PASSIONATE SELF-CONTROL . . .

It's interesting to me to notice one thing in particular, the more people I interact with, the more I grow and mature (no giggles from the gallery, please): those who have no self-control over their emotions lack self-control over other areas of their lives. S/he who, as an adult, behaves like a child, also cannot stop eating when s/he is full, cannot control his/her temper, cannot get out of bed in the morning, cannot exercise the discipline to do things s/he knows are good for him/her, and cannot be unselfish and generous towards others.

I've always known this, or at least heard about it. Our society is so imbued with psychiatric and psychological concepts that we've all heard about things like this by now: a psychosis in one area of one's life often means a psychosis in another area. But I've never seen it acted out in real life until recently, and it's so fascinating to watch, even as it enrages me to my core.

And as I delve deeper into "The Journey of Desire," (John Eldredge) I become more and more curious as to how to reconcile the many conflicting concepts entering my humble brain. How, first of all, are we to live passionately as God wants us to? Even the word 'passion' arouses a negative reaction from most Christians, as if to have 'passion' is to think only of raunchy sex, and of course, that would be WRONG, right? Or not right? Then, if we are to live full and passionate lives, full of every good and amazing thing and experience that God originally wanted for us to have, then how can we also be called upon to control ourselves, to suppress, in a way, the very basest emotions that we often want to express? If we suppress, then how are we living passionately? Is the difference merely a question of intent: living passionately and expressively because God calls us to, versus being expressive in a demeaning and offensive manner simply because we are too immature or too stupid to grow out of it? How much of our offensive and boorish nature can we chalk up to personality? And can Christ change our personalities?

Ow. My brain hurts.

***

I CAN TASTE IT . . .

Cheech is going to kill me, but ... I'm giving up ALCS Game 2 tickets tonight. Loge, Section 22, Row A, Seats 1-4. Gone. Buh-bye. See you never.

And I never thought I would say this, but ... I don't feel too terrible. For one thing, the ticket would have been a gift, not borne of my own hard work and hours spent trolling the Ticketmaster site, watching the little timer go inexplicably from "1 minute remaining" to "16 minutes remaining." And, I'm still a bit sick, never having completely been cured from last week's wretched cold. Sitting out in 45-degree weather would have been a great hindrance to my enjoyment of the game, even if the concession stands didn't run out of hot chocolate as they normally do. Moreover, I'm tired and lazy. Finally, well, I have other duties to perform; ladies who are actually counting on me to show up and do my part. And frankly, to shirk such duties ten days before a wedding would be simply very very bad.

Of course, this just means that I'll have to listen to C go on and on about how awesome the game was and Cheech ranting at me about how stupid I was to miss this opportunity. I will also have to wrestle five other bodies for dominion over the remote control in someone else's house, but victory shall be mine.

Rather, victory shall be the Yankees'.

***

NOT FOR REAL . . .

So I cut gymnastics class all semester long. I was too busy doing fun things, like planning for the jewelry show in which NHF members were participating. Along with Missy Elliott. Missy and I hang out a lot in my subconscious.

The day before the final exam -- yes, my gymnastics class had a final exam -- I decided to show my face, just to see what I might have to do. Perhaps a written test, detailing the dynamics of tumbling? Or a juvenile dance set to 80's music? But horror of horrors, NO! Students were required to do a floor routine, three lengths back and forth on the mat, with no tumbling move to be used more than four times. And everyone would be watching. WHAT THE! The instructor chose another student -- one who had attended every single class, naturally -- to demonstrate what a proper routine looked like. I was toast.

As I dejectedly left the school to head to my jewelry-making appointment, it was pouring rain outside. The FDR southbound was flooded, but I managed to get through to the city to the warehouse where the NHF team was meeting: C & M, Mama Alien & Alien, Dr.G & famille, and of course, Missy Elliott. Assuming that everyone would be delayed by the rain, I stepped into a lounge next to the main factory area and started to frantically practice whatever gymnastics moves I might have left in my nearly 30-year-old body. A somersault landed me into the legs of a coffee table. A cartwheel tilted me awry into an industrial sofa. I practiced airborne splits and finger-flutterings, a la "spirit fingers." I wondered if anyone in the history of the school ever actually failed gymnastics.

I entered the main factory only to discover that no one had had trouble with traffic; they were all there, pissed off to high heaven that I was so late. Missy Elliott wouldn't even look me in the eye, and the Alien and the Melon had already fallen asleep in their mothers' arms. Because not all of the members of the NHF jewelry-making team were present, the team had not been allowed to enter their work station, and had been pushed back in the line, watching team after team pass them and proceed to start their projects. I was in DEEP DOO-DOO. I tried to explain my situation, only to have M respond that because she had been a gymnast back in the day, she would have no problem passing the class, even though she had cut class right along with me all semester long. The others, including Missy, would not even talk to me.

I sat down on the cold, wet and muddy concrete floor, facing my team members' backs, closed my eyes, and tried to imagine what my desperate gymnastics routine would be, and what I could do for extra credit just so I could pass the damn class and graduate on time.

And then I woke up with a big crick in my neck.