Transparency Goes on a Date

Before: Excited and a Tiny bit Apprehensive

I have a first date tomorrow. My first first date in a long time, my first first date that I feel has been planned the right way and preceded by the right events. I am so excited! I am positive that I am going to laugh my bum off with this guy and not worry about my front teeth overlapping while I cackle. All my girlfriends will want to know his qualifications going into the first date, so here goes:

• taller than me (even with heels on)
• know how to dress himself! (unless his mommy secretly does it for him)
• doesn’t really like to watch sports on TV (except hockey with the guys and, of course, the Olympics)
• is hilarious
• isn’t afraid to get up and dance (after a pint or two). In fact, we met on the dance floor!
• has sweet glasses
• won’t make fun of me for loving chick flicks
• he’s Canadian!
• hates domestic beer (the Blue-Bud-Coors category) as much as I do
• is built! (arms the size of small trees, which, of course, is relative, but impresses me!)
• asked me for my number the first time we met (true, he thought I lived in Toronto and so didn’t call me until after we met again a month later, but still!)
• has an iPhone (my next technological gadget for SURE)
• isn’t afraid of wordy text messages, sending or receiving them
• loves the beach
• can only take so much hip-hop (Me! Too!)
• …and that’s more than enough for a first date, you romance freaks!

One of the most exciting things going in is that I still don’t know what we’re doing tomorrow night: he’s going to tell me today! Yup, he’s planning it, after a helpful discussion about things we like and don’t like and an inspired idea from the Sarah camp that unfortunately fell through but perhaps was inspiring. Guess I’ll find out! More to come soon…

The Next Day: Impressed!

So I went out with the Great Guy last night, and I am now a Foolish Grinner. It was perfect! I don’t know why I ever went out with anyone else, except for the obvious fact that I hadn’t met Great Guy yet. I need to add to the list of qualifications:

• courteous and gentlemanly (would hold the door for me, wait for me to walk through, etc.)
• good driver
• good listener
• he planned the date and paid for everything - wow!
• he was in control of the evening’s progress, but not in any way overbearing
• we communicate well (this one is HUGE: I often feel misunderstood, or too smart or too dumb or too critical or too snobby, but he just gets me)
• when he’s serious, he’s quietly confident, which is trust- and respect-inspiring, and then laughs so easily and so contagiously in the next moment
• we have so much in common (our opinion about DQ, for example: they should stick to the Cool Treats and get rid of the Hot Eats)
• our differences are complementary
• he makes me feel like it’s great to be me!

I smiled all the way home from our date. In fact, I smiled during the day any time I thought of our upcoming evening together, and, during a washroom break at dinner, had to will myself to stop grinning like a fool before I got back to the table. Even the fact that he kissed me on the cheek and hugged me good-night contributed to making it perfect. Second date? Yes, please!

Philosophizing

Success is generally understood as being demonstrated by wealth, power, beauty, etc., but it seems to me that a truly successful person knows who they are first and foremost. They realize their giftings, their raison d’etre, and do all that is in their power to use such qualities for good. They do not settle for status quo and are often unsatisfied by that which is merely superficial. When they do strive to get ahead, they do not knock down others along the way, rather they build bridges wherever possible.

A truly successful person is prosperous of soul, of emotion, of character, of experience, of relationship, and of opportunity.

A Transparent Truth

The more observant of my readers may have noticed that all of my recent posts (notice I didn’t use the words frequent or regular), recent being over the last year or so, have been either about grief, ranting, or something superficial.

The reason? Fear, mostly. Fear of what others may think of me, of how those who have known me as The Good Little Missionary Girl might regard me if I delve back into the topic of faith, or get as truly “gritty” as I’d like to on this here website.

No longer. I am recently emboldened, by what I’m not sure, but here it is nonetheless. Please read on with an open mind, knowing that my only intention is transparency and getting back to the roots of this website. I know that people will have strong opinions about these issues. Please don’t take offense, rather take my honesty for what it is, or leave it. I cannot remain silent any longer.

It is no secret that I have long been disillusioned with church as I grew up knowing it, with the “Christian” institution that has become normal. In YWAM (Youth With A Mission, the organization that took me to Mexico and Hawaii, etc.), I was part of a community of believers that lived faith, day in and day out, in our work and play, sharing our possessions, helping each other when needed, and so much more. Going to organized church on Sundays became redundant to us, other than to show our Christian Mexican friends that we weren’t heathens. Shame.

