Chapter 6: Testing Dad

It was the morning of Thanksgiving on a nice Denver day. I was slumped on the couch with my favorite CD on repeat. Soon a friend would arrive to take me to the "orphan" dinner. I called my Dad in San Diego. He asked what was new? Did it snow? How much? I knew he was grasping at questions to ask me and I let his struggle float through the phone lines. When he asked again I considered lying to him like he has lied to my brother and I.

“Well, I had a finger amputated because I got it caught in the ski lift.”

I knew that saying I got a finger caught in a ski lift made no sense, but that was where the sentence went when it came out of my mouth. I wanted to test him, to see what he would do in a real emergency. How would he react? At first I don’t think he heard me and when he asked again I said:

“Well, now I have four fingers instead of five.”

“Which hand?” he asked.

“My left.” This sounded less tragic and might justify why I could sound so calm.

“Which finger?”

“My ring finger?”

“Which one is that?”

“The fourth one.”

“Fourth from the thumb or from the other side?”

“From the thumb.”

“Where did they amputate?”

“They took the whole finger”

I said this while realizing it made little sense for my fourth finger to get caught in a ski lift while the rest of my hand remained fine. I knew my father didn’t know what to say so he continued to ask me technical questions.

“Did they rush you to the hospital right away?”

“Yeah, of course they did.”

I think the reason I came up with this story is that I had cut my finger and needed a tetanus shot, but I didn’t want to tell him because he wouldn’t say anything that meant anything to me. I’ve had two minor concussions which I had also not informed him of. Underneath, I know I was testing to see if I should bother to list him as my emergency contact.  You don’t need a tetanus shot if you have had one in the past ten years. I know I haven’t had one in the past six years and doubtfully the past ten, but it was one of the nails that shuts the coffin when I realized I could not just call my father and get this information. He had no idea nor did he care to have an idea if I had gotten this shot. I told him of my imaginary tragedy to see how he would react.

I considered hanging up and leaving him wondering if I had really received a finger amputation. I wondered if he might call my local relative to ask if they had heard such a thing. I thought it was probably best not to spread rumors so I admitted the truth.

“Not really.  I was just making it up.”

Then somehow, we both laughed a laugh together that I cannot remember ever laughing together. Again I was disappointed he didn’t know enough to realize I was lying. He didn’t catch the irony.

God- I can see how you have redeemed us. I want to redeem the important things in life. I want to redeem my prayer life, my dependence on you, the gifts and influence I can give my friends.

Chapter 5: Delivering Phonebooks

My parents were hard workers. I never once doubted this - and I know I inherited it. I don't feel like I am doing my job properly unless I am giving you more than your money's worth. If I am supposed to coach your kid for an hour you will get at least an hour and 15 minutes unless I am really pushed for time. If you ask for a photo slideshow you are getting the best video I am able to create. Its only time that ever stops me.

One one hand  this is great. At least you know I am not lazy! On the flip side, I don't know where to draw the line. I don't know the difference between perfect and good enough. So I am trying to learn when the painting is finished. I am trying to learn where is a reasonable place to stop. And while I am at it - I need to learn where and when to start. I could spend hours, days, weeks figuring out where too begin. And maybe I don't always need to start at the beginning.

So here is the story about how my parents delivered phonebooks. This occurred the summer before I entered 6th grade at Curie Elementary. I remember very distinctly that my father was given a choice of relocating to company headquarters in Florida (where my mom heard there were alligators and houses were expensive), or he could lose his job and we could stay in San Diego.  I remember telling my friends I wasn't sure I would be back next year. I knew my parents were praying about the move and I don't doubt they agonized over the decision. So during the year my father was unemployed there were many adventures to be had and a shortage of popsicles in the freezer. (We didn't "need" them.)

Oddly enough I have always treasured the memory of my entire family out delivering phone books in my mothers very ancient faded blue two door Oldsmobile. I loved this because it indicated ingenuity and it was unusual. My parents would likely shudder that I even have this memory to recall.

We would get up very early and my parents would drive to the warehouse where the phonebooks were stacked. We were told to stay in the car and not make trouble. My brother and I had taken this opportunity to pack our backpacks with enough toys, books, stuffed animals and games to keep us busy for many days. We packed as if we were leaving the country, when we were maybe leaving the county. My parents would haul the phonebooks into the trunk of the car, shrink wrapped in sets, and then stack as many as possible in the backseat until my brother and I were riding on top of them, and my parents had stacks between them in the front seat. My father drove and my mother read the highlighted map of houses that they were to deliver to. They didn’t seem ashamed to do this work, though it was probably because we were never delivering phonebooks closer than 45 minutes away from our house.

