I Get Around

During the Advent season, I will be contributing some posts to a blog my friend Debbie is putting together with the purpose of keeping Advent worshipful and Christ-centered.  I hope you will check it out and be encouraged by it.

Advent Reflections

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year?

It is Sunday, November 20, 2011.  As I walked out my front door this morning, I picked up the newspaper.  What I could read through the bag said, “Holiday Countdown Inspiration.”  I shook my head, and added this to the list of ways Christmas comes too early.

The first time I heard someone talk about Christmas coming too early, it was probably some stressed-out woman, fretting about getting all her shopping, baking and card-mailing done.  And all the other women around probably nodded their heads in agreement.  Gone were the days when we sang with the Chipmunks, “Hurry Christmas, hurry fast…”  Because, as little kids, the days leading up to December 25^th were interminable, but as grown-up responsibilities started filling those December days, Christmas came too fast.

That’s not what I’m talking about, though.  I am saying that, these days, Christmas comes early, literally.  It’s the local radio station that started playing holiday music on November 1^st.  Remember when radio stations started after Thanksgiving? Or limited it to the weekends?  Now “It’s a Marshmallow World” while the trees still have their leaves and “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”—even if it’s still 70 degrees.  It’s the neighbor who transitions seamlessly from Halloween decorations to Christmas.  It’s the Christmas lights for sale at the end of the Halloween candy aisle.  It’s the Salvation Army bell ringing on November 18^th.

So I have to wonder, why is this happening?  What does it say about our society?

I believe the early Christmas syndrome is a symptom of our nation’s outlook.  Times are tough.  Money is tight, unemployment is high, and foreclosure is a part of daily conversation.  We need a reason to be happy, we need something to rally around—you might say we need a little Christmas, right this very minute.  What better source of happy escape than Christmas?  Who doesn’t love the movies, the songs, the twinkling lights, the baked goods?

To that end, I believe that this year a lot of brands are selling joy.  McDonald’s food promises comfort and joy.  Sears assures that giving gifts will give joy.  Target will sell you a joy t-shirt and put a smile on your face.  People want to be happy, and stores are happy to sell them the chance. 

On the surface, it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.  We’re being encouraged to be kind to others, to give them thoughtful gifts—there’s nothing wrong with these things! It’s as if society is aiming for the right target, but going past it, or coming up short. 

The real source of joy is Jesus.  He is the source of hope and stability, but instead, we’re putting our hope in Christmas.  We’re excited about Christmas, but we’re missing out on the One who really came and who really brings comfort and joy.  We miss Him when we make Christmas about nostalgia and being kind.  We miss Him amid the pressure of getting to concerts and baking bread for the kids’ teachers.

The problem of Christmas coming early is that it makes us rest our hopes on one day.  A day that ends with all the beautiful wrapping paper outside in a trash can.  No day can bear the weight of all our wishes and needs.  But, “the hopes and fears of all the years” were met by One who came to Bethlehem.  If He’s truly the focus of our celebration, then our joy won’t be limited to one day, or a couple months—our joy will be eternal.

Come Ye Thankful People, Come

When I got to my parents’ house yesterday my mother greeted me by saying, “You’re just in time.”  This could mean many things when my mother is involved, so I was a little worried.  It turns out I was in time to help them move things from their garage to the attic.  My dad climbed into the attic, I stood on the ladder, and my mom handed me various items they wouldn’t need for a while.

The animated light-up reindeer came down the ladder, and the medical supplies went up.  A year ago, a couple college students had been moving these Christmas decorations. My dad was recovering from the second of four surgeries he would have in a 9-month span.  But yesterday he was climbing around in the attic, storing the chairs he’d needed for his recovery. My mom was happy to see them go—she, too, had used them throughout the summer while recovering from hip replacement.  As I left them later, it occurred to me how great it is that they have both recovered and are enjoying active lives again--especially my retired mother...

As this is the time of year for giving thanks and reflecting on the Father’s many blessings, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the healing my parents experienced this summer.  It probably annoys them that I treat them like they’re made of glass these days, but they are so much fun to have around, I want to make sure they’re here for a while.

Thankfully, the One I trust for my parents’ health (and my own!) is not fragile like we are and He promises us eternity with Him and with each other.  For now, though, I look forward to a couple days at the beach with my parents and a family trip to Disney World in 209 days.

It's All Coming Back to Me Now

This blog tends to be kind of introspective and serious.  I feel this pressure to not say anything if I can't say something deep.  Today, I throw all of that out the window.