When I returned to Canada, I was excited about a working relationship with the church that I called my home church, assuming the feeling was mutual. I had been on “the field” for several years and had what I thought was some valuable first-hand experience. It didn’t take long before I realized they had no idea what to do with me, and the apparent lack of trust in my gifts and abilities was so different from what I had become accustomed to that I very soon grew disillusioned. I knew the church wasn’t “well”, but it became more and more obvious to me that they had no idea.

I became increasingly frustrated with what I started to call “The Superficial Bullshit” (TSB) that passed for “fellowship” (the Christian F-word). It was what occurred before and after every service in the lobby as people “greeted” each other with “God bless you” (what DO they mean by that?), during every service as people watched each other “worship” (”Look who’s just sitting like a lump during the song service”, “Look who’s praying at the front - wonder what they have to repent of”), and at cell groups and Bible studies (how much of your soul will you really bare when some people bring their children to what should be an intimate place of trustful sharing?), etc. It occurs to me that my observations could very well have been tainted by something changing within myself and not an accurate reflection of many who were participating in TSB, but I desperately longed for something grittier, something less outwardly polished, less publicly fluffy.

More and more, entering the church building made me angry. I realized they didn’t know me and it wasn’t a place I could safely “come clean” about my ideas of what a church should be: they weren’t going to change anytime soon. After only having my membership for a year and a half, I withdrew it with a letter to the board, which brought no reply back. I voluntarily stepped down from the one area I had been involved with because I thought I might be regarded as more of a subversive than a leader. Then, I stopped attending.

That was a year and a half ago, and I still feel as if I have been set free! I don’t miss it at all. I DO miss the faith community I had in YWAM, though. I miss the level of transparency we had with each other, the “real-ness” of relationships, how we weren’t afraid to be honest with each other, how we held each other accountable in many areas, and so much more.

Then, a little over a year ago, my mother died. She was a single mother who had raised my five siblings and I alone since 1994. She was a beacon of faith, a pillar of godly truth, with a degree in religious education from a Christian university college. We were very different people, with different personalities, but we both held faith very close to our hearts.

When she was sick, I couldn’t handle it. Being the oldest child of a single parent, I have always stepped up, been responsible, done more than I should have. But in this case, I couldn’t get far enough away. For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to be responsible. I sat in the living room while my siblings did the food and dishes for Christmas. Perhaps the implications of her being weak and dying were too much for me to process, I don’t know.

Then she died a little over a year ago. I wasn’t ready. I thought I had more time, thought that I could say good-bye, ask her forgiveness for being so distant, get some understanding as to why I felt I had to get away rather than stick around to be with her. But she was gone.

It shook my world, rattled my being to the core. She had been the centre of my existence, my own personal pillar of strength for so many years. Suddenly, the world was different. I had to grow up, get my own apartment, my own vehicle, my own insurance policy. I inherited a bit of money that I had to invest. I became co-executor of her estate, co-guardian of my youngest brother. With my siblings, I had to make decisions about her things, had to pack up her house and move out.

The worst, however, was facing her people. They meant well, but their sympathy didn’t help. Neither did the church, really. A few people did, but I was almost relieved that there was no formal “church” outreach to the practically orphaned children of one of their members, a leader in their midst. It didn’t look good on them, but it suited me just fine.

Now for the gritty: I don’t know where I stand with faith anymore. I’m not that same “good little missionary girl” you used to know. I’m not the “worship leader” person. As you can see, I’m not even comfortable with those terms being applied to me. I’m not sure what they’re supposed to mean, or what they meant to you. I definitely know that I don’t identify with them right now, and I’m willing to risk your criticism to say so.

Many questions have been raised in my mind about what I always just accepted as truth, or took for granted, as the case may be. There are questions and doubts, but I’m not motivated to look for answers for them. Perhaps it’s laziness, or the evil, evil “backsliding”, but to be brutally honest, I’m okay with it.

Fundamentally, there are things that I don’t imagine will ever change for me: God is God, the Bible is true, Heaven and hell are both realities, etc. It’s the details that are fuzzy to me right now, and I really think that’s alright.

A friend said to me during a rare and refreshing online chat recently, “I’ll bet Jesus likes you more now”. THAT’S the kind of Jesus I can believe in. Hopefully I’m on my way to learn more about the type of faith that gets angry with hypocrites and hangs out with prostitutes.

