For as long as I can remember, there has been a law etched somewhere on my heart of hearts that has been absolutely impossible to disobey. It states, in the most irrefutable terms, that personal beauty is to be maintained, no matter the cost.
1. It is far better to freeze than wear an ugly coat.
2. It is far better to arrive late than to arrive ugly.
3. Nothing that causes one to look large around the middle will do.
(And my five-year-old vanity added it's own sentence:)
4. There shall be no lumps, poofs or puffs in one's hair, for they are incredibly ugly.
Unfortunately, Mom didn't understand this code of ethics and, therefore, on every Sunday and Wednesday, a grievous battle began as she opened the closet doors to choose my church clothes.
With dread, I watched her while she slid the plastic hangers, one by one, to the right side of the rod.
My destiny, dignity and happiness were passing through her fingers like so many pieces of knit, corduroy and floral fabric. " Please God," I prayed, in my head, "Don't let her pick the pink jumper. Please, just not the pink jumper."
Three more hangers and she would see it. How I hated that jumper; it was made out of crinkly, light fabric with buttons (I hated buttons) and, even worse, a pointy collar. The thought of having to wear it again made my stomach muscles clench.
But she never got that far. Today she stopped one hanger short of it and pursed her lips, considering.
Holding my breath, I realized that this option was just as bad, if not worse: A sweater - with a whole row of flower-shaped buttons marching down the front. There was nothing grown-up or beautiful about it. Furthermore, it was really loose looking, and I knew I would feel awful with it draped over me.
"Lord, please let her go on. Not that sweater, not today," I pleaded, alarm growing inside me.
Matter-of-factly, she took it off the hanger and headed for my dresser to find a skirt.
"Mom," I followed her across the room, trying to stay calm, "Do you think, maybe, this dress would work?" She looked up from the middle drawer and eyed me from neckline to hem. "No."
I could feel my eyes go wide. "But Mom," I was so scared that my voice trembled, "This one has lace on the sleeves. See, it's long and pretty..."
"Nope. We're getting pictures taken today and you need to match Kara."
I tried again - maybe if I was brutally honest she would understand. "But Momma, I can't wear that! It's ugly and I'll look fat."
"No you won't, Anna," she chuckled a little. "This is a very nice outfit." She pulled out a turtleneck and closed my drawer. "You'll look absolutely beautiful in it." She laid it all out on my bed. Skirt, sweater, socks - everything, then straightened up to go.
"Hurry and get dressed so I can fix your hair." And with that, she was gone.
"Fix my..." I stared at the vacant doorway, stricken...a nightmare. That's what it was. I fell to the floor and I lay there, draped over the bed for a few minutes, consumed with frustration.
Finally, I turned over to view the outfit again. "Maybe..." I fingered one of those juvenile buttons, "Maybe, it won't look so bad when I put it on." Still, my thoughts were grim as I stood up and yanked the turtleneck over my head.
I felt like screaming - it was choking me.
A few more seconds and I had donned the whole thing. Standing in front of the mirror, I surveyed myself from head to foot. Mussed hair, red eyes, pouting lips and a sweater big enough to clothe an elephant.
I inhaled a shaky breath, trying to be calm. "You look beautiful," I said to the girl in the mirror. "Everybody will think you're adorable..." It wasn't working, for the last word came out in a low growl.
This was too much - a surge of helpless fury swelled with sickening force. I began to leap up and down before the mirror, repeatedly pouncing on the floor in a blind rage. Yes, the floor!
"Anna?" Mom called from the hallway, "Come here and let me see."
I stood still and a hot tear slid down my fevered cheek. I wiped it off, angrily. Mom was so mean - she probably did this so I would never get married.
With great sorrow, I opened the door and my feet carried me out of it and through the hall. Mom stepped out of the open bathroom door, "You look lovely!" she said, sounding delighted and reaching down to button the top two buttons of my sweater. "Dumb buttons," I thought.
"Come here, now." She gently took hold of my shoulders and steered me to the huge bathroom mirror. The drawer that held all my scrunchies and hair-bows was open; she picked one up and grabbed the brush. I waited, muscles tense.
This always hurt terribly. The brush would start through my hair with quick little jerks, then reach up to the top of my neck with several long, powerful strokes. Next came the worst part of all: the brush would come to the side of my face and pull the hair taunt against the skin. I would try to escape, but Mom never gave up and I was forced to stand still and take the brutal punishment.
Horrified, I watched her part my hair on the side and clip it back with a barrette; it was poofed.
My beautification complete, we piled in the car and drove to Walmart's photo center where, in spite of my horrific appearance, I forgot to be grumpy while the lady took our pictures. Everyone did think I was adorable, and a few months later, I realized that I actually liked that sweater - but by the time I accepted this revelation I had outgrown the despised article and it was too late.
Mom had a funny look on her face when I mentioned that, "I told you it was beautiful, but you wouldn't believe me," she smiled, shaking her head.