These epic music videos made me late for class for most of my junior year of college.  They also involve motorcycles, heartbreak and deserted mansions.

 

Is it me, or does Celine's hairbrush foreshadow Titanic?

This one gets the PG-13 rating.  VH1 did a fine job editing it back in the day.

 

This modern retelling of A Star is Born gave us Tyson Beckford (thank you!) and sent me running to the video store to rent the Streisand/Kristofferson movie (no thank you!).

I Got Them Moves, Mick Jagger

There is something kind of awesome about watching a person do what he or she is meant to be doing.  Maybe this is what has always drawn me to pro sports.  There's something beautiful about a pitcher throwing a no-hitter, or a perfectly-executed pass resulting in a goal.  When I see SportsCenter's Top 10, I can't look away.
To matters more close-at-hand, there are some instructors at my gym who are excellent.  They don't spend a lot of time talking, they don't guilt you into responding to questions like, "Are you warm yet!?", they make "increased weight factor" sound like a good thing and they make complicated dance steps look smooth.  When I'm in their classes, I get a great workout, but I also get to see someone who is in that sweet spot.
How many of us really get to earn a living in the sweet spot?  How many of us wake up in the morning and fill our days with the activity about which we are most passionate?  How many of us can do what we were born to do and put food on the table?  I would guess the answer is some of us, but not many.
I get that work is supposed to be hard.  It's in the Bible, the land is cursed and we will have to toil and sweat to survive on it.  The thing is, I don't mind working hard if I believe in the cause.  This morning, for instance, it was monsooning outside.  I had been up late last night, but woke up early on this rainy Saturday so that I could run a few errands.  I hydroplaned my way along the highway to reach the farmers' market, got wet and dirty carrying mums to my car and I was singing the whole way.  Why?  Because my errands and my early wake-up call were for a women's ministry breakfast happening at church today.  I was excited to get there and to pull together the last-minute details.  There were extra hours at church this week setting up and tearing down this breakfast, but I didn't mind.
In contrast, my other job also had me working long hours this week.  Meetings, workshops, and paperwork have filled my days.  What can't be done at work gets carried home.  There hasn't been a moment this month when I have been officially caught-up and I hate it.  I feel like a cute little hamster running running running on a wheel that goes nowhere.  I've lost passion for what I do, even though I know I'm good at it.  It doesn't matter if you're good when the people above you constantly remind you that you're not good enough.
So when I see a fitness instructor dancing her heart out, smiling and sweating away, I think about that sweet spot and I wonder how I am going to get there.

Dear God, Don't Let Me Fall Apart

I’ve been in a strange place lately—and I don’t mean Milwaukee. I mean, for the past week or so, I’ve cried at least once a day. Thursday’s tears lasted for an entire 30-minute car ride, but most days they’ve only lasted a couple minutes. A friend of mine texted me on Thursday to ask if I was OK (she’d seen me after the teary ride to work) and my response was, “I think I’m getting soft.”

Confidence hasn’t really been a problem for me—except for those two God-forsaken years in middle school. Competence hasn’t really been a problem for me, either, so waking up in the morning, riddled with anxiety and fear, has really taken me by surprise. My usual approach to work and to ministry has been to speak loudly and carry a big stick, but lately, facing my job has shaken me. Add to that the new responsibilities of overseeing my church’s women’s ministry and…oh my goodness…

As awful as these weeks have been, I am not ready to leave this place where I am so acutely aware of my need for a mighty God. The alarm goes off and I want to pull the madras bedspread over my head and hide, but then I start praying, pleading, begging—God, get me through this day. Help me to be good enough for these people I’m working with. Help me not to lose control.

At the end of every day, I’ve been taking stock: There weren’t any brawls. I didn’t say anything hurtful. I accomplished some items on the to-do list. And, more than ever before, I know that those victories did not come about because of my ability or my preparation. They happened because my God took care of me.

It’s a strange thing for me to see God showing up and fighting for me. Of course He has been forever, but the problem with being independent is that I am more likely to give myself credit for the day’s win. Being a useless weakling has stirred in me an incredible affection for this One who steps into my reality and carries me through these days that I simply cannot face on my own.

At some point, my life will become predictable again. Once the tears dry up, I will start believing that it’s my self-discipline or my fancy education that has brought me here. When I overlook the dependence, I will also miss the closeness and the affection. The trick is to stay dependent without being a total mess.