They tried all kinds of methods, one involving my mom riding on the hood of the car and jumping off at each house and running up to the doorstep with the books. Another method was to park the car in the middle of the block and carry as many sets as possible, running up to each house and back to the car after two or three houses, until the block was finished. My brother and I tried to behave and it was our job to take the shrink wrap off the books and be ready to hand them into the front seat. We thought it was fantastic at the end of the day to be swimming up to our necks in shrink wrap thrown into the back seat. For lunches my mom had packed a cooler and sometimes we would stop at a neighborhood park for my brother and I to run around. We didn’t like staying in the car all day. We followed this same routine for a week or more until there was no more work delivering phone books.

On one of the last days my parents took two cars and parked my brother and I in the four door red Honda, while they used the Oldsmobile to deliver in the surrounding area. This was one of those days where my brother and I attempted to smash each other up against the doors of the car with our legs. It was a good thing we usually kept the doors locked because I always feared one of us would accidentally hit the door handle and launch out backwards onto the hard dirty pavement.

This is probably one of those incidents in which my family would deem this “ a family secret,” but it reminds me that my parents were always hard workers and I never doubted they were trying as hard as they could to do a good job.

During that same year -  I had to stop taking piano lessons and my mom had to forgo paying me allowance. However, she did a remarkable thing. She kept a little bank book listing how much she owed me each week, maybe $1.50 or $2. and when my parents could afford it she paid off the entire $125. Amazing.

Chapter 4: I Don't Have to Be Perfect

On the first day of kindergarten I wore a dress. I brought a brown paper lunch sack with a snack. I couldn't determine how my mom knew I needed to bring a snack. I questioned her. But when we got to snack time - yup she was right. However, Mrs. Stasik did have graham crackers for the kids whose parents did not know to bring a snack or had forgotten. I took a secret inner pride that my mom could be trusted - that she knew I needed to bring snack.

From the start - I learned the rules easily and was well behaved. My mom volunteered in the classroom and once a week she came in to help. She would sit at the desk beside me as I struggled to learn to read. I would sound out each syllable. By the time I reached the end of even short sentences - I had completely forgotten the start of the sentence - and I had no idea what it said.  Hot tears ran down my face. Frustration attacked me. I felt as though I would never be able to put an entire sentence together.

I was a perfectionist. The teacher told my mom I had the neatest printing in the entire class. Since it took me so long to write words and to read them -  I had trouble completing my class work. There were activity trays but I usually did not get to use them. There was a tray for cracking open walnuts and another for cutting up a carrot. The carrot tray actually had a dull knife. She gave us about two walnuts per month and she seemed quite annoyed when I accumulated a half-dozen because I never had time to crack them open.

 ____________________________________________

I firmly believe I inherited this quest for perfection from my parents. Here is the story. Sunday afternoon errands were a tradition in my family. After church my father would ask if we would “like to go for a ride.” It’s not like we had much of a choice. If we did errands it usually meant a lunch stop at Subway or McDonalds and we were hungry.

Both of my parents grew up in the Midwest, my father hailing from Colorado and my mother from Minnesota. My mom came from a large family. Her father was a farmer and she learned to ride a tractor before she could drive a car. She took the bus to school and it made her sick pretty much every day.

So when my parents went shopping for any major purchases such as a refrigerator, microwave, car, etc. they came armed with a pad of graph paper and a clipboard. My parents wanted to spend their money wisely and they were both very practical.  My  brother and I would wander aimlessly through the appliance store while my parents grilled the overzealous salesmen. I suppose this is part of why I am a sucker for items with the most value. I don’t necessarily need the item to be new or the top of the line model. I just need the item to be worth much more than I am paying for it.

Back to the point.... this was before the internet and my parents wanted to make good use of their money. Sometimes they had even gone to the local public library (before the Barnes and Noble) attempted to take over this role… and they had read the Consumer Reports Digest. This helped them narrow down what they were going to look at in the first place.

I knew the graph paper breakdown held the price, and the options of the given item – allowing my parents to dutifully conduct an in depth comparison later at the kitchen table. At least this is what I thought was occurring. I wasn’t really in on the process other than the being dragged around to several of what seemed like the same store. With kids this process definitely took more time.