Meanwhile, don’t expect me to say “God bless you” or do anything we know as “churchy”. I just can’t.

To Gym or Not to Gym

I made a resolution to work out this year, in a manner of speaking. I told my doctor that doing cardio was a goal of mine, and I really hate lying to people in authority. It’s just rarely a good idea. One can get away with telling fibs to servers and cashiers and nosy aunts, but when one’s health is in question, honesty is definitely the best policy.

When a friend gave me a two-week membership to the local YMCA, I thought, “Aha! My break has come! In I go”. So I did. For two weeks.

And I loved it. I learned how to use all the machines, talked about going to work out with my friends, dreamed of attending morning classes, took my brother ones, looked for the combination lock from my high school locker to put on my gym locker, bought non-cheap new running shoes, etc.

Then I encountered a wall I haven’t been able to breach: $44 + GST/month, plus the $80 activation fee. GULP.

Sure, when you think of it in terms of your long-term health, or how it costs $10/visit if you’re not a member, or how you have absolutely no motivation to do anything physical by yourself and have no TV with which to employ Wii Fit, that amount of money makes sense.

But then the scale flips and you remember your rent, cell phone bill, home phone bill, hydro, gas, insurance, groceries, investments, and other financial responsibilities, and suddenly it’s a big deal again. Yikes.

Yet, if you’re willing to humble yourself  and take in your proof of income and copies of your bills to a “confidential appointment” (and NOT wear Guess jeans with your sexy Frye boots and a sweet little jacket and oversized shades), there’s a chance they’ll give you the low-income rate of about $25/month.

On the other hand, do you really qualify as “unable, not unwilling, to pay full regular fees”?

You see my dilemma?

Wanna come running with me? 11:30 pm, my place? Oh, and bring your own weights, and some for me to use. And a TV so we can do a workout video. I’ll provide the water. And maybe a healthy snack.

Life in the H.C., Part 4: Dangerous Drivers, aka: Cocky Buggers

Dear Huron County Driver,

I’d like to say you know who you are, but I am not at all sure you do. Here’s a clue: if you see no problem following the car in front of you so closely that you can dig earwax out of the driver’s ear, I might be talking to you. Or if you think those bumper stickers that begin with the phrase, “If you can read this…” are part of some sort of literacy outreach program, I might be talking to you.

Even with my amazing new snow tires, it seems only prudent to me, seeing as how I value my life, to exercise caution when driving on snowy roads. When I say “exercise caution”, I am mostly referring to slowing down below the speed limit (If you’re saying “What?! Who DOES that?!” I am definitely talking to YOU!) and occasionally taking my foot off the gas pedal or, heaven forbid, even braking every now and again!

I understand there are some people who didn’t get the chance (or simply didn’t bother) to take Driver’s Ed, and they might try to use this as their excuse for believing that driving 3 feet behind the car ahead of them is okay, but I’m here to tell them it’s SO not! Did they really want to be collateral damage if I hit an invisible snow drift?

It boggles my mind how some people drive in winter, and, honestly, it scares me. I don’t care who you are or what driving super-powers you may have, I believe I have a right to peace of mind on the roads. If you’re driving behind me, I expect you to respect that. When I flash my brake lights a few times at you, please take the hint: “Back off! I’m uncomfortable with you being all up in my grill!” If you don’t get it the first time, my attitude toward you will NOT improve, and, in the privacy of my own vehicle, I’ll be saying mean things about you, and my impatient brake-light flashes will mean, “Hey jerk! You may not value your life but I do mine! Back the h— off!!”

Yours in fear of her life and limb til the snow departs,

Sarah Koopmans

How Freakin’ Fabulous Am I? (rhetorical question)

There are a few things I’d like to say:

1. I suck for having procrastinated from writing for ever so long. You may not care, but I know the truth: I officially suck for not taking the time to record all of the freakin’ fabulous thoughts I’ve had over the last several months. Some of the blame can be laid on the following inconsequential pastimes: work, two bands plus other music projects, and being there for my family.

2. While I initially anticipated the arrival of winter with fear and trepidation, now that it has been asserting its climatic domination of my area for weeks, I’ve mostly gotten used to it. I had some noteworthy help from a few contributors: the Fionas (my amazing knee-high, sexy black leather boots), elbow-length black leather gloves, snow tires, and CAA, with an honourable mention to hemp hearts and espresso.

