Alright, alright. In case it wasn’t plain to see, I’m the slacker of this #52weeks team. I don’t necessarily hold my title proudly, but the first step is admitting it, right?
I’ve been struggling with what to write. I’m feeling such pressure to have an entertaining blog. But here’s the thing: I question how well I can entertain the masses. Let’s see if I can keep your interest with telling y’all about myself.
I love McKenzie’s blog where she talks about her name. I didn’t come to love my full name until I was a teenager.
When I was a kid, I hated it. It quickly became natural to state my name and immediately follow it with an intense spelling session or some sort of explanation. Everytime I introduced myself, people looked at me as if I was the strangest thing to walk the earth. It’s a relatively normal name, isn’t it?
“Okay, Kristin, if you would…”
“No, no. Kristian.”
“Hm, I’ve never met a girl named Christian.”
“…yeah, I hear that a lot. But I spell it with a K so….it’s a little bit better.”
“Oh, that’s pretty. What did you say your last name was?”
“…………………Spell that, please.”
“Wait, wait, hold on, slow down. Y-e-l-b-e-r”
“V. as in Victor. Y-e-l-V-e-r-t-o-n.”
“Okay, Miss Yellerton, right this way.”
To top all of that off, my middle name is some ridiculous, ghetto, made-up contraction. So, yes, I hated my name. I wish I could remember what happened that made me love it eventually, but I can’t. All I know is that I’m wonderfully in love with my name now, so much so that I have mild panic attacks about having to change it if/when I get married.
I’m 21, the magical age where being an alcoholic is socially acceptable…sometimes. I try to take advantage as much as possible before people start questioning if I should go to rehab. College started it: drunken college freshman. I wasn’t one of those tight dress wearing sorority girls, but I was just as messy as them. I just rocked a hoodie while I participated in my hot mess shenanigans. Not much difference. I’ve chilled out, thankfully. I guess that comes with growing up a bit. So, maybe I’m slightly more tolerable (unless football is on).
Drinking’s in the genes; that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.
I’m small town. I didn’t realize that about myself until I left for college, but I am. I love the pace. I love the comforting feelings that come with the territory. I love that my job AND Wal-mart are only about 5 mins away from my house. What’s not to love about small town living?
Phil mentioned he’s out changing the world in bustling DC, Jessy’s talking about the Golden Gate bridge… I gotta tell ya, I think the last time I’ve even saw a picture of that thing was when an episode of Full House rolled credits. I live a very simple, plain, country life, and for now, that’s a-okay with me.
Lastly, I’m curvy. BOY, AM I CURVY! Voluptuous. Big girl. Full-figured. Call it whatever you want, but it’s me. Look, I used to be tall, lanky, and couldn’t pass 90lbs on the scale to save my life. All I desired was to be big. I was the baby of the family, and I wanted to grow up fast. Not to mention, putting on a couple of pounds wouldn’t hurt my chances of finally winning a wrestling match with my big brother. I was always in competition with him, and our favorite contest was “who could eat the most?” He always won, but I was a close second, and determined to win eventually.
Problem came when my brother stopped competing and didn’t tell me. Well, I finally broke 90 pounds….and never stopped. I’m almost at 200 now, and I thought I would be one of those girls that complained about how fat she was all the time, but I don’t. (not that often). Oh, I have body image issues, no doubt. 99 problems, but my size ain’t one.
I don’t know what else to tell you.
Quickies: I’m a rambler (shown above), and I’ve never been a closer (shown here)………………….