I am certainly glad my parents were responsible with our finances and did not just purchase the first item they saw. However, I do wonder if sometimes they possibly carried the process a bit too far. I know I have. Somehow I have become a bit of a perfectionist. As long as I am going to do the research and make the effort, somehow I’ve unconsciously decided my effort must be perfect. Yes, there is nothing wrong with a quest for excellence, but there is also a little something called time management. Where I blow it is I complete the majority of the project which to most people they would decide “ I am done.” My downfall is I want it to be perfect. I don’t ever want to hassle with this item again. So I then spend way too much time tweaking the little items. Lets say I am editing a website for the organization I work for. They ask me to post several articles. I post the articles. I even throw in photos. But I will spend way too much time searching for the exact perfect image to go along with the article. Or I spend too much time on tweaking the size of print or the color of an item.  I completed the prokject, but in my quest for perfection --- I have wasted so much time! And the irony is that rarely do I view my finished article or project at the point which I would label it “perfect.” So now I have spent way too much extra time attempting to achieve something that is IMPOSSIBLE.

Did I mention that it is impossible to be perfect? Let me review: Here on earth, you will never be perfect! No matter how much you try – you won’t be perfect.

So I, being an imperfect person, am still somehow convinced that I can act or think perfectly or that I can create projects that are perfect. Yikes! What am I thinking. Sometimes I have to think really hard to remember that no matter how much I try – I WILL NOT BE PERFECT. It is soooo difficult for me to let some of these things go. But if I complete a project – then say to myself – okay I will let it sit a  couple days – and I can always make the time to make it perfect in the future – usually I will eventually let it go. Its just the initial dropping of it that is oooohhh so difficult.

Why this quest for perfection in certain things?

Fear! At work I don’t want to be fired. Am I competent. Yes. Did my boss recruit me? Yes. Did God put this job together especially for me? Yes. Have I seen God’s favor in this position? Yes. Then what is my problem? I don’t need to be perfect.

Way too often I let fear rule me. I am afraid that if my tax paperwork is not perfect - the IRS will come knocking on my door.  I am afraid that if I don't write down my thoughts clearly in an email or letter - that I will be misunderstood. And of course - I am afraid to fail. I am afraid my boss will be disappointed in my efforts or he will think I am not good enough for the position. Well honestly, he could tell me if this is what he thinks. The reality is that when I drop things for an hour – even just to go to lunch , and I return – I often have a better perspective. The web posting looks impressive “as is,” even though I was ready to do another 3 hours of tweaking on it.

God says a million times in the Bible “Do not fear!” Why am I supposed to not fear? “ I am with you.” God, the almighty protector, maker of all things, is with me and “Perfect love casts out all fear.” In Hebrews 13:5, He says “I will never leave you nor forsake you.”

So I was going to make this long list of reasons why I thought I had to be perfect – why I seem to have this problem… but it really comes down to fear. That is the only reason. That is the bottom line. Ouch!

One of the primary consequences of my perfectionism – which again- doesn’t appear in every aspect of my life… is procrastination.  Ouch again! If you could be a certified expert in this dysfunction, I’d receive the highest honors.  Again, the fear crops up. I am so afraid to finish things like reports or to make difficult decisions because I am afraid I am going to fail. My report will not be perfect. My decision will also not be perfect.

So I turn the job into a much bigger job than it needs to be. I start doing research. I ask everyone. I look on the internet. I carefully observe others in similar positions. I research the subject until I have thoroughly convinced myself into my own little certified expert. But, the research takes time. And again, I am not satisified with a reasonable amount of research. I must find every last tidbit of information that can contribute to my knowledge of the topic.

When I was assigned topical reports in grade school.. the first thing I would do was to immediately hit up the local public library. I would look up the topic, go to that section, and pull every possible book. I didn’t want to miss information that was available in one book but not the others. I would check out a stack of 17 books on the state of Colorado – although 3-4 might have easily been sufficient. I would hate to have been the other kid in my class who was assigned the same topic. I’d comb through the books to cull every relevant piece of information.

When the internet hit, it only further misaligned my love for research. I am a google fanatic. I love dogpile almost as much. I am convinced the internet has the answer for nearly all things. If you cannot find it on the internet – it likely doesn’t exist. I LOVE having the internet and on my phone.  I know the Bible seems outdated compared to these references.