Truth be told, this happened a lot before I finally figured out that Mom and Dad really knew what they were doing. Parents have a lot more knowledge and experience than we do, even though we don't understand that sometimes. As I grew up, another verse I had to memorize was:
1. It is far better to freeze than wear an ugly coat.
2. It is far better to arrive late than to arrive ugly.
3. Nothing that causes one to look large around the middle will do.
(And my five-year-old vanity added it's own sentence:)
4. There shall be no lumps, poofs or puffs in one's hair, for they are incredibly ugly.
Unfortunately, Mom didn't understand this code of ethics and, therefore, on every Sunday and Wednesday, a grievous battle began as she opened the closet doors to choose my church clothes.
With dread, I watched her while she slid the plastic hangers, one by one, to the right side of the rod.
My destiny, dignity and happiness were passing through her fingers like so many pieces of knit, corduroy and floral fabric. " Please God," I prayed, in my head, "Don't let her pick the pink jumper. Please, just not the pink jumper."
Three more hangers and she would see it. How I hated that jumper; it was made out of crinkly, light fabric with buttons (I hated buttons) and, even worse, a pointy collar. The thought of having to wear it again made my stomach muscles clench.
But she never got that far. Today she stopped one hanger short of it and pursed her lips, considering.
Holding my breath, I realized that this option was just as bad, if not worse: A sweater - with a whole row of flower-shaped buttons marching down the front. There was nothing grown-up or beautiful about it. Furthermore, it was really loose looking, and I knew I would feel awful with it draped over me.
"Lord, please let her go on. Not that sweater, not today," I pleaded, alarm growing inside me.
Matter-of-factly, she took it off the hanger and headed for my dresser to find a skirt.
"Mom," I followed her across the room, trying to stay calm, "Do you think, maybe, this dress would work?" She looked up from the middle drawer and eyed me from neckline to hem. "No."
I could feel my eyes go wide. "But Mom," I was so scared that my voice trembled, "This one has lace on the sleeves. See, it's long and pretty..."
"Nope. We're getting pictures taken today and you need to match Kara."
I tried again - maybe if I was brutally honest she would understand. "But Momma, I can't wear that! It's ugly and I'll look fat."
"No you won't, Anna," she chuckled a little. "This is a very nice outfit." She pulled out a turtleneck and closed my drawer. "You'll look absolutely beautiful in it." She laid it all out on my bed. Skirt, sweater, socks - everything, then straightened up to go.
"Hurry and get dressed so I can fix your hair." And with that, she was gone.
"Fix my..." I stared at the vacant doorway, stricken...a nightmare. That's what it was. I fell to the floor and I lay there, draped over the bed for a few minutes, consumed with frustration.
Finally, I turned over to view the outfit again. "Maybe..." I fingered one of those juvenile buttons, "Maybe, it won't look so bad when I put it on." Still, my thoughts were grim as I stood up and yanked the turtleneck over my head.
I felt like screaming - it was choking me.
A few more seconds and I had donned the whole thing. Standing in front of the mirror, I surveyed myself from head to foot. Mussed hair, red eyes, pouting lips and a sweater big enough to clothe an elephant.
I inhaled a shaky breath, trying to be calm. "You look beautiful," I said to the girl in the mirror. "Everybody will think you're adorable..." It wasn't working, for the last word came out in a low growl.
This was too much - a surge of helpless fury swelled with sickening force. I began to leap up and down before the mirror, repeatedly pouncing on the floor in a blind rage. Yes, the floor!
"Anna?" Mom called from the hallway, "Come here and let me see."
I stood still and a hot tear slid down my fevered cheek. I wiped it off, angrily. Mom was so mean - she probably did this so I would never get married.
With great sorrow, I opened the door and my feet carried me out of it and through the hall. Mom stepped out of the open bathroom door, "You look lovely!" she said, sounding delighted and reaching down to button the top two buttons of my sweater. "Dumb buttons," I thought.
"Come here, now." She gently took hold of my shoulders and steered me to the huge bathroom mirror. The drawer that held all my scrunchies and hair-bows was open; she picked one up and grabbed the brush. I waited, muscles tense.
This always hurt terribly. The brush would start through my hair with quick little jerks, then reach up to the top of my neck with several long, powerful strokes. Next came the worst part of all: the brush would come to the side of my face and pull the hair taunt against the skin. I would try to escape, but Mom never gave up and I was forced to stand still and take the brutal punishment.
Horrified, I watched her part my hair on the side and clip it back with a barrette; it was poofed.
My beautification complete, we piled in the car and drove to Walmart's photo center where, in spite of my horrific appearance, I forgot to be grumpy while the lady took our pictures. Everyone did think I was adorable, and a few months later, I realized that I actually liked that sweater - but by the time I accepted this revelation I had outgrown the despised article and it was too late.
Mom had a funny look on her face when I mentioned that, "I told you it was beautiful, but you wouldn't believe me," she smiled, shaking her head.
Truth be told, this happened a lot before I finally figured out that Mom and Dad really knew what they were doing. Parents have a lot more knowledge and experience than we do, even though we don't understand that sometimes. As I grew up, another verse I had to memorize was:
Exodus 20:12
"Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee."
No comments:
Post a Comment