Blame It on the Girls

You may think your life stinks like old beef and moldy cheese. You may wish you had more chi-chang in your bank account. And at church yesterday, you may have envied her. You know who I'm talking about--the Ann Taylor girl. She comes to church with her lapels perfectly pressed, wearing a real pearl necklace, which mirrors her never fading smile. Every Sunday you sit in the foyer and watch her walk down the hallway. Her boot smothered legs idyllically bend and curtsy as she picks up the primary roles from underneath the heavy wood doors. You look down at your Cheerio encrusted chest, then look up at her. Your mind temporarily suicides as it takes a dive in Shallow Shores: I wish I were her.

You know envy isn't you; It's detrimental to want what you ain't got. So you decide on a solution: run it off (on Monday, of course). You run. But while you're running, you begin cursing your seemingly eighty year old heart (you can only run a half mile before you're forced to crawl the rest of the way home). Meanwhile, though, your ipod is pumping a ray of hope through your sweat dripping ears: "Blame It on the Girls" by Mika. The crawling becomes easier as you notice the hibiscus in your front yard is blooming new flowers. The flowers remind you of the story President Uchtdorf told about about John Rowe Moyle in his article, "Lift Where You Stand." You're reminded that you don't have a pegleg, and the Lord needs you to straighten up and fly right. It really is good to be you. Now start workin' it like you believe it, chica.