3. At the risk of sounding blasphemous, I have a new bible that has very little to do with spirituality but everything to do with great taste. As happens with many great things, I stumbled upon this book in a local store that I hadn’t set foot in for a long while, and I can’t get enough of it. My new bible is written by What Not To Wear’s Clinton Kelly, and it’s called: Freakin’ Fabulous: How to Dress, Speak, Behave, Eat, Drink, Entertain, Decorate, and Generally be Better Than Everyone Else.

Clinton’s approach is very humourous, but truly, truly fabulous. These pages are chock-full of common-sensical advice, from how to match patterns to how-to recipes for great appetizers to good manners. I love it, and possibly not platonically! I’ve been accused of being too proper, caring too much about grammar, and being picky about lighting, and now I find myself vindicated by Mr. Kelly. Alleluia!

I simply can’t leave it at that, I’m sorry. This book will likely stay on my coffee table for decades to come, and all of you who care will be able to leaf through it and glean its wisdom for yourself. Honestly, where else can you find all of this basic good advice in one very fun, well-published, entertaining format?

This is the book that I’ve been waiting to discover for all of my adult life. Or, at least since I discovered how fabulous one can be and my true potential for achieving it.

A great paragraph:

When throwing a party, you must sanitize and guest-proof your bathroom. If the bathroom that will be used by your guests is not absolutely spotless, you will quickly get a reputation as a dirty birdy. And then, nobody will eat the food you’ve made because they’re afraid of catching hepatitis.

Just sayin’: great writing, right?

Here’s another tidbit:

If chopping onions makes you cry, hold a few unlit matches in your mouth. The sulfur is supposed to absorb some of the onion fumes. You can also hold a slice of white bread in your mouth. Either way, you’ll look like an idiot. Also, try throwing the onion in the freezer for a bit before you chop it. The colder the onion, the less fumes. Personally, I don’t mind a good cry. In fact, if I cry while chopping the onions, I’ll run to the bathroom mirror and recite one of my favorite lines from Poltergeist: “Don’t you touch my babies!!!” It’s the part where the kids are being sucked into the bedroom closet for the second time and JoBeth Wiliams is at HER WIT’S END! It’s very dramatic. (Hi, JoBeth, if you’re reading this!!!)

I mean, come on! Mixing great advice with self-deprecating humour and pop-culture references? What could be better in a self-help book?

4. I have to go now. I have some more reading to do before I’ll be ready to host any freakin’ fabulous Christmas parties. Ta Ta.

On Being Single, Living Alone, and Having Hardly any Single Friends

1. Your back gets patchily tanned and/or burned.

2. There is a distinct lack of motivation to wash the dishes.

3. Nudity can happen frequently at home.

4. Solitude aplenty. Solitude in abundance. Solitude to the extreme!

5. 10 AM seems bright and early.

6. Going alone to the beach is unavoidable.

7. Clothes, magazines, shopping bags, wine bottles, bags of chips, iPod cables, newspapers, mail, and water bottles on the floor in every room is just normal.

8. No one reminds you when you’re road-raging about that tailgater that you just committed the same offense on the way home yesterday.

9. You can drink water, wine, OJ, and coffee every day for a month without running out of clean glasses (at least, I can).

10. Never mind the old adage that you should take off one piece of jewellery before you leave the house; in my case, I have some I can’t put on before I meet up with other people.

11. The things you have in common with your girlfriends (now married with children) grow less and less. And less (something just happened as I wrote this that really drove the point home).

12. Stigmas about Old Maidendom get closer to home, whether in your eyes or others’.

13. Wanting to go out means you either a) scrape together the nerve to go by yourself (not likely); b) wait until that one single friend you have is available on a Saturday night; or c) play the anti-social card. Again.

14. Items of clothing with buttons up the back are, sadly, not for you.

15. You’re the first person people think of when someone asks them for a pet-sitter or house-sitter.

16. Without a man, you really have no idea how to care for your car and just hope nothing happens.

17. No one helps you dig your way out of your driveway in winter.

18. You can only have Housewarming parties so many times. Besides that, what can a single girl register for to get stuff like engaged and expecting girls do?

19. Fashion means more to you.

20. The baby behaviour, baby stuff, baby growth, baby names, and baby care references get old when you’re the only one without a baby.

