All We Need Is Love

When you’re a self-proclaimed—and probably publicly recognized—Monica Geller, it’s extremely difficult to accept the fact that not everything is in your control.

While I do take almost obsessive control at times over what I eat, how my house looks, what shoes Randel can and can’t wear (just kidding—kinda), I really struggle with not being able to make all my loved ones happy all the time.

I have this almost uncontrollable desire to make sure my parents are taken care of, my brothers have everything they need, my friends know how important they are, etc.

It's incredibly hard for me to know someone is hurting/lost/insecure.

It’s even harder to know I can’t do anything about it.

I like taking care of people. I feed off helping others. I truly believe it’s what I was meant to do.

So in light of the devastating tornado that tore through Moore, Oklahoma, yesterday, I’m feeling particularly helpless.

I can’t help thinking how different life was yesterday morning. As I got ready for work today, I started crying thinking about how some people don’t have a work to go to. Some people don’t have a home to get ready in. Some people aren’t here anymore.

While I wasn’t directly affected by the tragedy (in that my house is still standing and all my friends and family are safe and accounted for), I have friends and coworkers who lost their homes.

I wish I could bring back everything they lost—including the taken-for-granted feeling that home is a safe place. I wish my two-bedroom house could hold everyone (and every animal) who was displaced. I wish I could hug them all and let them know that people around the state, the country, and the world are ready and more than willing to do whatever we can to help.

Generous corporations and OKC’s very own Kevin Durant have shown that with their monetary donations and ongoing support.

I don’t have a million dollars to give. I don’t have a pantry stocked full of enough food for all those who woke up without homes today. I don’t have a closet full of enough clothes for those who only have the ones they fled their homes in.

What I do have is a heart that’s full of hope, a desire to volunteer in any way I can, a brings-tears-to-my-eyes love for my caring and resilient state, and faith that God will see us through.

The Indonesian Copyeditors' Association

“What are you?”

I get asked this question almost every time I meet/sit next to new people. I envision getting all snarky and saying something like: “I’m a writer (not a copyeditor, as so many people mistakenly believe). I’m a huge Phoenix Suns fan. I’m a Zumba instructor. I’m a fur-baby mama. Anything else you’d like to know?”

 But I always just laugh awkwardly and give them the answer I know they’re looking for.

Lately, though, I’ve wanted to start making stuff up.

“I’m Djibouti.”

“I’m Malaysian.”
“I’m so exotic you’ve never even heard of my country. In fact, I’m a princess there.”

And judging by some of the way-out-there guesses I’ve gotten in the past, they’d probably believe me. Here’s a list of some of the conjectures people have made about my ethnicity:

Islander (I wish.)

European (Not any specific country, mind you.)

Hawaiian (Aloha, indeed.)

*White girl with a really good tan (see note below)

Indonesian (Um…)

Native American (The most recent incorrect guess.)

*I promise I’m not making this up. To be fair, I was working at a tanning salon at the time. But still… This hilariously incorrect theory worked in my favor, though. When customers asked what tanning lotion helped me get so dark, they didn’t bat an eye when I directed them to the $90 bottle. And for this broke college girl who worked on commission, their ignorance lined my pockets made me a few extra bucks.

But the reason I bring this up now is because I’ve recently had two uncomfortable what-are-you experiences with the same man.

Picture it (10 points if you can name the show I’m referencing here): Mustang public library. Two and a half weeks ago. In between Zumba classes one Monday evening, I was reading a book when the man sitting on the couch across from me interrupted me. The whole encounter was so strange that I don’t remember our exact conversation, but it went something like this:

Awkward dude: How’s work going?

Me: (thinking, Um…do I know you?) Uh…it’s good…

AD: (whispering) Good, good. (goes back to chicken pecking on his laptop)

*a few minutes later*

AD: Excuse me, but do you— (Here, he motioned with his finger in what I took to mean “sign language.” Which is to say, he touched his pointer finger to his lips and then out toward me.)

Me: (Utterly confused as to how he got the impression I was deaf) No… (not entirely sure what he was getting at)

AD: Oh. (looking surprised) You speak very well.

Me: Um…thanks. (I think?)