When the Walls Come Tumblin' Down

Over the summer, I was meeting with a friend of mine who is a senior in college. She asked me where my passion for women’s ministry came from. The question took me by surprise. I don’t think anyone had ever asked me that before. So I sat there, in the most darling dessert place, trying to figure out just how I got to be so passionate about ministering to women.

When I first came to this town I found instant community with a group of young, single people. Over the years, those people moved away or went to other churches. After two years here, I was left with no friends. I’m not exaggerating. I would pass my weekends alone at home. It was also during this time that I participated in a mentor-training class at my church. In that class, I got to know some women I would not have met otherwise and I began seeing possibilities for relationship in places where I might not have looked two years earlier. I was getting friendly with women who were older than me, who were married, who were my age but had kids—none of my new friends were like me.

The mentor-training class did not solve the problem of my empty social calendar, but it did shine light on a lie I’d been believing—that I could only be friends with people like me. We women are so good at isolating ourselves. We excel at comparing ourselves to other women and thinking, “I could never be friends with her because…”

What I dream for women’s ministry to be is an opportunity for us to take down some of the walls we create. Titus 2 tells us that women’s ministry should include all generations. There’s great benefit in having a group of girlfriends who get the season of life you’re in, but there’s also benefit in learning from a woman a few seasons ahead, or in reaching out to a younger woman.

Fast-forward to this weekend. I had all kinds of fun things to do and, not once, was I with another single thirty-something woman. Friday night, my late-twenties-married-with-a-kid friend and I had a low-key night on the town. Saturday morning, my house roared with laughter as a “think tank” of women from church sat around my living room. There was a grandmother, moms in their thirties, moms in their twenties, a twenty-something single friend and my aforementioned college friend. It was life-giving to talk with them about women’s ministry at our new church, and to swoon with them as my handsome neighbor pressure-washed his house.

The night was topped off with a 40th birthday party for a friend, joyfully celebrated by a bunch of women who all remembered The Love Boat and Mary Lou Retton. As I sat at that table, I was so thankful to be there. I was so thankful I wasn’t sitting at home thinking, “I could never be friends with them…they drive minivans and have kids.”

There really is more that unites us than divides us—especially if we are in the body of Christ. No one should feel like she has to do life by herself. My passion for women’s ministry is to help us find relationships that build, encourage and strengthen us and, most of all, to keep us from isolating ourselves.

London Calling

Our flight from Raleigh to Boston was delayed causing us to miss our flight to London. We spent a long, cold night in the Boston airport, but we managed to have fun with it.


During the week we helped run a Kids Club for the neighborhood kids. Almost all of them were from South-Asian, Hindu families.


The students on our team made fast friends with teenagers from the neighborhood and with students from the other team serving with us.



On our last day we went sightseeing in central London. We toured Westminster Abbey and stopped by Buckingham Palace and Trafalgar Square.



Most of the team visited the Tower of London, but Josh, Hannah and I saw Les Miserables and it was awesome.



It was a busy week, but we got along well, worked hard and had a great time.

Do You Believe in Magic?

I don’t know how I managed for so long to live in this age of movie sequels without attending a midnight showing. So tonight (this morning?), I crossed it off my bucket list by attending the 12:01 showing of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 with my good friend Laura.

The purpose of this post is not so much to discuss the movie, as it is to comment on the experience of joining so many devotees for the final chapter of this epic story. I will say that I loved the books. I devoured each one so quickly that I immediately forgot 90% of what happened. For this reason, the movies never disappoint me. If someone turned to me and said, “I can’t believe they left out the part where Wayne Gretzky rides through the Enchanted Forest on a Vespa”, I’d probably just nod politely.

Laura and I began our preparations a week ago, purchasing tickets online. Tonight, we helped our friend Hannah pack for her cross-county move and talked about how we could best keep ourselves energized for the night’s adventure. First, we stopped in a grocery store and stocked up on snacks. While there, we met a woman from church who had just dropped off her son at the theater two hours early.

Next it was on to Starbucks. It was here that we felt the first ripples of Potter-mania. High school and college students talking animatedly as they sipped their iced coffees. In walked a young lady wearing a necktie with a lightning bolt drawn on her head. One of her friends sported the symbol of the deathly hallows on her hand.

We arrived at the theater about 90 minutes early, only to find the house packed. It was here we had the best opportunity to observe those around us. Costumes were bountiful and there were some hits and misses. Luna Lovegood in the restroom—win. Girls in neckties—bleh. Kid in Quidditch gear sprinting through the lobby—well-played. Gryffindor lion girl—you looked more like a werewolf, maybe you could trot out that costume when Breaking Dawn opens? One poor soul, dressed as a Death Eater complete with mask, was asked by the security guard to remove his mask while in the building. Our favorite costume belonged to a college student dressed in white feathers. Hedwig, we salute you. There were many more, including some young ladies who made it difficult to tell if they were in costume or simply overdressed.

