I don't really need to write a post. I'm not doing anything other than eating. Honestly, I don't think I've gained a lot of weight. Also honestly, I can now talk to my potbelly. And have it talk back when I've gone a whole hour without eating.
Vacation in a vacation home, while still getting to see my friends and eat ice cream, is the best. Sometimes I go to work to show solidarity with my coworkers, who have basically only had Christmas day off. And that's because it was on a Sunday.
I would like to show more solidarity, but this conflicts with my desire to dance around in my mansion and do the opposite of tan.
But then I miss out on conversations with distinguished, frail older gentlemen outfitted in shoulder pads usually seen on berserk linebackers.
“Er. That's a really nice... Well, you look-- I mean... It is different!”
“Yes, yes; smoking.”
“Ye-- What.”
The fact that the above conversation was actually entirely in English should reassure you. Or worry you further; I don't know, I was biting my tongue to keep from hysterics. I could have misheard. Or he could legitimately have been telling me that he looked smoking hot. It's possible. Though then the question shifts from his grasp of English to that of his marbles.
Unfortunately, I have had a lot of other conversations which I only wish were as incomprehensible. Like when my crush, a spectacularly black man, told me I was now black.
It's just a light tan, you barnacle!
Or when my Congolese family threatened to cut my hair.
Why?!
Or when a coworker told me that I'd gained so much weight that he could no longer see my collarbones. I whined about this to N2O, looking to gain some sympathy.
“Right, but did you ever have [collarbones]?
Sensing my distress (or maybe worried at the way my clawed hands were approaching her throat), she hastily continued, “I mean, there's something there...”
Friendship is a vastly overrated.
Or when Grandpa joked that he would have to find me a husband – a trap for anyone in my vicinity who feels the tension of my bipolar approach to men, married life, and babies (i.e. I am strong and independent, and if I'm not also married and pregnant soon, I will get a radical hysterectomy, shave my head, and devote my life to chocolate).
But in Grandpa's case, all is forgiven. Mostly because he feeds me peanut butter swirl and mint chocolate-chip ice cream. And because his venting of rage at corruption and a $200 'fine' is to eat said ice cream. And because he teared up on Christmas morning, in the midst of serving breakfast to half the compound, thinking of his faraway family. And because he tells stories. And because...
To quote the Emperor of China in Disney's Mulan: You don't meet a [guy] like that every dynasty.
In return, I've asked him to escort me to a New Year's Eve party because humanitarian workers need Jesus now. ...Yes, alright, fine - I hate to go alone and FOMO won't let me rest. What if the love of my life is passed out under the DJ or grinding up on a buxom model? I mean, it's unlikely, but you can't say I'm not optimistic. But because I'm not stupid, I hope to drag Grandpa away before he begins baptising people in beer, or before the grown-ups start kissing (yukk) – that is if he agrees to go and makes it until then, as he is usually up before dawn, baking or cooking or designing a perpetual motion machine to end world hunger or something.
My other coworkers are pretty great too. I spent over an hour watching family videos with one lady (despite heavy hinting that we should get to work), who tried to offer me money the next day in exchange for helping out while officially on vacation. I pride myself on having reached a point where locals are giving me money – this is a mission accomplished right here. I told her instead to buy deep fried bread with it to cement our relationship and she seemed to like that idea.
Now it's the eve of New Year's Eve, I'm thinking about white privilege, inclusion, cultural norms, and feminism, and I have successfully evaded 2 out of 3 seasonal parties in Central Africa, where I have been privileged to see painful ministry and fragile healing. Where an apparently post-conflict population prides itself on its food, hospitality, romance, and spirituality. Where brothers want jobs and sisters have some serious attitude and fashion sense. Where the women are strong and the men don't understand how the West can deprive itself of children's laughter. Where most people hold out their hands for support and ask for money because it's easier. Where soldiers and teachers seek peace, but reach for it in different ways. Where leaders and and the lost can't tell each other apart.
This has been a spectacular year. I've done more than I'd imagined, less than I'd hoped, and eaten more than was wise. I rarely make resolutions - I prefer things that can be fixed when broken – but if I have one for 2017, it is to love and learn.
