Culture Shock

Dear Reader,
Have you ever been put in such an awkward situation that you are left dumbfounded? You don't have any words left in your mouth and your brain stops functioning? I think that happened to me yesterday. I work around a lot of Hispanic people. Hispanic men, to be exact. And one in particular has seemed to decide that I am to be the apple of his eye. Jorge has been saying hi to me every day since he met me. And yesterday, for the first time, he stood in my work space and talked to me, yes he talked and I politely nodded where necessary, for half an hour. After telling me that he is 32 years old and my rejecting him at least twice, he told me I was a BMW. What? Yeah he said that. "All these other girls here are Toyotas and Hondas. But you...you are a BMW." "Well...uh...thank you? I guess..." I didn't know what to do. I watched as several of the guys I work with walked past...not seeming to catch my "Save me!" vibes. I explained to him that he's too old for me. I'm not interested...even though he tells me I'm beautiful every five minutes. Then he asked if he could touch my hair. "Bescuse me?!" "It's so curly though!" Apparently he's never seen curly red hair before. I refused and continued my duties. He had made up his mind though and wouldn't give up. After pleading with me to go to lunch, I agreed to let him meet me in the park today. I brought my own lunch. You know you would have too. I sat across from him and listened to him talk about bikes and Mexico (he came here 15 years ago...which would have made him 17 and me 8...isn't there something terribly wrong with this picture?) and actually let him touch my hair for 3.21 seconds. I know it was probably too nice of me but like I said, he was a persistent little bugger. Jorge told me after he gave me a hug...blech...that he would be back for one more week. Saints preserve us. Thankfully all my friends love me and are willing to protect me until he finally leaves. I've already decided that there will be no more lunch dates with Jorge. Viva la USA.

The Death March

As this is my first time blogging, I ask that you all bear with me! I don't think I ever felt compelled to publicly write anything until yesterday...a day that will live in infamy, and the day that I decided on a title for said blog. I had never understood how crazy my dad was until then. He invited me to go with him and my three brothers on a hike. We got to the base of the mountain at 6 in the am. He then asked if I was ready to complete my first, and as I would soon find out, my last death march. Death march? You ask. Yes. And a death march it was, in every sense of the word. It started out bad. Really really bad. And it just got...well let's say it was a good time. After busting brush for an hour and a half, I sat down on a rock and cried. I was determined to make it though. We made it to Thurston's Peak three falls and a bloody nose later. I tell you this, dear reader, because I received a deeper understanding of my own Father in Heaven. I began to realize how much He cares for His children. Sometimes He has to push us along, applying constant pressure in order for us to make ourselves grow and move forward. Other times He pulls us up our own mountain in life. He wants what is best for us and knows that making us uncomfortable will force us to grow into our potential selves. Speaking of uncomfortable, I still am. This sunburn is heinous. Although I will never willingly do another Death March as long as I live, I am grateful for the lessons I learned while struggling to the top of that ridiculous peak.