Judy Baer - The Whitney Chronicles

“Whitney Blake…becomes not just a fictional character, but a ‘girlfriend’—so much so that readers might have to remember they can’t meet her for a cup of coffee.”

—Christian Retailing

“Baer has created fascinating characters with real-life problems and triumphs that show readers the details of living out faith daily.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“With sixty-five books to her credit, Baer knows how to spin a good tale…. The results are genuinely enjoyable.”

—Publishers Weekly

“When Whitney Blake grabbed a Snickers bar, I knew she was my kind of girl. In The Whitney Chronicles, Judy Baer nailed the chick-lit voice and created a delightful, quirky cast of characters. She’s now on my very short list of great chick-lit writers.”

—Colleen Coble, bestselling author of the Rock Harbor mystery series

“The Whitney Chronicles is chick-lit fun for the Christian set—and anyone else looking for a breezy, heartfelt read!”

—Kristin Billerbeck, bestselling author of What a Girl Wants

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For Adrienne

(who gives invaluable feedback—thanks, honey!)

and Aaron—all my love

So be very careful how you live. Do not live like those who are not wise. Live wisely. I mean that you should use every chance you have for doing good, because these are evil times. So do not be foolish with your lives, but learn what the Lord wants you to do.

—Ephesians 5:15–17

SEPTEMBER

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

OCTOBER

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

NOVEMBER

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

DECEMBER

CHAPTER 11

JANUARY

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

FEBRUARY

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

MARCH

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

APRIL

CHAPTER 18

MAY

CHAPTER 19

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

September 14

spin•ster: 1. A woman who spins. Alfred the Great in his will, called the female part of his family the spindle side. In Saxon times, it was believed that a woman wasn’t ready to marry until she’d spun her own table, bed and body linens. Any maiden or any unmarried woman was considered a spinner, or spinster. 2. An unmarried woman; an old maid.

My name is Whitney Blake and not only is today my birthday, but it’s also the day I outgrew my fat pants. My friend Kim Easton told me the most depressing day of her life was the day she realized she’d outgrown her maternity clothes and she wasn’t even pregnant. I feel her pain.

Kim told me—and she had it from a good source, Oprah, maybe—that keeping a journal is an important part of knowing oneself. She says it will be especially good for me because, at thirty, I’m unmarried and currently stuck somewhere between death and puberty. It is also proof that I’m actually learning and maturing over the course of my life. I’m starting my journal today because I need proof that by this time next year I’ll have learned or accomplished something. My goal is not to be a useless leech on the crust of the earth.

Turning the big three-oh was more of a shock than I’d expected. Last year I was in total denial about the inevitability of this birthday. I didn’t reach a single goal I’d set for myself. “Lose ten pounds” turned into “lose fifteen.” “Exercise daily” became “exercise monthly.” And “meet a nice Christian man” should have been “meet a breathing one.”

Kim gave me this journal as a birthday gift. She had the words The Whitney Chronicles printed in gold on the cover. She hopes that will intimidate me into using it.

Well, here goes.

Goals for my thirtieth year:

Today: Begin a journal in which I will give a daily account of my life and how I am improving mentally, spiritually and physically and progressing toward my year-end goals. (That’s pompous-sounding… Oh, well.)

This week: Give check to children’s ministry so as not to be tempted to spend it like I did last month. (Note—give double this month.) Wax my legs. Bleach my teeth. Floss daily. Return black blouse (unneeded, as I already have three). Put myself on a budget. Follow it for a change. Be the perfect employee no matter what my boss, Harry, throws at me. Continue practice of adding words to my vocabulary, e.g., “spinster.”

My mother is sure that if I don’t get in gear soon, I’m in dire jeopardy of becoming one. Although I’m not worried about spending the rest of my life making tablecloths and bedding, I don’t want to end up alone in a high-rise condominium brushing a crotchety Pekinese and wondering if, when my Prince Charming does come, I’ll be able to find my bifocals and upper plate.

This month: Lose six…no, four…no, two…no, four…okay, five pounds sensibly. Then, in three months, I can wear all the clothes in my closet again. Exercise. Do not let my mother drive me crazy (a particularly difficult project). Get organized. Start by cleaning closets. Quit falling for every organizing gadget on the market. No more hanging shoe racks, drawer dividers or file cabinets. And, under no circumstances, another set of plastic drawers on wheels. Have friends over for dinner. Read my Bible more. Pray more, obsess less.

This year: Lose fifteen pounds, make a career step (preferably upward). Learn how to change a tire. Find a new hairstyle. Quit thinking of self as chubby. Become less of a couch potato and more of a social butterfly. Give up being an introvert. Become a raging extrovert. Meet and date a nice Christian man….

Clarification! Meet but do not date a nice Christian man—I do not need a man to make my life complete or to feel whole. Besides, Kim says diffidence is the best way to catch a guy anyway.

And, like my monthly goal, ditto on Bible reading and prayer.

This decade: See above, plus get married, have a baby and/or become a marketing consultant genius and get rich and famous. (If so, I can always marry after.) It might be fun to be a philanthropist instead of a parent for a few years. Besides, I am in no rush to meet a man (note yearly goals).

I weighed myself this morning and couldn’t believe what I saw—even when I stood on the scale with my palms on the bathroom counter. Unless I learn to levitate, it is very clear that I have to go on a diet. I’ve heard the body clings harder to excess weight the older one gets. I just didn’t think it would cling so hard so fast….

Anyway, I was already late for work by the time I discovered the waist-expansion issue (my euphemism for disgusting fat). Although being marketing coordinator at Innova Computer Solutions—ICS—allows me to dress casually, I doubt belly bloat oozing out of my zipper is allowed.

Rather than search my closet for a larger pair of pants (impossible anyway, because I refuse to buy a pair), I hooked the waistband together by looping a ponytail holder through the buttonhole and stretching it over the button (a trick I learned from Kim in the early days of her pregnancy). With a long shirt, tails out, and a jacket, I hoped no one would notice the bulge. I did, however, suddenly begin to wonder about the quality of the rubber used in hair bands. A few deep knee bends loosened the fabric, which had obviously shrunk in the wash, and I was on my way. I spent most of the day treading the fine line between mandatory shallow breathing and hyperventilation.