We smooshed together in line—a line Laura and I could have organized far better than the overwrought theater staff. A mean girl butted in front of us. Middle schoolers jostled Laura. Scars drawn on foreheads abounded—it looked like Ash Wednesday mass had just let out.




Finally our tickets were taken and we had to choose which of the six theaters we wanted to sit in (six more on the other side of the building were already full). We opted for one that had a small line of people waiting, instead of one immediately available. We chose well and got two seats by themselves with plenty of space to be had. As we waited, I noticed the sorting hat sitting on the floor beside me.


The previews were lackluster, but the movie was fun. The audience cheered at pivotal moments and when it all ended.

And so here I am, at 3:14 in the morning, wide awake from all the caffeine and sugar I’ve consumed. When I do drift off tonight, though, I will do so safe in the knowledge that good conquers evil.

New Definition of Summer Madness

They tell me today is the first day of summer. I was talking to a friend on the phone while he bought ingredients for cupcakes that he planned to take to a summer solstice party tonight.

So, whether you’re celebrating summer with a facebook status or with a full-on rager, enjoy the day!

I’ve been thinking about how I "celebrate" summer. For me, it’s not summer until…

The car gets inspected.
The cat goes to the vet.
I’ve reserved some books at the library.
I’ve taken a load to Goodwill and/or Edward McKay.
The kitchen floor is scrubbed.
I've experimented with a new recipe.
I’ve spent at least one day on the couch watching TV.
I’ve been to the beach.

Always subscribing to the philosophy that you can’t play until your homework is done, I’ve gotten all the drudge work checked off the list. Now it’s time for the TV, the beach and the pile of books.

Here We Are Now Entertain Us

While out for a run this weekend, my friend asked me to recommend some 90's movies. Growing up in a conservative household, she missed out on some of the classics. As we ran, I rattled (panted) off some titles: Say Anything, Singles, Pulp Fiction, but it was only when I got home that I found what I consider to be the ultimate 90's movie in my collection. Of course! How could I have forgotten it? A love letter to the slacker generation featuring a killer soundtrack, a fresh-faced Winona Ryder, an eerie foreshadowing of reality TV and a cameo by 90's rock scion, Dave Pirner!

I proudly delivered Reality Bites to my friend the next day and now I wait anxiously for her feedback. Her husband's opinion was promptly posted on Facebook, "Hm. After watching Reality Bites, I've never been quite so glad to have lived my high school, college and early post-college days in the '00s...nor had I relaized quite how glamorous that time was (at least compared to the '90s)..."

Facebook friends quickly pounced in defense of the 90's. For friends my age, the 90's hold a special place in our hearts.

We remember the 80's, but we were still young enough for our parents to call the shots. No, you can't stay up to watch LA Law. You march right back into that Sam Goody and return George Michael's filthy Faith cassette. Sorry, you're not using your brother's extra ticket for the U2 concert. (Incidentally, Springsteen showed up at that concert and I remain bitter to this day.)

When the 90's arrived, we were old enough to hang out at the mall, to get dropped off at the movies. I suppose those of us who didn't grow up in the city might have even driven ourselves places... We decided where and how our allowance was spent and for that reason, we take ownership of the '90s. Overalls and flannel shirts might have been fashion missteps, but they were steps I took on my own.

I don't regret my music choices in the 90's. The first CD I ever bought, 10,000 Maniacs Unplugged, remains one of my all-time favorites. Last week, I might have gotten a little caught up when I found that one of Eddie Vedder's ukulele songs was the free download at Starbucks. I might have even sung Better Man to the unfortunate college student who was sitting with me.

Oh, the 90's. You brought us Friends. Titanic. Seinfeld. 90210 (the first one). Nirvana. The renaissance of Disney animation. The internet. You spiced up our lives.

We weren't glamorous, we were grungy. We didn't have hope, we had Courtney Love. But give me the choice today and I will still choose a disenfranchised Ethan Hawke over a shiny Russell Crowe. Hmm...it's too bad they don't make Celebrity Death Match anymore.

For I Must Be Travelling on Now...

The third--and, please God, final--installment in the bird saga.