He asked another question or two, but I must have blocked the rest of the convo from my mind.

Fast-forward two weeks to last Wednesday.

Just to set the scene: I’m on my way to my usual couch, preoccupied with trying to quiet my squeaky gym bag (which is a whole other story), when I notice AD sitting on what is presumably his usual couch. By this point it’s too late to turn around and head for a different chair. I’ve been spotted. So I sit.

AD: Hi. How’s work going?

Me: (Seriously, does he know what I do???) It’s good, thanks. Busy, busy. (realizing how awkward and uncomfortable I sound but unable to do anything to hide the fact that I think he’s a complete wackadoodle)

*a few minutes later*

AD: Excuse me, but I just have to ask—are you Native American?

Me: No… (laughing awkwardly, for probably the fifth time)

AD: Oh. I just couldn’t tell. (smiling awkwardly)

Me: Don’t worry, I get that all the time.

Then I went on to awkwardly (apparently I can’t act any other way around strangers) tell him what I am.

And the not-nearly-as-exciting-as-being-an-Islander truth is that I’m black and white. Good ol’ chocolate and vanilla. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an Indonesian Copyeditors’ Association meeting to prepare for. I’m the president, you see.

*If you’re wondering about the whole Indonesian Copyeditors' Association thing, please refer to paragraphs 1 and 6, sentences 3 and 5 respectively.

**In case the whole Indonesian Copyeditors' Association thing is still unclear, I made it up because people have mistakenly believed I am both Indonesian and a copyeditor. Just go with it.

You Know You're a Zumba Instructor When...

Lately, it seems as though most of my conversations center around Zumba: 

“I want new Zumba clothes."

“Sorry—I can’t come over for dinner because I’m teaching two Zumba classes tonight.”

*“How am I losing all this weight, you ask? Zumba!”

So I thought a Zumba post was in order. And y’all know I loves my lists. So I combined my love of both Zumba and lists, and thus this was born:

You Know You’re a Zumba^® Instructor When…

1. Shopping for work clothes means buying yoga pants, neon tank tops, and comfortable shoes that let you dance on the balls of your feet for prolonged periods of time.
2. You’ve ever almost caused a five-car pileup because one of your favorite Zumba songs came on the radio and you had no choice but to car dance it out.
3. Anytime you have to miss a social gathering, your friends knowingly say, “Yeah, yeah—Zumba.”
4. You know what Beto shuffle, reggaeton bounce, and meringue mean—and can do them all like a pro.
5. You determine a song’s worth not by its lyrical value but by its Zumba potential.
6. You love every Pitbull song.
7. You’re dying to go to Orlando this summer—not because of Disney World or Harry Potter World but because that’s where this year’s Zumba convention will be held. (And you'll accept donations in the form of cash or check to get you there.)
8. You shimmy in your sleep.
9. You watch more videos of scantily clad women dancing than any man you know.
10. Sweating at a Zumbathon with tons of other Zumba-obsessed guys and gals is your favorite way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

Anything you’d add to this list? 

*Not an actual sentence I’ve ever said. Just wishful thinking.

The Comparison Game

I'm fully aware that I'm not Usher (and good luck getting the song out of your head now), but I do have a little confession to make. This is just something that's been occupying my thoughts pretty much 24/7 lately. I'm not entirely sure why, but that usually means I need to write about it to help myself work through the issue.

And since I'm trying out the become-a-more-open-and-honest-blogger thing, I thought I'd share.

***

So there’s this game I play. I’ve been playing it for several years actually. I play it with lots of people—people I know, people I don’t know IRL, celebrities, bloggers I can’t get enough of, etc.

But I don’t enjoy this game at all. Because I always lose. Ready for the name of this why-the-eff-would-you-ever-play-this-game game?

It’s the Comparison Game.

Anyone else out there guilty of participating in this win-less, makes-you-feel-like-a-total-loser game?

For those of you unfamiliar with the way the game works, here are the rules:

1. Find someone (doesn’t matter if you know the person or not) whose life you’re convinced is better than yours. (Doesn’t matter if it is or not. While playing the Comparison Game, your judgment will be as clouded as the Oklahoma sky in tornado season.)

