Although I didn't exactly dress up, and I was significantly late, I did show up for Habitat for Humanity on Saturday and it completely reinforced the reason I go to begin with.
For the past few weekends (one weekend rendezvous, one FEST with all my BEST friends, and one chronic ailment (gnarly ass FestAIDS)), I hadn't been to Habitat and it was starting to plague me. Riddled with guilt, emptiness, and lack of value, in the past three weeks I'd forgotten what it felt like to actively change someone's life right before their very own eyes.
The great part about showing up on Saturday was seeing everyone for the first time in almost a month. Honestly, the people I work with at Habi have started to become a family. I've learned a lot from them -- especially girls like Angie (Angelica) and Feme.
Something about knowing a girl two years my junior who is successfully raising a family of four, giving back to her community on a weekly basis, and loving every moment of life gives me hope that one day I'll be as mature as she is at her mere 21-years-old.
Every weekend I work at Habi I drive away with a new lesson learned. Most days I drive away thinking about how much more I could be doing with my life, or who I could help earn a home of their very own. But this time my lesson learned had everything to do with my personal life.
Meet: Travis. Travis is the job site supervisor. He's very smart; he definitely knows his trade. He's young and wickedly entertaining. His forearms are riddled with tattoos and he seems to be always smoking a cigarette, but he's got the heart of a lion and I see it in his work.
I blame it on the fact that I'm one of the few women on the job sites that is willing to try any task once, but some how I get the brunt of the teasing. Teasing it may be, I feel the need to stress it's playful teasing -- the kind given only to those the teasers know can handle it and even occasionally dish it back.
There's Ken, the Golden Hammer member who loves giving me a hard time about "not working" even though most times he says it, I'm in the middle of some various mission. His hard hat has glittery sparkle letters spelling out his name, so taking him seriously is absolutely a failed effort 100 % of the time. Ken is the token grouch on the job site, but in reality he's no grouch at all. He just likes to pretend he is to ward off any small talking. Then there's John, he's the token instructor on the job. He wears suspenders designed like yellow tape measures and carries a tool belt the size of my car fastened around his waist. He loves teaching me things he thinks I don't know, despite the fact that I've mentioned growing up a very hands-on child with my Pops and knows how to use a level and a slide rule (which is what he calls a tape measure). And lastly, there's Travis. Travis is the only one of the men who tease me that I've yet to identify a stereotype for.
Travis is the one I mentioned already -- the job site supervisor. What I didn't mention earlier was his familiar stature. Honestly, I don't even notice the height of people anymore -- unless they notice mine first. And that's just what happened on Saturday.
With Travis, the awareness happened when I put my arm up to high five him and he literally just stared at me. When I realized my hand, arm at full extension, was probably a good 3+ feet over his head, I couldn't help but chuckle.
His exact words were, "what, you're like 5'10 and you think a guy my height can just casually high five you?"
I smiled at Travis and said, "well, it never stops my boyfriend. And . . . actually, I'm 6'1." He hit the floor briefly and then asked how tall my boyfriend was.
It was when I realized I was searching for the answer to that question that I realized height isn't a factor for me anymore. And apparently hasn't been for something like three years now. I looked at Travis and said, "he's probably about your height."
He paused for a second and then smiled. At first, I thought he laughing at me on the inside and I, for a very brief moment, almost got offended. Then I thought maybe he was complimented -- you know, like maybe he found me attractive or something. But then he spoke...
"I dated a girl much taller than me for a very long time. I loved it. I love tall women. I never had a problem with it and neither did she. We didn't see each other as tall or short . . . but other people did."
I interjected here and sympathized. "It's not what they think that matters," he said.
And that's where the conversation ended.
And I walked away grinning, because in three years of walking around hand-in-hand with J.M., I can't count the number of double-takes we've gotten. I think about the trips to the mall or the park or fancy restaurants and us laughing with each other whenever he'd leap onto a curb as we walked. We laugh about the height difference, but it doesn't phase us and it certainly doesn't identify us.
And I like to think, because most times they end up smiling, our indifference towards our height difference actually opens the minds of the people doing all those double-takes. I am exceptionally tall. It's obvious. But that shouldn't keep me from being with someone who actually loves me. And it doesn't.
A person woul'd have to truly be an idiot to turn away the potential love of his/her life because of something as uncontrollable as height. That's like choosing not to love someone because they have brown hair. . . Do you see the lack of logic?
If a person is really that shallow, all I can say is I'm glad they're not with me. I have many flaws, but my height is not one. If they can't accept my stature, I'd hate to think of how they'd react to my gentle purring when I sleep, or my inability to abide by the speed limit.
