Hot Mess

The air conditioning isn’t working in the dorm; at least it isn’t working on the third floor, which of course is the floor where I live. So that basically translates into: even if it is seventy-seven degrees outside, it is still eighty-one point five degrees in my room. As soon as I got back into my room and flung my luggage onto the floor, I instantly felt like a hot mess.*

Of course, I’m not entirely sure if I am using the words “hot mess” correctly. Even Urban Dictionary does not really give me very coherent results. (Because, obviously, Urban Dictionary is such a reliable source for everything in life. Insert eye roll here.)

My friend recently pointed out that I have an Instagram problem. And it’s true. I take a picture with my phone and I feel this overwhelming desire to instantly Instagram said picture. It’s the wannabe hipster within me. It’s that same part inside of me that longs to wear nothing but plaid and use a Moleskin planner. If you are not familiar with Instagram, it is an app on the iPhone that allows you edit your pictures and give them different filters and frames. Honestly, I want to Instagram my entire life. I want my life to always look cool and edited so it looks like I have everything put together and under control.

Guys, let me tell you: I’m so totally not put together. Like, at all. I painted my nails this really weird bubblegum pink color so it basically looks like Barbie painted my nails.* I wish I were kidding. I would say that I would take the nail polish off, but I probably won’t. I always have the best intentions to not let my nail polish chip. Even though I see a chip and tell myself I will take the polish off, I usually end up leaving it for another full week. I constantly run into walls and door frames—so much so that whenever anyone runs into something, my family calls it “pulling an Annie.” This is why I am a hot mess.

But I don’t want to present that hot mess front—especially not in front of people I want to impress. And I’m finding that I still want to impress people that I tell myself don’t even matter to me anymore (yes, I mean you, Mr. Text Me Right After I Have Successfully Forgotten Your Number Man). Even though I’m often running around like a chicken with my head cut off, I don’t want that to be how people see me. Actually, I really have no idea how people really see me—but anything that resembles a headless chicken would be bad.

I got back from Salt Lake City last night. I wish I could have stayed longer. I would get constant hugs from my old youth pastor’s three children (ages four, six, and nine). They would hug before they left for school. They would hug me before they went to bed at night. They would hug me for no reason. I miss those hugs. And, guys, I don’t even like hugs all that much.

That’s all I am really trying to say. We all need people in our lives who give us hug after hug after hug, even when we find ourselves in that hot mess state. Wednesday night I joined my old youth pastor (who is now rocking the senior pastor position) for the church’s youth festivities. It was awesome. I mean, there were some people who kept thinking my name was Amy, but you know, it’s whatever. The church is still really in its growing period, so there were not that many people there. We played some games, which was a lot of fun. It just goes to show that when church is done for the Kingdom of God, you simply come as you are. You come when all you can think of doing is crying. You come when you just want to laugh. You come when you are a hot mess. You come when you want to see that old lady who basically glues the whole church together and hugs you and kisses you on the cheek. The thing is, you just come. As you are. You don’t have to be touched up or together, you just come. You come and you lay it all down. That’s what friends are for and that’s what family is for—to let you embrace your brokenness and see it as beauty.

*Even though I know it is really not grammatically correct at all, I had an overwhelming desire to write that sentence like this: “I be looking like a hot mess.” Sometimes I just want to use “be” even when it is entirely inappropriate. I am not mad about it.

**Told you I wasn’t kidding:

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