Yet no matter how much research I do, my answers will never be complete. They can be enough, but they will never be complete. God tells me that on this earth we will only have partial knowledge. We will never know EVERYTHING. Yes, again I know this seems ridiculous, but those of us with a love for knowledge somehow do really think we can get SUPER CLOSE to knowing everything on a topic. But God says our knowledge here will always be incomplete.

Ack! What is the perfectionist to do? God tells me I am on a quest for something that is  impossible. I cannot be perfect!

As always, the good news is that although my knowledge will always be incomplete – God’s knowledge is COMPLETE. God’s knowledge is perfect. God by his very nature is perfect. He is consistent and reliable. His answers are not going to be correct part of the time or most of the time. His answers are correct ALL of the time. His answers are perfect.

If I really have this quest for perfection, then if I want the perfect answer, I need to come to God. Only God has the perfect answer. Any amount of research I can do… piles and piles and heaps of it – cannot even begin to compare to the knowledge of God. Any topic I can research on the internet – even if I could find every morsel of information – my research will still be lacking. I do not have the heavenly eyes of God.

The Lord says “My ways are not your ways. My thoughts are higher than your thoughts.”

So where does this leave the perfectionist? Oddly enough, I have decided God is the perfectionist. He is the one that takes us through the fires. He never does half the research and decides –yup, Amy is good enough as is. He is always tweaking and changing us – if we let him. God is the perfectionist. But he is also God.

The word HOLY means “perfect.” Who am I to think I am holy? God is HOLY.

So I c an relax. I don’t have to be perfect. But I do have the almighty Lord on my side who is perefect, and who loves me deeply. I can consult him anytime I want.

I know… I know… the internet still seems better. It is instant and  comes with entertainment and immediate gratification. Just like books, personal experience, education - there are all kinds of research methods. These are tools God provides for us.

As I mentioned, work is one of my big battle with perfectionism. So I conducted an experiment. One weekend I had a huge problem to solve which involved determining the best method of collecting fees for my organization. It sounds simple enough, but I did not mention the industry, that we are a non-profit with limited staff, we accept payment plans, have been stiffed before, etc.

I had procrastinated this project for months citing the amount of time I would need to research – to get the answer. The project finally hit the top of my list when the answer was needed urgently – literally by the following Monday. My gut reaction was to grab my cell phone and dial every contact in the industry and suck their brain dry for information. I perceived I’d be making 40 phone calls over the weekend – and the sheer quantity alone would bring the best answer to the surface.

Now I was looking forward to my weekend and really not wanting to make all those calls on my free time. I began to pray about this situation, about my big research project for work. God says to pray about all things. So I asked what I should do. Did He have a good answer? I was not really expecting God to list out the answer for me. This is a work project not a life or death matter or even a health or relationship difficulty. As I prayed, God led me to call a friend of mine – who did indeed have the answer in roughly a 15 minute conversation. I was shocked!

No matter how much research I could have done – I doubt I would have come up with the solution my friend presented to me. What if he had been my fortieth phone call? How much time could I have wasted?

I went to God first and I got the reward of getting what I believe to be the perfect answer. Obviously the experience isn’t even about the work project. The experience was about me learning to go to God first – to realize that my research is never complete – to trust God.

This is my freedom. If I no longer need to be perfect – I don’t need to procrastinate.

Chapter 3: Happy Nails

Flash forward to my mid – twenties. I’m parked at 7-11, one foot propped on the dash. The guys in the truck on my left are waving their hands trying to get my attention. But this is a parking lot where I don’t quite belong and logic questions why they are talking to me. I roll down my window and am pleasantly surprised. The guy in the passenger seat smiles and says “Hey, we like your toenails.”  I smile, thank him and decide pedicures are a justifiable expense.

________

I am on the phone with a close friend and I am still embarrassed. I have called to ask a specific question which easily lurks beyond my normal conversation. And because I feel stupid asking, I shove in lots of background information before I can manage the actual question. Words sputter quickly through my mouth. “Well, you know how I never dress very nice, and I don’t care and don’t know how to look decent if I tried… well…”

 “So you want me to tell you the one thing you could do to look girly? Do you want me to come over there and go on a shopping spree with you?”

“Well, that’s not what I called to ask, but okay tell me the one thing.”

“You should wear earrings. I don’t know if you like gold or silver, but I like hoops because they don’t catch on things. Mine are pretty big, but I’d say for you, a hoop the size, like the cap on a chapstick.”

