Single people are not a college-aged monolith.
Unfortunately, within the church, they’re often treated as such. According to the U.S. Census Bureau in 2017, the average age of marriage is twenty-eight. This skews a little younger for women, and a little older for men. In my lifetime, the average age of marriage has increased by six years. I want to start by acknowledging that I know this demographic of “older singles” is a new demographic for The (big c) Church. Continue reading
There are about 1,160 words beyond this point. This blog will take the average adult about four minutes to read.
“You’d be a really pretty girl if you just lost a few pounds.”
I’ve heard this countless times in my life. It happened most when I was a cashier at a grocery store. It happens from time to time when I’m just being overweight in public view. It still happens—and I’ve lost more than a few pounds, but am still certainly overweight. I wrote about this in more detail in The way we talk about overweightness needs to change. Continue reading
This blog has roughly 1,900 words past this point. It’s a bit long. I didn’t edit well. It has stories. It’ll take the average adult reader 6 and a half minutes to read.
Context: I am writing this, immediately after doing something I rarely do—I deleted a Facebook post. Specifically, I deleted this one:
I did not delete it because I do not stand behind my intended sentiment. I deleted it because it became evident through comments that I needed to put some flesh on the skeleton that I just hung out in the open air. I deleted it because my own intention for the post was hijacked and I saw rapidly growing destructive potential. It is a well-known hazard of putting thoughts out onto the internet. Continue reading
This blog will take the average adult reader five minutes to read.
I am thirty-one.
For the entirety of my thirty-one years I have been woman. For the entirety of my thirty-one years, I have been going to Christian churches. For the entirety of my thirty-one years, I have been single.
This specific blog post is geared toward single Christian women—whether you fit those descriptors or not, you’re welcome here—but I’m going to be writing under the auspice that my primary audience is women who are single and are Christian. Please forgive my Christianese, at times—and if you choose to keep reading, and want any explanations/translations, please let me know.
There are about 1800 words beyond this point. It will take the average adult reader about six minutes to read. It also includes some pretty great conversation with some other womenfolk.
I’ve had a uterus for 31 years now. It was fine for the first thirteen years of my life. Then, the first week of my eighth grade year—while my mother was out of town—all hell broke loose. Since then, hell has broken loose approximately 197 times.
Dear beloved male readers of this blog, shit’s about to get real. Please stay. Just be awkward and uncomfortable with me (us) for a bit.
This blog will take the average adult reader about four minutes to read.
The premise of this blog is this: I am not a dude.
I’ve been treated dudely since I was a kid. (Yes, I just turned “dude” into an adverb. Deal with it.) My mother will recount the story of how I came home from school from the first day of kindergarten—after she bought me all dresses (and I apparently loved them)—and demanded pants as my primary butt coverer. My favorite toy in elementary school was my roller blades. I wanted to be a speed skater. I wanted to run the Iditarod. I joined my first sports teams in the second grade. From then until the time I graduated from high school, I played basketball, volleyball—and twelve years of softball. I wanted to be the first female to pitch for the Mariners. (I’ve since let go of that dream.)
There are 1,585 words beyond this. It will take the average adult reader approximately six minutes to read.
I do not believe being overweight is sinful. As an overweight female Christian, however, I can tell you three specific things about my own personal obesity:
I do not believe that the excess weight on my body is actually sinful. However, I do acknowledge the role sin—and this fallen fucking world—has had on my body.
(This blog will take the average adult reader approximately 5 minutes to read.)
Hi. I am a woman. And I am the worst.
I have a long history of judging other women. For what they wear, for what they do with their lives, for the way they handle their emotions, for their interests, for their hobbies—if there’s a thing that women do, or are, I’ve probably judged a woman for it.
Likewise, I have a long history for being judged by other women. For what I wear, for what I do with my life, for the way I handle my emotions, for my interests, for my hobbies—I’ve been judged by other women countless times.
This blog is the pot calling the kettle black. Continue reading
(This blog will take the average adult approximately six minutes to read.)
I don’t think I’ve managed to keep it a secret how I feel about women’s ministry. Like. Ever. I’ve probably erred on the side of being a total arsehole when it comes to my opinions of women’s ministry.
And I want to be clear, before I go any further, that I fully acknowledge that women’s ministry is a huge blessing for many women—for some women, the various forms that women’s ministry is extremely helpful and edifying. I get that. But I also want to be emphatic that much like pants—yoga or otherwise—women’s ministry is not, and I don’t think can be, a one-size-fits-all ministry. I’ve seen it treated largely as such.
This blog will take the average adult about four minutes to read.
As you probably know by now, I’m an overweight woman.
I first became self-conscious of my body around seven years old when a friend told me to suck in my gut if I wanted the boys to like me. Photographic evidence suggests I started actually getting chubby around the fourth grade. Once I became aware of how terrible my body was as a child, I started dressing like a boy—because even at that young age, boys’ fashion was more forgiving (and comfortable!) than girls’. It was all baggy pants and baggy shirts for years. With the advent of fleece vests in middle school, I spent much of my life in one of my vests—to hide the midsection, I suppose. In high school it was more of the same—baggy pants, baggy shirts, baggy hoodies—baggy pirate clothes (<- truth).
A Blog for Shitty Women 