2. Constantly obsess over how much better this person’s life is than yours. Common phrases thought or uttered in this step include:

• So-and-so is skinnier than I am.
•  So-and-so is richer than I am.
• So-and-so has more blog/Twitter/social media in general followers than I do.
• So-and-so is happier than I am.

3.     Lose the game.

It’s that simple.

But I’m over this game. I don’t wanna play anymore. See, I know how blessed I am. I know I have nothing to complain about. I often feel like the kid whose mom tells her “You want me to give you something to cry about?” after she starts crying only because she knows she’s in trouble. (I may or may not have heard this phrase many times growing up.)

I have no legitimate reasons to be unhappy with my life. And it’s not that I’m unhappy per se. I just can’t seem to keep from comparing myself to others. Because someone always has it better, right?

But someone always has it worse too. And that’s something I’d do well to remember next time I think:

I wish I could afford to save $300 a month.
I wish my hair would grow as fast as hers does.
I wish my blog had over 200 followers.
I wish I could run 13 miles.

Because the truth is:

I can’t afford to save $300 a month right now—but I can pay my bills and occasionally enjoy a night out with friends or a little somethin-somethin for myself.

My hair doesn’t define me. Although my (lack of) hair is a major insecurity for me, I have to accept the fact that my hair just doesn't grow like it used to.

My blog may never have over 200 followers, or even 20. But my blog isn’t my life, and I don’t blog for the fame and fortune that comes from being a bona fide blogger. I blog for me. (If bloggers with 200-plus followers don’t actually gain fame and fortune, I’d rather not know the truth.)

I can’t run 13 miles because I’ve never tried hard enough. I give the running thing a go three or four times a year, but I never stick with it for longer than a month. If I want to be able to run a half marathon without being carted off on a stretcher, I've got to make myself stick with it for once.

With those realizations fresh in my mind, I’ve got to figure out how to avoid the siren song of this cursed Comparison Game.

I’ve never been in a 12-step program, but I’ve watched enough episodes of Intervention to know that the first step is admitting I have a problem.

But all I know about the remaining 11 steps is that I need to prepare for a lot of self-examination. Why do I feel inferior in these areas? Why are these things so important to me? Why am I not satisfied with giving my best and accepting where that takes me?

I know we’re all different and that that’s what makes the world go round. I know God made me the way I am for a specific purpose. And maybe once I figure out what that specific purpose is I’ll stop basing my self-worth on how I measure up against others.

10:53

I know it's only Tuesday, but I've had a tough week already. When I'm upset/frustrated/stressed/scared I like to write. So I turned again to my awesome book of 642 Things to Write About and found this appropriate prompt:

 

Your last cry.

Last night, actually.

Because:

Work has been super busy the last couple weeks, and after eight months, I sometimes feel like I'm still proving myself. 

I agreed to teach three more Zumba classes, bringing my grand total up to seven classes a week.

My tooth that needs a root canal hurts pretty much all the time, but I don't have an extra thousand bucks lying around to get it fixed.

I have no idea what to do about a situation with my dad.

All this and more weighed heavily on me last night until—at 10:53—I just got so overwhelmed the tears were inevitable.

And I’m glad I finally let them out. It’s been a long time since I let myself sob like that.

After my therapeutic cry—when my pillow was soaked, my lips looked like they had just been injected with Botox, and I was so drained I felt like I had run five miles—I felt a little better.

Today was still a rough day—it’s not like my stresses disappeared with the tearstains—but a good chat with my friend Shawna lifted my spirits, the prospect of having some much-needed time with my bestie this weekend did wonders, and a story my mom told me of the generosity of the people in my hometown put things into perspective.

I may shed some tears tonight too—but they’ll be tears of thankfulness and love for those who help me make it through to the other side of difficult times.

Please Don't Look at Me Differently...

...but I just remembered I’m kinda famous.

I’m not Kid President famous. Or Grumpy Cat famous. Or even Harlem Shake famous (you’re not getting a video of this because I will never get why it’s a thing).

But my voice is floating around the interwebs!

Before I was an underpaid-and-overworked ballin’ conceptual editor, I was a part-time copyeditor who moonlighted as an audio book narrator.