“Yeah, I am definitely not a gold person. I like silver though. I used to wear earrings. Yeah I am not wearing hoops as big as yours, not that yours don’t look really good, but no way. Okay that is a good suggestion. I can do that.” I attempt to psyche myself up.

“You can do it,” says Tiffany. She is a neat friend, the type who acts as if this conversation is absolutely normal, despite the fact I am babbling as always, but making less sense than usual.

“So let me ask the question I called for. It’s good to know the earring thing though. That’s a good answer. I was going to get a manicure and pedicure but I don’t know what color to get.” That’s the huge mind bending question I called to ask.

She suggests I go with light yellow for my toes. Why? She says it is cute and people will notice, and then if they notice and ask why yellow, I just say, “It’s the color of the season.” Her friend Wendy, definitely the fashion connoisseur, told her this. I know Wendy just well enough to know this is true.

We go on to discuss whether it is a faux paux to paint your fingernails one color, and your toenails another, or if this is okay. She has no idea, which makes me feel slightly better that I am not a complete fashion disaster. I hang up with Susan, grateful for her ability to answer my questions yet leave my pride unharmed.

Part of my irrational fear is the following:  If I know something looks decent I wouldn’t have a problem looking decent in it, but I have little confidence in my ability to make this distinction. It is more embarrassing if you admit to putting in the effort to look nice and fail, than if you do not try at all. This attitude is not surprising, as my family has always adhered to the choice of least risk. Better to come away with your dignity than die trying.

Now what is the worst thing that could happen if I put on earrings or got my nails painted? The guys at work would make fun of me. However, as humiliating as this might be, I know it is not a reason that should prevent me from looking a little more girly.

I get in my car and drive until I locate a nail place. They are in every strip mall, but I wonder if I need an appointment or if I can just walk in.  I purposely choose a location far away from the nearby uppity neighborhood. No need to be more intimidated than I already am. I try to walk in the door of Happy Nails salon like I have been there before. I enter. Eyes look at me. I suspect I am the only person walking into Happy Nails who is nervous about soaking her feet in a spa, relaxing in a massage chair and having her hands and feet buffed and painted.  Not only have I never gotten a manicure and pedicure, but I never wanted one. My across the hall neighbor and impromptu fashion consultant, somewhat dared me, but I knew I could do it.

Happy Nails has a fifteen minute wait. In retrospect I realize I could have used this time to pick out a nail polish color, but I was hungry so I went to Subway for a sandwich. When I return, the other clients are busy reading or chatting and nobody looks at me like I am a freak. Why would I expect this?  I am not convinced I am the type of woman who looks as though she belongs here.

The type of woman who is allowed is my friend’s mom Susan. When she yanked me aside at Christmas and told me things I did not want to hear, how I had better start dressing as if I cared how I looked, I was scared and loved at the same time. She stated this topic would be an “ongoing conversation,” and I knew she was not kidding.

Ironically, my actual mother had been attempting this same “ongoing conversation,” with me, throughout my entire life. By junior high, she was a seasoned expert in shopping for clothes that could be a bit girly but were things I might actually wear. When soccer and basketball teams required v-neck or sleeveless jerseys, I always wore a t-shirt underneath. I felt naked in the three-inch triangle below where a normal collar covered, and was horrified at the idea of wearing a sleeveless basketball jersey.

Of course, every year of college provided at least one friend or roommate who desperately threatened to dress me up, curl my hair and force me to wear makeup. I never let them.

Now my feet are in the water, but my nail lady hasn’t turned on the spa, and I am not going to ask. I am still hoping to fade into the chair and vanish before this event concludes. I can handle the foot washing and buffing and I am almost fascinated by the process.

At one point, the nail lady whips out a metal instrument used to shave off dead skin. I’ve seen this in the athletic training room at college. Upon my approval, she goes at the bottom of my heels with the speed of an expert potato peeler. I am expecting her to hit live skin at any moment. I am preparing not to scream. I wonder what she would do if I did scream.

As a child, the dentist would advise me to raise my hand if I felt pain. Clever, but I would have preferred jumping out of the chair. During one filling, he accused me of scaring the other patients by screaming. Well if he had stopped scaring me, I would not have had to scare the other patients. 

Back in the massage chair, I have my cell phone on silent, yet find it clenched in my hand.
I realize I should have picked a nail color, but I don’t know how this works. I am having an internal panic about not only what color to choose, but also how stupid I feel that I don’t know what color to choose. I am definitely against fire engine red, and clear polish on my toenails seems like cheating. I am convinced the nail lady will think I am a complete fool because I don’t care what color she paints my nails. Isn’t this the point of the entire process?