21. Master of the fake smile you are.

22. You fear the cat-lady reference yet admit to being a candle-lady.

23. Eating in is a novelty.

24. Cooking for one isn’t. You begin to long for NYC, where everything can be delivered. Or, perhaps, to hire someone just to have someone else to cook for.

25. Plant-and-candle lady?

26. Things stay where you put them. Ordinarily.

27. You flip-flop between wanting to nest and wishing you’d never stopped to roost.

28. No one cares what time you come in at, and no one cares what time you come in at.

29. Only you face the consequences for too much shopping.

30. There’s no one to blame for anything else, either.

A Day in My Life, June 2008

I had a sudden desire today to chronicle and compare the different stages of my life, as I look back and notice that my life in June 2008 is remarkable different from that of June 2007, June 2006, June 2005, and so on.

I invite you to be a witness on this journey.

June 2008 finds me 27 years old, living in a two-bedroom second-floor apartment in the only apartment building in a tiny town in East Huron County called Brucefield. This town is known for it’s flashing light, yellow if you’re driving between Clinton and Exeter on Highway 4, or red if you’re coming from either Seaforth or Bayfield. There is one elementary school, one church, one drive-in restaurant, two mechanic shops, one Asian/Home Decor/B&B/Lunch Room location, and one fire station.

My apartment overlooks a cornfield, the view of which is mostly obstructed by a lovely birch tree. Said tree helps me feel more confident walking around in my apartment in less-than-decent clothing on summer nights. After all, who would be driving by slowly enough whose gaze could penetrate the birch branches in the split second I happen to be passing through my dining room, several feet from my beautiful picture window?

I enjoy living alone, though sometimes I do wish someone was there to care whether I came in or not, or to wonder where I was, or to motivate me to do dishes, finally! My neighbours are understanding and quiet, the area is safe, and I actually have a place to call home. MY home. I’ve immensely enjoyed painting and decorating my apartment, putting all of my good taste to good use in a place where I’m the boss, now and forever.

Another addition to my life is that of Trixie the Toyota, a pretty, dark-green 1997 4Runner who goes with me everywhere I go. She hauls the accoutrements of my life and hobbies without complaint. She has survived being rolled over in the ditch after skidding out on an icy country road, being hit-and-run by some unknown person, a not-so-successful attempt at backing up a trailer, and carrying some of my more treasured furniture.

Not so enjoyable are the bills that go with being established and mobile, namely cell phone, rent, insurance, hydro, phone/internet, groceries, gas, repairs, etc. I can’t say as I ever yearned for that part of nesting, but I take it in stride, usually. I’ll be much happier when I can finally get my tax returns done (for the past 2 years), pay off my credit card, and have money set aside for winter tires.

I have spent more than a year at the same job, as a server at The Brew’n Arms English pub and restaurant in Bayfield, Ontario. Earlier this year, I graduated to keyholder and Dining Room Manager, as well as Kitchen Painter and Orchid-Caretaker extraordinaire. My bosses are wonderful people who have become friends and family, as well as the most understanding and flexible supervisors anyone could ask for. They make me want to stay and do my best for them, for their business, for their town.

Last year at this time, I was also working as a drywaller, and, shocker! I don’t miss it a tiny bit. I do enjoy my refined house-painting skills, which I have recently put to good use in a “cottage” in Bayfield, and hope to expand as a second job. If you hear of someone looking to hire a house painter, give them my number!

I’m not attending church because I couldn’t handle the one I had called “home” for years. I’m generally fed up with the institution that is what church has become, with all its expectations and traditions and legalism. I would enjoy a faith-based community of believers that is honest and open, a group that can laugh and be reverent in an informal way. I really could expand this paragraph to a whole essay, but suffice it to say that I have not encountered such a community, but I still seek to hold onto my beliefs. I am discovering more of what life is like on “the other side” (outside the Christian bubble), and it’s very educational, despite occasionally dangerous.

If it were possible to live on coffee, I’d do it.

I’ve joined the wonderful realm of BlackBerry, as I once dreamed of doing. And I’m paying for it, too.

Writing is still my best communication method.

I rarely see earlier than 10 AM, or close my eyes earlier than 1 or 2 AM. I’d like to change that.