Impressive, eh?

This was actually a pretty natural career move for me, seeing as how I enjoyed a short stint as a radio broadcaster several years back.

Okay, I wasn’t so much a broadcaster as a middle-schooler who could barely report the school news because she and her partner in crime were laughing too hard at everything and nothing.

My dear friend Hannah and I were in the Gifted & Talented program in school (reppin’ for the nerds!), which really just meant that we participated in academic meets (and by participated I mean I stood there and hoped my shaking hands didn’t accidentally push the buzzer), got to work in the Christmas gift shop, and reported riveting school news for a local radio station once a month.

We’d practice our lines on the fifteen-minute drive to the station, but no matter how uneventful the news was (lunch menu, honor roll students, blah blah blah), we always managed to crack up just a few seconds in. A funny name or a single look could keep us doubled over in laughter for a good three minutes.

And this happened no fewer than seven times every time we went.

Somehow we always managed to collect ourselves and get through the should-have-been-a-five-

minute-broadcast-but-always-turned-into-a-half-hour-ordeal. But the station manager (I don’t actually know what his title was) and our sponsor were always highly annoyed by our inability to say three words without uproarious laughter.

Side note: Hannah and I just have the giggles effect on each other. Get us together and say the name “Beverly,” and we’ll laugh for days. It’s an inside joke that will never get old.

So it’s probably for the best that Hannah wasn’t in the booth with me while I was recording the guide to cooking with arthritis and the children’s book about getting a new mommy. I never would have made it through.

I got promoted to full time after just a couple months as a narrator (holler!), so I only lent my vocal talents to eight books.

And lucky for you guys, I’ve got the Audible link with all the books right here. So you can check out some samples of my work and praise the Lord that wonder why I didn’t pursue this as a career.

https://mobile.audible.com/search.htm?type=search&cache=1&narrator=Ashley+Luckett&page=1

Good stuff, huh?

P.S. Check out this completely ridiculous sweet testimonial of my work from the Audio Book Store:

http://www.theaudiobookstore.com/narrators/ashley-luckett/

I especially like the parts about me being one of their “more popular narrators” (uh…yeah, right) and Ashley lending “their considerable talents to literary works” (I’m a girl; the pronoun you’re looking for is “her”).

Life after "Friends"

Didn't know there was such a thing, did ya?

Even so, three months after I met Monica, Chandler, Ross, Rachel, Joey, and Phoebe for the first time, I ended my TV journey with them. It was a sad day. In fact, I put off watching the last two episodes for about two weeks.

But I was more than pleased with the emotional ending to the "Friends" saga.

Now that it's been a couple days since I watched the finale, I've had time to reflect and have come up with some "Friends" observations and general info about my "Friends"-watching experience, late though it was:

1. Every episode, I played this game where I tried to guess when the theme song would start playing. I only lost twice.

2. Every single time I say "I know" (which I've realized happens A LOT), I'm convinced I sound like Monica. Seriously, I can't turn it off. Back me up on this, Kel.

3. I knew that red sweater was Ross's the second Joey brought it out. I mean, it just looked like something that would come out of a paleontologist's closet.

4. I've come to expect grand romantic gestures in airports. So if I ever decide to fly anywhere (yeah, you understood that correctly---I've never been on an airplane), I'll be disappointed if I don't witness a Ross-and-Rachel moment. (P.S. I'll also be sure to inquire about the state of the phalanges.)

5. Incidentally, Regina Phalange will be my go-to made-up name from now on.

6. I think Joey's onto something with the whole "Thanksgiving pants" thing.

7. If I'm ever stuck in leather pants, I will not attempt to extricate myself from them by using lotion and baby powder.

8. Next time I'm moving a couch upstairs, you better believe I will PIVOT!

9. That Janice is a sneaky little somethin'. She popped up everywhere!

10. "JOEY DOESN'T SHARE FOOD!" Duly noted.

Even though it took me almost a decade after the finale to watch this show, I totally get all the hype now. I honestly didn't expect it to be the kind of sitcom I'd get hooked on, but let's face it: I'm addicted.

Feel free to buy me "Friends" paraphernalia for every holiday from now until I say stop