I know, I know, I keep going back to this word.
It’s because I truly have a love/hate with it.
There was a time when it was all hate.
People would say I was “cute”.
They would say my posts were “cute”.
My outfits were “cute”.
And I would roll my eyes.
Wait… not out loud.
I would never roll them for someone to see.
Rolling my eyes on the inside.
Cuz it wouldn’t be “cute” to do it on the outside.
Ok, so then one day, I decided to embrace cute.
I was never gonna be pretty or gorgeous or beautiful.
Cute was just who I was.
I began to like being called cute.
Our house was cute.
My puppy was cute.
“You’re so cute”.
Yep, that’s me.
And I would much rather be a “cute Karen” than a “real Karen”.
Am I right?
But, I’m realizing now why sometimes that word just didn’t/doesn’t match up.
It isn’t actually because I want to be a super model and super models aren’t just cute.
It’s deeper than all of that.
It has to do with my insides.
I really do love to have fun.
Lot’s of fun.
And fun can be cute.
I also have some depth though.
Depth in me that isn’t necessarily of the cute variety.
A depth of the deep variety.
And when I go deep, it’s not always fun.
My brain spirals.
My thoughts swirl.
Darkness can hover.
The clouds roll in.
Cute gets thrown out the window.
No time for cute when the water is rising.
The serious side comes out.
Bubbly, fun Karen has a seat.
And serious, analytical Karen stands on up.
She is gracious and still kind.
But, in these moments?
No time for cute, I’m afraid.
Honestly, I think the serious side comes out way more than the cute.
My people know this.
They see me like this more often than not.
Looking for Truth.
Asking the hard questions
Asking if any of this real.
Looking to see Jesus in all of it.
Not settling for simple answers.
Maybe it’s just all part of growing up?
The childlike cuteness doesn’t get as much playing time.
Bench that cute little thing.
Bring on the heavy lifters.
There is a whole lot of seriousness in this life.
A whole lot of heartache and pain.
And fear is real.
There is a time for all of it.
And can I tell you something?
The oral surgeon struck a nerve while numbing me yesterday.
I know, right?
I thought I was gonna shoot right up through the roof.
Lots of deep breaths.
He told me it was all ok.
Then he asked me if I was ok.
I said “yes?”.
And then I asked him if he was ok.
I was serious.
He thought that was real cute.
His nurse did too.
So, maybe just maybe, there is room for both?