mama’s girl” to the utmost degree. Fortunately, as I grew up, I learned to trust my mother and appreciate her commitment to both my brother and me. After years of her being there, I even took for granted my mother’s presence. That is until she was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2002. As a fifteen-year-old I regressed to my eight-year-old state of mind. However, the fear of losing my mom to breast cancer was a much more realistic concern than bloody car wrecks or grocery story heists.
For me, breast cancer was a sixteenth birthday with a bed-ridden mother. It was a birthday party with no presents. It was sympathetic stares and endless questions regarding, “How is your mom?” Breast cancer was living for the next set of test results that revealed the status of my mom’s health, my mom’s life. It was sympathy cards every day. It was home cooked meals from someone else’s home. Breast cancer was IV’s and nights in a hospital. Breast cancer was specialists and second opinions. It was constant worry and bargaining with God for my mom’s recovery. In the end, after months of fighting, breast cancer was a hurdle cleared and an obstacle avoided. It was a weight off of my entire family’s shoulders.
Still today, breast cancer is one of the most influential forces in my life. As a teenager I witnessed my mother fight for her life to escape the chains of cancer. I learned that breast cancer is more than an illness, but a transforming force for many. Breast cancer molded and shaped and scarred my mother into the woman she is today. Ironically, it also molded and shaped and scarred me into the person I am today. Through my mother’s experience, I learned that cancer does not discriminate. It cares not your race or age. It cuts with a knife and leaves its mark forever. Breast cancer is a physical tyrant, an unforgiving force. It attacks the most undeserving of victims, including my mom. It stalks generation after generation with its presence feared by daughters and granddaughters. Breast cancer is my fear now. Breast cancer is a lump in your breast. It is mammograms and hospital waiting rooms. It is blood work and biopsy results. Breast cancer is sutures and staples and disfiguration. In my mother’s case, it is a double mastectomy, a loss of femininity. It is one in every four women in the United States. It is radiation and chemotherapy, nausea and bald heads. It is husbands with no wives, children with no mothers, and parents with no daughters.
All of my life I have feared my mother’s leaving. As a child, I worried of her temporary departure. As an adult, I worry about her permanent departure. Breast cancer planted an eternal fear of its return in my mind. If it does not return for my mother, perhaps it will settle for me instead. Breast cancer has taught me more about life and love than anything else. For me, breast cancer restored my eight-year-old appreciation for the people I love.
Needless to say my kids were overwhelmed after hearing me read this. I did, however, get some of the best writing out of my students I've gotten all year. One day after school, one of the girls who had made the remarks about breast cancer found me and apologized. She explained she had never met anyone who had breast cancer or known anyone who knew someone with it. I sometimes wonder what I'm doing as a teacher. And very rarely do I ever have any sort of proof that I'm making even a small impact. However, this month I feel like I have opened a few sets of eyes to life beyond the sheltered existence so many young kids find themselves a part of.
So, I have a love/hate relationship with October. However, I am thankful that October has evolved into Pinktober. Breast cancer awareness is very much a worthwhile fight to undertake. And whether people walk or run or wear pink ribbons or assign 9th graders an assignment solely to allow for their personal satisfaction of teaching a lesson that has nothing to do with English, we must all do our part. Hopefully one day, October can be devoted to the fight for the cure of a disease other than breast cancer. Until then, we must spread the word.
We all know that October is breast cancer awareness month. I find I have a love/hate relationship with this month. I appreciate and am grateful for all of the press that breast cancer awareness gets. I am glad that so many people want to fight and support such a worthwhile cause. However, I often find myself a little sad when I see pink ribbons, because it takes me back to some moments in my life that have been a bit rough. Nonetheless, I am happy to believe in a cause that I would like everyone to support in hopes of one day there being less women effected by breast cancer.
At some point throughout this month, I wore a pink ribbon on my shirt for a few days at school. One day I had a couple of boys ask me about the ribbon. I responded that it represented breast cancer awareness and was naturally responded to with immature giggles from boys. I didn't think a whole lot about it. I think men of all ages want to giggle when they hear the word breast. I told myself it wasn't malicious and that they were simply too young to understand the significance of a pink ribbon. Later that same day I had two girls ask me about the ribbon and respond that they thought breast cancer awareness was overdone. They didn't know why only breast cancer got all the hype and they thought it was stupid...There are only a few moments where I allow myself to get on my high horse about personal issues as a teacher. I don't feel that it is my responsibility to impart my beliefs on impressionable teenagers. But on that day I did.
I decided to first of all freak out on the two girls and explain all of the reasons why breast cancer deserves all of the "hype" it can get. I then went on to reprimand the entire class of kids because that's what teachers do. The next day in class I created an assignment solely to teach those two girls and my immature boys a lesson. We wrote a definition paper in which you define an abstract concept like poverty or depression or loneliness or family or something along those lines through your personal experiences. I modeled the assignment by sharing my own definition paper I had written on breast cancer...Here's what the 9th graders at Lavaca got to experience that day.