Vacation in a vacation home, while still getting to see my friends and eat ice cream, is the best. Sometimes I go to work to show solidarity with my coworkers, who have basically only had Christmas day off. And that's because it was on a Sunday.
I would like to show more solidarity, but this conflicts with my desire to dance around in my mansion and do the opposite of tan.
But then I miss out on conversations with distinguished, frail older gentlemen outfitted in shoulder pads usually seen on berserk linebackers.
“Er. That's a really nice... Well, you look-- I mean... It is different!”
“Yes, yes; smoking.”
“Ye-- What.”
The fact that the above conversation was actually entirely in English should reassure you. Or worry you further; I don't know, I was biting my tongue to keep from hysterics. I could have misheard. Or he could legitimately have been telling me that he looked smoking hot. It's possible. Though then the question shifts from his grasp of English to that of his marbles.
Unfortunately, I have had a lot of other conversations which I only wish were as incomprehensible. Like when my crush, a spectacularly black man, told me I was now black.
It's just a light tan, you barnacle!
Or when my Congolese family threatened to cut my hair.
Why?!
Or when a coworker told me that I'd gained so much weight that he could no longer see my collarbones. I whined about this to N2O, looking to gain some sympathy.
“Right, but did you ever have [collarbones]?
Sensing my distress (or maybe worried at the way my clawed hands were approaching her throat), she hastily continued, “I mean, there's something there...”
Friendship is a vastly overrated.
Or when Grandpa joked that he would have to find me a husband – a trap for anyone in my vicinity who feels the tension of my bipolar approach to men, married life, and babies (i.e. I am strong and independent, and if I'm not also married and pregnant soon, I will get a radical hysterectomy, shave my head, and devote my life to chocolate).
But in Grandpa's case, all is forgiven. Mostly because he feeds me peanut butter swirl and mint chocolate-chip ice cream. And because his venting of rage at corruption and a $200 'fine' is to eat said ice cream. And because he teared up on Christmas morning, in the midst of serving breakfast to half the compound, thinking of his faraway family. And because he tells stories. And because...
To quote the Emperor of China in Disney's Mulan: You don't meet a [guy] like that every dynasty.
In return, I've asked him to escort me to a New Year's Eve party because humanitarian workers need Jesus now. ...Yes, alright, fine - I hate to go alone and FOMO won't let me rest. What if the love of my life is passed out under the DJ or grinding up on a buxom model? I mean, it's unlikely, but you can't say I'm not optimistic. But because I'm not stupid, I hope to drag Grandpa away before he begins baptising people in beer, or before the grown-ups start kissing (yukk) – that is if he agrees to go and makes it until then, as he is usually up before dawn, baking or cooking or designing a perpetual motion machine to end world hunger or something.
My other coworkers are pretty great too. I spent over an hour watching family videos with one lady (despite heavy hinting that we should get to work), who tried to offer me money the next day in exchange for helping out while officially on vacation. I pride myself on having reached a point where locals are giving me money – this is a mission accomplished right here. I told her instead to buy deep fried bread with it to cement our relationship and she seemed to like that idea.
Now it's the eve of New Year's Eve, I'm thinking about white privilege, inclusion, cultural norms, and feminism, and I have successfully evaded 2 out of 3 seasonal parties in Central Africa, where I have been privileged to see painful ministry and fragile healing. Where an apparently post-conflict population prides itself on its food, hospitality, romance, and spirituality. Where brothers want jobs and sisters have some serious attitude and fashion sense. Where the women are strong and the men don't understand how the West can deprive itself of children's laughter. Where most people hold out their hands for support and ask for money because it's easier. Where soldiers and teachers seek peace, but reach for it in different ways. Where leaders and and the lost can't tell each other apart.
This has been a spectacular year. I've done more than I'd imagined, less than I'd hoped, and eaten more than was wise. I rarely make resolutions - I prefer things that can be fixed when broken – but if I have one for 2017, it is to love and learn.
The living is the easiest part.
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At the risk of sounding desperate - PLEASE WRITE TO ME!