After the HOA contractors’ visit, the mother bird came back around for a while on Friday night. At some point during the weekend, though, she stopped coming. Since I was too scared to open the powder room and because I was spending minimal time outside, I really didn’t know if the little birds had flown off with their mother or if they’d been abandoned and died. I waited for a SMELL, but none crept in.

So Monday afternoon arrived and a gentleman from critter control was already on a ladder out back when I got home from work. He was putting the finishing touches on the vent cover he’d installed. When I asked him what he’d found he said, “A good bit of nesting material, but no birds.”

When I told him about the powder room fan being pushed in, he bravely went in and checked things out. He cleaned the fan, brushed out some beetles and was on his way.

What seems a little strange to me is that he left my powder room full of broken plaster, ceiling popcorn and beetles.













He left the “nesting material” in the pine straw beside my deck. It smelled like a zoo.

I know I should be thankful that the ordeal is over and that the covers will prevent any more avian visitors, but I must say, this was a rather anti-climactic—and messy—end to the story. (Kinda like the fourth Twilight book....)

On the other hand, look at this deck--who wouldn't want to spend some time on it this summer?

And this Bird You Cannot Change

I have a mentor who says things like, "If you want to be a writer, write. Write two pages before we meet next time." Usually I write reflectively about lessons I've learned, but the recent bird encampment has kept me very much in the present. For my meeting with her next week, I have written several pages about the birds--below is an excerpt, since some of you have been keeping up with the saga.

Thursday, May 19

Waiting, humanely, for the birds to grow up and leave the nest. For the first few days, I would head to the deck and hose off the bird poop that accumulated on the deck and my trash cans.

When twice-a-day hosings failed to keep up with the supply of poop (really, it was more like butt puke), I gave up and didn’t venture onto the deck. I kept watchful eye and ear on the deck, though, to discern if the bird family had moved on. All the websites gave a two-week timeline and, since our two-week anniversary was coming up, I was hopeful. I even asked my friends with the pressure-washing business to be on standby to come clean the deck and, hopefully, pull out the empty nest. Optimistic détente prevailed.

Until I used the powder room Thursday afternoon. It was then that I noticed the cover of the bathroom fan was being pushed in. The weight of my unwanted guests was so great that they were about to burst into the powder room. Unthinkable. Unbearable. Straw. Camel’s back. Done.

I grabbed the yellow pages, I Googled, I prayed. I found a nice man who explained the bird-removal process to me and who promised to come by my house on Monday. For an unreasonable fee, he would take the birds away and leave me with a vent clean of birds, nest, parasites and poop. I only had to last until Monday.

It occurred to me that my townhouse has a homeowner’s association that maintains the outside of my house. I wondered if they would deal with the birds and save me some money. I decided to email the HOA manager.

Friday, May 20th

The HOA manager responded to my email very quickly. Though unable to offer me bird removal, she did put in an order to get some vent covers installed for me. I told her that was great, that I would have the birds removed on Monday and then the vent covers could be installed and I would never pass this way again.

When I got home from work on Friday, my trash cans were moved. I went onto the deck and found the covers had already been installed on my vents. Could it be? Did the HOA contractors pull out the nest, cover the vent and leave me bird-free? Without me paying anything? Victory was mine! To be sure, I called the HOA office and spoke to a lovely receptionist who assured me that my call was not the strangest she’d received all week and that the guys surely pulled out the nest before closing in the vent.

Out I went to plant a little tomato plant that I’d been too scared to pot during the week. And as I worked, I heard the familiar “chirp, flap, chirp” coming from the vent. While relieved the birds couldn’t come out while I was on the deck, it was a short-lived sigh, because I realized they were trapped. Soon, there would be dead birds locked in my vent.

A panicked call to the HOA office and the contractors returned—a miracle as it was Friday afternoon.

One climbed up, two watched. From the safety of my kitchen, I asked him to remove the vent cover. He did and reached inside.

“Yep,” he told me, “when I was here earlier I didn’t see nothin’, and I didn’t feel nothin’, so I just covered it up.”

“They’re probably in past where it bends,” contributed the other guy. “Cut your fan on,” he instructed.

“Are you sure?” I asked, “Do you want helmets or goggles?”

Without stepping into the powder room, I opened the door and reached in to turn on the fan.

“Oh my God!” exclaimed the guy on the ladder, “That smells awful!” The other contractors agreed. Besides A SMELL, nothing blew out.

“Probably something dead in there too,” said the helpful contractor on the ground, “But they can’t get in. They’re probably pushed up against the fan, but there’s a flap there so they won’t come in your powder room.”

It’s fair to say I did not trust him. The birds remained, the contractors left.