I worried the entire time. While the other kids cartwheeled without a care in the world, I attentively watched the door waiting on my mother’s return from the grocery store. Since she had reassured me over and over again of her speedy return, I had managed to begin my gymnastics practice with a relatively small amount of worry. I thought of every possible mishap that could take place. Bloody car wrecks and grocery store robberies filled my brain. When there were only fifteen minutes left in my practice, I began arranging an alternate ride home from the teenager who was teaching my class how to do a front roll off of a small trampoline. I recounted the entire situation each time I reached the front of the line, including my prediction that my mother had been in a terrible wreck. The only consolation I got from my instructor was a confused look and the claim that she had not heard any sirens, so my mom was probably fine. In the end, my mother returned from the store blaming an incompetent check-out person at Harps for her lengthy trip to the grocery store. And most importantly promising to never leave me again.
All of my life I have feared my mom leaving me. My fear held me hostage for years until I learned to believe in my mother’s devotion. For instance, I did not spend the night at friends’ houses until I was convinced my mother would return the next morning. In my childish world, I worried that my mom would get sick of me and one day decide to desert me when I least expected it. I was a “mama’s girl” to the utmost degree. Fortunately, as I grew up, I learned to trust my mother and appreciate her commitment to both my brother and me. After years of her being there, I even took for granted my mother’s presence. That is until she was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2002. As a fifteen-year-old I regressed to my eight-year-old state of mind. However, the fear of losing my mom to breast cancer was a much more realistic concern than bloody car wrecks or grocery story heists.
For me, breast cancer was a sixteenth birthday with a bed-ridden mother. It was a birthday party with no presents. It was sympathetic stares and endless questions regarding, “How is your mom?” Breast cancer was living for the next set of test results that revealed the status of my mom’s health, my mom’s life. It was sympathy cards every day. It was home cooked meals from someone else’s home. Breast cancer was IV’s and nights in a hospital. Breast cancer was specialists and second opinions. It was constant worry and bargaining with God for my mom’s recovery. In the end, after months of fighting, breast cancer was a hurdle cleared and an obstacle avoided. It was a weight off of my entire family’s shoulders.
Still today, breast cancer is one of the most influential forces in my life. As a teenager I witnessed my mother fight for her life to escape the chains of cancer. I learned that breast cancer is more than an illness, but a transforming force for many. Breast cancer molded and shaped and scarred my mother into the woman she is today. Ironically, it also molded and shaped and scarred me into the person I am today. Through my mother’s experience, I learned that cancer does not discriminate. It cares not your race or age. It cuts with a knife and leaves its mark forever. Breast cancer is a physical tyrant, an unforgiving force. It attacks the most undeserving of victims, including my mom. It stalks generation after generation with its presence feared by daughters and granddaughters. Breast cancer is my fear now. Breast cancer is a lump in your breast. It is mammograms and hospital waiting rooms. It is blood work and biopsy results. Breast cancer is sutures and staples and disfiguration. In my mother’s case, it is a double mastectomy, a loss of femininity. It is one in every four women in the United States. It is radiation and chemotherapy, nausea and bald heads. It is husbands with no wives, children with no mothers, and parents with no daughters.
All of my life I have feared my mother’s leaving. As a child, I worried of her temporary departure. As an adult, I worry about her permanent departure. Breast cancer planted an eternal fear of its return in my mind. If it does not return for my mother, perhaps it will settle for me instead. Breast cancer has taught me more about life and love than anything else. For me, breast cancer restored my eight-year-old appreciation for the people I love.
Needless to say my kids were overwhelmed after hearing me read this. I did, however, get some of the best writing out of my students I've gotten all year. One day after school, one of the girls who had made the remarks about breast cancer found me and apologized. She explained she had never met anyone who had breast cancer or known anyone who knew someone with it. I sometimes wonder what I'm doing as a teacher. And very rarely do I ever have any sort of proof that I'm making even a small impact. However, this month I feel like I have opened a few sets of eyes to life beyond the sheltered existence so many young kids find themselves a part of.
So, I have a love/hate relationship with October. However, I am thankful that October has evolved into Pinktober. Breast cancer awareness is very much a worthwhile fight to undertake. And whether people walk or run or wear pink ribbons or assign 9th graders an assignment solely to allow for their personal satisfaction of teaching a lesson that has nothing to do with English, we must all do our part. Hopefully one day, October can be devoted to the fight for the cure of a disease other than breast cancer. Until then, we must spread the word.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Thoughts on Friendship
I remember it like it was yesterday. The months leading up to high school graduation were filled with promises of keeping in touch, plans made 6 months in advance, and talks of Christmas break activities we would all partake in when we were back home. Empty promises. Cancelled plans. Prior engagments.