The music in my life has developed over the past year as well. I am the youngest voice of the all-female cover band, Cactus Jam, and I love it, despite playing mostly Legions. I was also privileged enough to be part of Noted!, a project sponsored by the United Way in my county, which is helping to boost the music careers of the 17 women chosen to participate. We got to record 14 tracks in a professional studio, and a great-sounding CD is the result. This past winter I also ventured out to sing a few times at Open Mic nights at a local pub, and have been the featured soloist at two church events.

This year finds me recently motherless, a drastic blight on anyone’s life, and definitely on mine. It has changed so many things and finally propelled me into nesting in the first place. It also made my brother and I guardians of our youngest brother and launched me further into the land of disabled children in Ontario. I now have a lawyer, communicate regularly with several case workers, get all kinds of official mail, and have to return junk mail still addressed to Mom.

June 2008 also finds me blonde, and with an even greater fashion sense. I love that about growing older! I predict I’ll still be stylish in my 80s. If I’m not, remind me of now.

I’ve discovered I love flowers and plants, doing the Toronto Saturday Star crossword, Pinot Grigio and Shiraz, premium beer, CBC Radio, brie on melba rounds with semi-dried tomatoes in duck confit, Dollarama’s plain candles, serving dessert, mom’s old couch and armchair (with my apartment’s decor built around them), C&E used furniture in Goderich, Americanos from The Bean, and living in Huron County!!! (Sorry, but that deserved more than three exclamation points)
Being Sarah Elizabeth takes different shapes all the time, and I’m enjoying the process. Here’s to another year!

Hip Hip Who Cares?

It’s 1:56 am, almost two hours into one of my life’s milestones. You guessed, a birthday. The big 2-7, not that I look it, according to people everywhere. One of the ironies of life, I suppose.

Mac Forums sent me an email congratulating me, and the Facebook team is wishing me a great day. Kind of unbelievable, isn’t it, that I haven’t met the Facebook team, and that Mac Forums isn’t even a person, and they remembered my birthday?

Better yet, I seem to have thought I’d forget my own birthday. When I checked my BlackBerry a few minutes ago, I found an alert from my calendar that said “Birthday!” and gave me the options to Open, Dismiss, or Snooze (5 min.) I chose dismiss, which brings me closer to my point.

25 was a great birthday (Norway, 90 people I didn’t know, me standing on a chair while they all sang to me a song in a language I didn’t know and clapped their hands and spun around and tweaked their noses. Yes, they were adults). The ones before that were pretty fun. On what I think was my 23rd, I innocently and inadvertently ordered a piña colada that wasn’t virgin. And laughed. 26 included a fire and lots of wind, good food, and, a bit hesitantly, beer. 27 will involve a belated party combined with a very belated housewarming, and, I am a bit surprised to find, a lot less anticipation.

For whatever reason (no, I am not inviting you to philosophize), I am indifferent about 27. I am grateful for a reason to celebrate, and a day in which everything can be about me. (Finally!) But I find myself not caring that it’s a birthday where in other years I might have. Perhaps when I turn 30 it’ll be a big deal again.

Today, Happy Birthday to me, and here’s to a season in life where priorities are different and life is celebrated in different ways.

Cheers!

Semi-Prude

I once was a prude. There are people (my little sister, perhaps), who still think I am. But I’ve come a long way in the last ten years. No, I don’t feel inclined to spill the beans here (at this time) about all of my indiscretions and anti-prudish behaviour, but suffiice it to say that I am no longer a prude.

prude |proōd|
noun
a person who is or claims to be easily shocked by matters relating to sex or nudity.

prude \ˈprüd\

: a person who is excessively or priggishly attentive to propriety or decorum; especially : a woman who shows or affects extreme modesty

A prude (Old French prude)[1] is a person who is described as being overly concerned with decorum or propriety. They may be perceived as being uncomfortable with sexuality, nudity, alcohol, drug use or mischief.

The name is generally considered to mean excessive modesty, and hence unflattering, and is often used as an insult. A person who is considered a prude may have reservations about nudity, participating in romantic or sexual activity, drinking alcohol or consuming other drugs, or participating in mischief. These reservations may stem from shyness or strict moral beliefs. Actions or beliefs that may cause someone to be labeled a prude include advocating or practising abstinence, advocating prohibition, advocating censorship of sexuality or nudity in media, disapproval of being topless in public, avoiding or condemning public display of affection, or exhibiting unusual levels of discomfort with sexuality, alcohol, drugs or mischief.