For the past few weekends (one weekend rendezvous, one FEST with all my BEST friends, and one chronic ailment (gnarly ass FestAIDS)), I hadn't been to Habitat and it was starting to plague me. Riddled with guilt, emptiness, and lack of value, in the past three weeks I'd forgotten what it felt like to actively change someone's life right before their very own eyes.
The great part about showing up on Saturday was seeing everyone for the first time in almost a month. Honestly, the people I work with at Habi have started to become a family. I've learned a lot from them -- especially girls like Angie (Angelica) and Feme.
Something about knowing a girl two years my junior who is successfully raising a family of four, giving back to her community on a weekly basis, and loving every moment of life gives me hope that one day I'll be as mature as she is at her mere 21-years-old.
Every weekend I work at Habi I drive away with a new lesson learned. Most days I drive away thinking about how much more I could be doing with my life, or who I could help earn a home of their very own. But this time my lesson learned had everything to do with my personal life.
Meet: Travis. Travis is the job site supervisor. He's very smart; he definitely knows his trade. He's young and wickedly entertaining. His forearms are riddled with tattoos and he seems to be always smoking a cigarette, but he's got the heart of a lion and I see it in his work.
I blame it on the fact that I'm one of the few women on the job sites that is willing to try any task once, but some how I get the brunt of the teasing. Teasing it may be, I feel the need to stress it's playful teasing -- the kind given only to those the teasers know can handle it and even occasionally dish it back.
There's Ken, the Golden Hammer member who loves giving me a hard time about "not working" even though most times he says it, I'm in the middle of some various mission. His hard hat has glittery sparkle letters spelling out his name, so taking him seriously is absolutely a failed effort 100 % of the time. Ken is the token grouch on the job site, but in reality he's no grouch at all. He just likes to pretend he is to ward off any small talking. Then there's John, he's the token instructor on the job. He wears suspenders designed like yellow tape measures and carries a tool belt the size of my car fastened around his waist. He loves teaching me things he thinks I don't know, despite the fact that I've mentioned growing up a very hands-on child with my Pops and knows how to use a level and a slide rule (which is what he calls a tape measure). And lastly, there's Travis. Travis is the only one of the men who tease me that I've yet to identify a stereotype for.
Travis is the one I mentioned already -- the job site supervisor. What I didn't mention earlier was his familiar stature. Honestly, I don't even notice the height of people anymore -- unless they notice mine first. And that's just what happened on Saturday.
With Travis, the awareness happened when I put my arm up to high five him and he literally just stared at me. When I realized my hand, arm at full extension, was probably a good 3+ feet over his head, I couldn't help but chuckle.
His exact words were, "what, you're like 5'10 and you think a guy my height can just casually high five you?"
I smiled at Travis and said, "well, it never stops my boyfriend. And . . . actually, I'm 6'1." He hit the floor briefly and then asked how tall my boyfriend was.
It was when I realized I was searching for the answer to that question that I realized height isn't a factor for me anymore. And apparently hasn't been for something like three years now. I looked at Travis and said, "he's probably about your height."
He paused for a second and then smiled. At first, I thought he laughing at me on the inside and I, for a very brief moment, almost got offended. Then I thought maybe he was complimented -- you know, like maybe he found me attractive or something. But then he spoke...
"I dated a girl much taller than me for a very long time. I loved it. I love tall women. I never had a problem with it and neither did she. We didn't see each other as tall or short . . . but other people did."
I interjected here and sympathized. "It's not what they think that matters," he said.
And that's where the conversation ended.
And I walked away grinning, because in three years of walking around hand-in-hand with J.M., I can't count the number of double-takes we've gotten. I think about the trips to the mall or the park or fancy restaurants and us laughing with each other whenever he'd leap onto a curb as we walked. We laugh about the height difference, but it doesn't phase us and it certainly doesn't identify us.
And I like to think, because most times they end up smiling, our indifference towards our height difference actually opens the minds of the people doing all those double-takes. I am exceptionally tall. It's obvious. But that shouldn't keep me from being with someone who actually loves me. And it doesn't.
A person woul'd have to truly be an idiot to turn away the potential love of his/her life because of something as uncontrollable as height. That's like choosing not to love someone because they have brown hair. . . Do you see the lack of logic?
If a person is really that shallow, all I can say is I'm glad they're not with me. I have many flaws, but my height is not one. If they can't accept my stature, I'd hate to think of how they'd react to my gentle purring when I sleep, or my inability to abide by the speed limit.
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