The other night my very good friend Brooke Whitney (her name isn't Whitney anymore, but this is blog so I make the rules here) was in town from Lubbock. Laura (my other very good friend) and I made our way to Northwest Arkansas for dinner with Brooke. Despite not seeing Brooke since my wedding, the gap of time did not seem to effect our time together. We picked up conversations just like we were 19 again. We talked of pretty much all of the same topics of yesterday with a few nouns and verbs replaced with other more sophisticated ones. We didn't find our time awkward. We didn't feel like we had nothing left to discuss. We were very much as we used to be. It was refreshing to know that some things don't change as quickly as others.
On the drive home, I started thinking about why the majority of the time relationships that face thousands of miles of distance don't work nearly as well as Brooke, Laura, and myself. I decided the issue is this...when you don't see someone for months at a time, you are forced to pick up on the last day you were with them. For instance, when I graduated high school and then we all went our separate ways, we were forced to miss out on all of the experiences of the first semester of college without a continual communcation and analysis of these activities. When I saw you over Christmas, we were still seniors in high school even though we were so far from that place. I see people now who I felt like I knew really well in high school or even college and find myself downright confused as to where the person I once knew has gone. Life happens to us in the absence of each another and people are forced to fill those gaps of time one way or another. I run into people who I remember as uptight and conservative who now ramble on about partying and sex. I run into people who were the biggest whores I ever knew who now have 3 kids and a husband (granted the 3 kids could have stemmed from their previous life). Nonetheless, I have these experiences often.
Anywho, I guess my point is this. People change. People literally change what they believe, how they act, and who they are. It is rare to find people who either don't change much or change in a way that allows you to pick up conversations where you left off months ago. My only reservation I ever had in marrying Cody was the understanding that 23 year old Katy Schrodt will not be the same as 33 year old Katy Prater. I have always wondered how married people some how avoid the growing up process without growning apart. However, I decided after 5 years of being with Cody that you simply need to have the big things set in concrete. If you're a genuine person at 18 you probably will be at 28. If you're a funny person now, you will probably always be. If you're a sweet and loving person, you will probably be that as well. So maybe the relationships that last are the ones that you care enough to remember the big things that you appreciated before. The details of life are only the icing on the cake. It's the character traits that I appreciate in the people I love. So when you can, find a person that you used to know and try your hardest to pick up where you left off. Because maybe it was husbands and jobs that we dealt with last Wednesday, but it felt as enjoyable as boyfriends and class. It's less about the topics of conversation, and more about the people you're talking to.
The other night my very good friend Brooke Whitney (her name isn't Whitney anymore, but this is blog so I make the rules here) was in town from Lubbock. Laura (my other very good friend) and I made our way to Northwest Arkansas for dinner with Brooke. Despite not seeing Brooke since my wedding, the gap of time did not seem to effect our time together. We picked up conversations just like we were 19 again. We talked of pretty much all of the same topics of yesterday with a few nouns and verbs replaced with other more sophisticated ones. We didn't find our time awkward. We didn't feel like we had nothing left to discuss. We were very much as we used to be. It was refreshing to know that some things don't change as quickly as others.
On the drive home, I started thinking about why the majority of the time relationships that face thousands of miles of distance don't work nearly as well as Brooke, Laura, and myself. I decided the issue is this...when you don't see someone for months at a time, you are forced to pick up on the last day you were with them. For instance, when I graduated high school and then we all went our separate ways, we were forced to miss out on all of the experiences of the first semester of college without a continual communcation and analysis of these activities. When I saw you over Christmas, we were still seniors in high school even though we were so far from that place. I see people now who I felt like I knew really well in high school or even college and find myself downright confused as to where the person I once knew has gone. Life happens to us in the absence of each another and people are forced to fill those gaps of time one way or another. I run into people who I remember as uptight and conservative who now ramble on about partying and sex. I run into people who were the biggest whores I ever knew who now have 3 kids and a husband (granted the 3 kids could have stemmed from their previous life). Nonetheless, I have these experiences often.
Anywho, I guess my point is this. People change. People literally change what they believe, how they act, and who they are. It is rare to find people who either don't change much or change in a way that allows you to pick up conversations where you left off months ago. My only reservation I ever had in marrying Cody was the understanding that 23 year old Katy Schrodt will not be the same as 33 year old Katy Prater. I have always wondered how married people some how avoid the growing up process without growning apart. However, I decided after 5 years of being with Cody that you simply need to have the big things set in concrete. If you're a genuine person at 18 you probably will be at 28. If you're a funny person now, you will probably always be. If you're a sweet and loving person, you will probably be that as well. So maybe the relationships that last are the ones that you care enough to remember the big things that you appreciated before. The details of life are only the icing on the cake. It's the character traits that I appreciate in the people I love. So when you can, find a person that you used to know and try your hardest to pick up where you left off. Because maybe it was husbands and jobs that we dealt with last Wednesday, but it felt as enjoyable as boyfriends and class. It's less about the topics of conversation, and more about the people you're talking to.
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