It doesn't take an MD to see that you're OPENLY judging me...

When possible, I've started checking Dr. As a prefix for my mail. Do you know how rewarding it is to receive mail to Dr. Rachael M Weaver? ESPECIALLY when your really attractive mailbox neighbor is kind of curiously eyeballing your... Wait, okay, wow, that’s actually strange. WHY are you looking at my mail?

Do I not LOOK like I could be a doctor? Why, cause I’m not wearing scrubs? Well maybe I’m not a resident or a dentist! Huh? What about that? Maybe I wear business casual clothes only to don a white coat and stethogra--scope(?) when I walk into the office of my very OWN private practice?! That's fine I don't even have to be an MD. How insultingly presumptuous do you plan on being over a piece of my mail which so obviously states that I have a doctorate? Truth, maybe I'm not old enough to have graduated medical school, but that doesn't mean I don't have some totally valid doctorate in something deliciously absurd, like, Poultry or Epic Winning. How about that, Debra McDoubterson?!

Alright, well, as fleetingly “attractive” as I thought you WERE, the fact that you’re so openly judging me and completely violating my privacy at the mailbox is a rather clear indication that you’re definitely not in THIS doctor’s league, okay? And no, the fact that I'm holding a copy of Maxim magazine is definitely NOT why you're scrutinizing me. Cause, yeah hate to break it to you, but according to them (them being Maxim address people. Very respectable. Don't argue.) I am, in fact, a doctor. Gah, the nerve of some people.

You're killin' me, Smalls!

Why is it that so many high school and college athletes feel the need to work that into practically every conversation? I get it, I really do, it was a huge part of your life, but ya know what? I’m not relating. In fact, I stopped listening as soon as the word “ball” came out of your mouth. And by the way, do you see this book that I'm holding in front of my face? My eyes aren't just going back and forth because I'm pretending to read, I'm actually attempting to READ this BOOK! You boasting about the fact that you were gonna be the next Alex Rodriguez before that unfortunate groin(vomit) injury is not impressing me. This means you have to cease incessantly reminding me that you “played ball” in college.

For the love of Pete Rose, remove Sandlot from your instant queue and then retire your college baseball apparel. Because your beer belly? Yeah, it’s preventing you from tucking in that shirt that fit your 18 year old body. And you know what that means? You're assaulting my retinas because I can definitely see the bottom of your baby bump. Finally, please, for health code reasons, WASH your HAT, because it smells like decade old unwashed dreads and that is in no way shape or form “lucky”. It is quite possible the reason you have not “gotten lucky” (as you so eloquently put it) SINCE you “played ball” which was roughly fifteen years and 3.2 million beers ago.

Two Steps Backward and Sixteen Forward

I turn to walk away because I am waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because this much wisdom and good nature can't be bestowed upon me without some horrific end. All the bravery and clarity thrust upon me can't just be grace, it has to be the means to a terrible end that's closing in on me and that I'm trying desperately to determine. Straining my eyes, heart and mind to predetermine so I can keep from falling. This is my feeble attempt to place more distance between myself and my fate. Your fate. The fate that you've chosen for me and the one I'm so paralyzingly fearful of.

Finally, the clarity comes back and with it you allow this tiny seed that has me wondering, hoping, that all this preparation, all these gifts are not for something terrible afterall. These gifts will be called upon and not by some horrific and dastardly event, but by the trials that I face daily. The words, the disappointments, my truths, me. Maybe you're molding me into someone and something that I'm to carry out daily through Your words, Your breath, Your hands. You taking over me because I'm tired of fighting you yet again. So here I am, falling again. Falling so quickly to my knees in my tears and handing you my truths, my heartache and troubles. Because no matter how many steps I take away, no matter how many times I trip and collapse I'll always be righted. Because your hand is there and that hand has helped me and shaped me into precisely what you've ordained. Through your grace, no matter how much distance I put between us, I'll always come crawling, running, sprinting back to you because I know you'll be waiting with an open hand. There's nothing to turn from, because I'm not mine, I'm yours.