honestly...pretty modest.
honestly…pretty modest.

I live in one of the most beautiful, sexy, energetic places in the world. However, it is a Saturday night*, and I am currently sitting in my living room, in stained yoga pants that have never once yoga-ed, in the same chair I have occupied for the last three hours, drinking flavorless tea, and filling up an online shopping cart with things I don’t need and then closing the browser tab. Last night I spent about four hours defrosting our freezer before falling asleep in the recliner, waiting for the rest of the ice to melt, promising my roommates that I knew what I was doing because I had read something about it on the internet one time.

supes exciting night.
supes exciting night.

At work I say things like “You need two vegetables on your lunch tray. Pasta is not a vegetable. Croutons are not vegetables.” and “I need your sentences to not all be about an xBox.” And my favorite this week, “I need you to pull your pants up and not show me that. Pull up your pants. Pull UP YOUR PANTS. PULL UP – go wash your hands now.”

The nice thing about teaching elementary school kids is that if you are having a rough day and need a hug or some candy or stickers, they all understand and are quite willing to share.

I’ve hit that point in this journey where things are starting to get hard. And maybe I need some hugs that leave me with chocolate cake lips stained on the front of my dress, and marker stains around in back, roughly at the height of a six year old. Always attractive.

I live with my boss/bestie and my other roommate is also a teacher at the school. We’re the kind of people who call shotgun over certain spots in the living room. Who have to pull post-it notes off each other’s behinds, because we’re teachers and there are always post-it notes. All three single. 30s. Biological clocks ticking madly with every Facebook post of another mason jar and white string lights Pinterest wedding, every adorable way to announce the sex of your baby, which I meanly want to mock with my own photo shoot of my stomach, laughing and sharing loving looks with bottles of wine and the sushi and margaritas I’m having that my friends in a family way can’t enjoy.

guess which snacks i brought, which were rejected.
guess which snacks i brought, which were rejected.

We have a women’s snack fest bible study on Wednesday nights, where we socialize, try to not fall asleep during the video segment, and then reflect on the message, silently wondering to ourselves who will start crying first during prayer requests. Last week we asked “what’s something maybe good you gave up in order to come to Brazil?”

This thought keeps me up nights — I’m scared that I might have given up what I always thought about my future marriage. I’m scared that if I spend the next four or five years here, immersed in my job and rediscovering community and my purpose in life, I might end up without a husband. I’m not against marrying a Brazilian, for all the inconvenience it sounds like from my friends who have (the govt here is the polar opposite of “efficiency.”), but I think my mom would murder me if her grandchildren were in another country. And as I’ve said many times, the pool of single, Jesus-loving, stable in all ways, man enough to handle all the woman-that-is-me men is shrinking to a shallow wading pool. Full of pee. Far from the snack shack. Which is where the curly fries are.

daria food talk to meI want to do what God wants me to do; I want to use the gifts He’s given me and further the Kingdom and all that Christianese but I’d REALLY APPRECIATE IT if what God wants me to do, in a time not long from now, is be found by The Guy That Is To Be Mine and we get married in a not-expensive-for-your-friends-to-be-involved kind of way, travel the world for our honeymoon having all kinds of crazy sex, have adorable children  and take road trips every summer to obscure American landmarks. Also he has a beard. Is this too much to ask?!

my beach!
my beach!

Anyway. To my married, bun in the oven/parenting friends who might feel a twinge of jealousy over my move to Brasil…the only touches upon my skin at night result from mosquito gang initiations, whose participants mark my body from armpit to hip in such precisely linear manner, I am forced to wonder if they carry tiny rulers.

I always smell like humans, my hands are dyed black and blue from dry erase markers, and my blood is more coffee than anything else at this point.  The nature of my job is like the most potent form of birth control known to man, while the Nature compels me to procreate; to aim for the white picket fence and a Dodge Caravan to drive around tiny beings of my own. It’s not all caipirinhas and Carnaval as a 30 year old single teacher living in Rio. Sometimes I stalk your babies on Facebook and wish for a life very different from my own.


Please bring me a jar of green salsa. I’d sell my soul.

*yeah. posted this on a monday. just got really caught up in my sleeping and church going. :)