Like a fish out of water...

so are the days of our lives.

Sounds like a strange soap opera doesn't it--then again, aren't they all strange? Setting aside the few unfortunate folks whose "animal twin" is a fish (Calista Flockhart comes to mind) which are really a whole other entry, it seems odd to compare ourselves to a fish.

It all started last week as I sat in the cramped waiting room at my counselor's office.

**Insert gasps of shock and horror that I am seeing a counselor. That's right folks, you heard me correctly my counselor. Side note: I highly reccomend finding yourself a good Christian counselor. It's amazing what talking to someone about your life who is entirely disconnected from you can do for you. But, I digress.**

In stereotypical fashion, the waiting room, which was roughly the size of a breadbox, contained a 7000 gallon fish tank. It was crowded, yes, but it was still lovely to behold. As I sat there, nose to the glass, not by choice mind you, but by shear lack of space, I enjoyed watching these brightly colored dancers sashay through the water, creating an impromptu ballet all their own. I half expected the slow bottom feeders over in the corner to break out their violins, cellos, basses and tympani. Instead, the hum of the filter and the ensuing bubbles created a symphony all its own.

It was then that I noticed the small orange fish who was swimming the perimeter of the tank. Around and around he went, in a seemingly never-ending race against time, a race against an unseen predator, a race against insanity. And suddenly, without warning, I oddly found myself sorry for this little creature, and his pirouetting counterparts. Trapped behind a box of glass, they would never know what it was like to swim freely in a pond, lake, or the ocean. They would never taste fresh algea or plankton. No, they were destined for a life, probably a shortened one, of swimming in bored circles in front of a painted backdrop, among a forest of plastic plants, flourescent rocks, and pea gravel. Eating only the oddly smelling flakes of matter that they may or may not recieve on a regular basis. This was not the pretty picture from the Finding Nemo dentist, no, this was the harsh reality of life in a tank.

And I couldn't help but relate.

How many times have I felt trapped by a world that isn't my true home. Lost in a tank of confusing twists and turns. Interacting with seemingly real people and places that turned out to be fake. Heading full force in one direction only to hit a wall and have to turn back to go the other way. Going in circles, sure I was heading down the right path, only to discover that I had ended up right back at the same place, or more frightening yet, in a far worse place than the one I had started.

Sometimes I feel like God's fish, I admit it. Fed enough to keep me going, but so often longing for more. Watched by someone who can see the repercussions of my mistakes coming towards me at a high speed, yet who watches with glee and occasional horror at the idiocy of my actions. Someone who takes joy in the beauty of my being, yet marvels at the things I do to mess it up. A God who takes care of me, though doesn't always give me the freedom or options that I would like or feel I deserve.

Then again, perhaps this is better. Under God's protection, I don't have to worry about fishermen or predators. I can swim in the freedom of knowing that I am cared for and loved. I can understand that my every need will be met. Perhaps it then becomes my choice to decide what I will make of my situation. Will I find joy in the safety of my God's arms? Will I seek to explore the nooks and crannys unknown, to dive deeper in the depths? Will I choose to learn from my mistakes, correct my path, and dodge the facades and false fronts the second time around? Swimming a race that I can win, and a race that I can understand because God has given me the tools to do so.

That doesn't mean it will be easy. Unlike the fish, I have to surrender control to God. I have to take responsibility and make the effort to get to know my maker and Lord through prayer, spending time, and studying his word.

How easy it is for me to just swim lazily along, like the little orange fish--dodging serious bullets, mindlessly circling obstacles, running from, but often succumbing to the attacks and lies of the ultimate predator. But God has called me to more than this. He has called me to a life of surrender and knowledge-seeking. And for this little fish, at least for this moment, that seems to be enough.

that's all.

NYC

I'm going to New York May 2 through May 9 to meet with a client and to celebrate my 25th birthday! Who's excited? I AM, I AM!!

that's all.

Design Blog Overhaul

I spent the afternoon updating my design portfolio to aid in getting new clients. Take a peek:

http://figurativeleespeaking.blogspot.com

that's all.

Business Sexual

So, my friend Max Gilbert, has posted a note on facebook that I found very intriguing. It's about a phenomenon that I have observed for years, though perhaps not in the form he discusses. I'll include a few highlights from his writing before discussing my own.

What is business sexual, you ask? According to Max, business sexual is "defined by a single article of clothing: the fishnet stockings. The debate over whether or not overtly short skirts should qualify is yet to be settled..." His definition was prompted by the observation of a "professional" speaker at the infamous Mays School of Business who was wearing fishnet hose. Mr. Gilbert went on to say that "the only logical question that comes to mind when watching a lady make a presentation in fishnet stockings is, what caste of business attire does this fit into? Is it business [professional], business casual, or does it qualify for a class of its own?" His answer to the debate? Business sexual, the "newest trend in business dress."

Mr. Gilbert deems business sexual appropriate in only two situations (at this time):
"(1) when conducting a one-on-one office visit with a male superior to discuss an upgrade in benefits (e.g., pay increase, more vacation, etc.) or
(2) when speaking to a large group of college males about coming to work for your company."

I hate to break it to Max, but business sexual isn't really a new phenomenon. I've been noticing the trend for years, and while none of the offenders may have been quite so blatant as to clad themselves with fishnet hosery, the other offenses are just as real, and sadly, just as prominent. And the applications for the use of the term are far more diverse than uncovered in Mr. Gilbert's initial study.

I suggest that the debate regarding overtly short skirts be dismissed. This, quite possibly, is the original manifestation of this phenomenon. And unfortunately, like most tight-fitting, overly-revealing clothing, such attire is often worn by those who have the least business wearing it.

The examples do not stop there. There are the "Plungers" whose necklines may reveal crevasses unintended for public viewing. The "window shoppers" whose see-through blouses, oops, accidentally show undergarments. "The Drifters," who relish showing off their recent familial additions (the belly button piercing they got when they had a little too much fun last weekend). And let's not forget my personal favorite, the "Peeping Thongs," which often makes an appearance in squats and floor-bending paper retrievals. These are not to be confused with the standard "Peeping Toms" who fall into an entirely different category: Business Sexual Harrasment. And let's face it, this is just an entirely different esssay.

But let's not lay all blame at the feet of the women in the workplace. After all, business sexual is just as easily committed by their male counterparts.

Take for instance Mr. Gym who just so happens to have purchased a shirt four sizes too small which may barely fasten around his neck, but provides a great view of his oversized arms. Particularly when the temperature in the office unexpectedly rises and requires an unbuttoning of the shirt to mid-boob, er, pectoral, revealing the carefully groomed hairless chest recently waxed and buffed (which, he also has a fond habit of "dancing" by flexing in an effort to impress the ladies).

Then there is the other end of the spectrum, the "sasquatch" who for some reason refuses to wear an undershirt to cover his overly-hairy chest. And who can blame him? With a built-in sweater, I can understand trying to avoid another heat-inducing layer. But really--for everyones sake, hairy is ok, showing it to the world is not.

And of course, there are unisexual offenders, like the "Squeeze Players" whose pants would make even the most liberal of liberals blush. If you can see the underwear line from fifteen miles across the city, it might be too tight. Leave something to the imagination...really. And the "Free-formers" who choose to ignore all use of undergarments. They tend to be especially problematic when Office Olympics come around, when trying to catch elevators, or when running late.

All-in-all, business sexual is alive and well and shows no indication of changing and certainly shows no signs of growing conservative in nature. After all, if you've got it, flaunt it right?


I've probably only scratched the surface, so I reserve the right to edit this as time goes on.

that's all.