I spoke to my pressure-washing friend and made an appointment to get an estimate on Monday. I kept my appointment with the pest control guy for the same Monday. I hoped the mother bird wouldn’t abandon her babies since the humans had messed with her nesting area. I kept the powder room closed and my fingers crossed.

Blackbird Singin' in the Dead of Night

If you've known me for any length of time, you are likely aware of how I feel about birds. They terrify me. For some girls, a snake is upsetting. For others, a spider is her undoing. For this girl, it's birds.

My mother and my brother strap on binoculars and go looking for them. They spend time and money on feeders, fancy foods, and squirrel baffles. Why anyone would want to attract birds--that's what baffles me.

At the end of last school year, a bird flew into my classroom. I opened the back door and left. Now, the beasts of the air have come a little closer to home. They have, in fact, come into my home--specifically into one of the vents in the back of my house.

Friday night I was in the laundry room when I heard the tell-tale "chirpy chirpy chirpy" (to use a phrase coined by my friend Laura). I figured they were in the dryer vent and, while revolted, I figured they wouldn't be there long. There were some unpleasant moments for the mama bird and me on Saturday as I was planting flowers in boxes on the deck and as she sat in a nearby tree squawking her dismay. Still, as long as they stayed out there and moved away soon, I was not super-worried.

Until the stench. When I went downstairs on Sunday morning, it hit me like a fist in the nose. I searched the house for its source, emptying trash cans, sweeping floors, only to find it emanating from my empty powder room.

The upside of the bird saga is this--crisis brings people together (crisis might be a little strong for some, but this is me and birds we're talking about). Yesterday morning, worried the stench was the result of something dead in the wall between my house and the neighbors', I was able to talk to my neighbors at-length. In fact, it was one of the neighbors who deduced the birds were nesting in the powder room vent, not the dryer vent. My other neighbor has offered to get me a ladder when the time for nest-extraction comes.

I've lived in this house for six years and it is strange to me that I don't know much about my neighbors. I don't even know the one guy's name! So while I'm less-than-enthusiastic about my unwanted tenants, I am happy to have reasons to talk to the neighbors.

They Told Me He Was Bad

Recently, my high school friends and I have been wrapped up in a debate: Mr. Darcy vs. Mr. Knightley. If you’re not familiar with your Jane Austen, head on over to Wikipedia and get a synopisis of Pride and Prejudice and Emma. I’ll wait.

The debate goes something like this; the girls posit that Mr. Darcy is awesome. He’s proud and haughty on the outside, but deep down he is good and kind. His pride and Elizabeth’s pride make them a dynamic, and ultimately swoon-worthy match. I contend that Mr. Knightley is a more desirable hero. When Emma is behaving badly, he mans-up and tells her about herself. Mr. Knightley makes Emma better. This has led to some lively conversation and some very unfair criticism of Jeremy Northam’s nose.

I think what’s going on, though, is the battle we ladies have been having with ourselves for generations. Good guy vs. Bad boy. Reliable and steady vs. Rebellious and dangerous.

Think about our favorite movie guys…Gee, Joe Fox, I know your conglomerate book store is going to put my humble shop out of business, but I sure do love you. Jason Bourne, you may not know who you are, or why you’re #1 with a bullet, but given the choice between you and the Paris police, I choose you! Oh, Danny Ocean, you only lied about being a thief, and even knowing that you robbed three casinos in one night, I can’t help but wait for you to be released on parole. Again.

Even in the 1930’s, CK Dexter Haven, wealthy, divorced alcoholic, stole the girl from George Kittredge, self-made mining scion. (If you haven’t seen The Philadelphia Story, put it on your Netflix queue. I’ll wait.)

Would Lost have been anywhere near as compelling if all the hot guys on the island weren’t in need of redemption?

And then there’s the worst offender of all, the one who ruined me for sure…John Preston, a man so bad we didn’t even learn his name until the closing scene of the series finale. Mr. Big, emotionally unavailable, model-izer, cheater, “the boy who cried love.” But those faults were far from our minds as we watched him pursue Carrie to Paris and declare, “You’re the one.”

That’s what we’re all hoping for, isn’t it? The declaration of, “I’ve been an idiot. I’ve done bad things, but for you, I will be better.” We want to be the one worth changing for. If it takes us years of heartbreak and drama to get there, so be it.

Maybe, at the root of this love for bad boys, there is a longing for adventure—a desire to be part of a great narrative. And if that is what my young friends are hoping their futures will bring, then I am no one to argue.