As I determine how to answer, I slyly observe the other women, hoping to pick up some procedural tips. I notice everyone dries their toes under a special table and little fans. How long does this take? I should pay attention. I feel like a visitor at church when they are serving communion. Maybe you have taken communion most of your life or maybe never before, but in this church you don’t know when to stand up and sit down, whether to sip from the cup or dip your bread in the wine. You feel like everyone is watching you when you get in the wrong line or drink your little cup of wine before you are supposed to. Yet nobody really tells you what to do.

Soon this nice nail lady will be onto me. She’ll ask what color I want, and I won’t have the answer. And I will have to trust her with the reality of whether I leave looking ridiculous or not. What if I pick a bad color? Will she even tell me?

“Have you been here before?”
”No,” I admit. Now she has found me out. However, she can still assume I have had a manicure before, just not at this exact shop.

However, several minutes later her suspicions are confirmed. “What shape do you want?” she asks, and again I don’t have a normal answer. I do not even know what the choices are.
“What? Uh, whatever you think looks best. I will trust you.” Now she is filing both skin and nail.

At this point, the lady on my right glances over to see what woman is having her nails done, but doesn’t seem to care what they look like. She is reading a book and appears to be relaxed and enjoying her pedicure. She is probably a young housewife, not too fancy and not too plain. Her fingernails are chewed down and shorter than mine are. I don’t even know how people come up with the idea of biting their nails. If she can be here, so can I. Two chairs down an executive woman and her teenage daughter are also getting pedicures. I had hoped someone my age might be getting her nails done. I would strike up a friendly conversation and have some help picking a color. I should have forced a friend to come with me.

When I first walked in I must have been right behind the star customer, a tall late thirties brunette who appeared as though she visited often. She took her place in the first chair like a queen on her throne and a host of manicurists appeared to scrub, buff, and paint. She was clearly the type of woman who belongs here.

“What color do you want?”

I knew this question was coming and I wish I had some smart answer. I didn’t so I told the truth.

“I’m not sure....  nothing too bright, maybe a light purple. I was hoping you could help me.”

“Okay, I will help you.”

She darts over to the front display case and picks out three colors. One is pink and one is old lady mauve, neither of which I would prefer. The third is light purple, which will have to be the right color. She puts it on, and I am half a thought from telling her this will not work. Would I even know if I liked any color on my foot? Probably not. She is quick and I decide the color will be fine once it dries. If not, I can always take it off.

I am feeling good about surviving the foot part when she relocates me to the manicurist table. Again, I covertly study the woman beside me so I know what to do. The television is broadcasting news from her direction so this helps my undercover operation. I notice she has her credit card sitting on the table. I realize I need to take mine out of my pocket as well, because obviously I will not be able to do this once my nails are wet.

The next morning, on my way to work I really do pray nobody makes fun of me … especially the guys. Once a week we have an office staff meeting in which we tend to get bored and stare at each other. Someone is sure to notice my light purple toes and silver earrings. I literally pray that if the guys do make fun of me, I will have a smart comeback, or at the very least, one of the mother co-workers will tell me the color I picked is good. As you recall… I have no idea.

What I least desire to occur is something like the embarrassing fashion blunder I assess last weekend. I am at a street fair downtown, walking behind a middle-aged woman. She is wearing a white tank top that is all I notice, because entangled in her hair is the price tag, still attached on the plastic piece. It is dangling out the back of her shirt and reads something like Old Navy $8.50. Should I get her attention and advise her of this oversight? I decide she has probably been walking around several hours, and for me to tell her now, surely she will be embarrassed. If she goes home later and takes off the shirt, she can still wonder if the tag was sticking out all day. However, she could also assume the tag was tucked in.

I arrive at my job, and a miraculous thing occurs. We have a busy day and none of the guys say anything. One of the women says she likes the color. Okay, now I am glad I chose to wear sandals instead of tennis shoes to hide my toes. (Work is pretty casual dress when you are a soccer coach…) Getting ready for work that morning I had rationalized if I was going to get teased, I should take the heat all at once. All I have to do is act like this is normal for a couple days and then it will be normal.

I feel compelled to report back to a few friends regarding this whole personal experiment. They are thrilled, and say things like: “Who is the guy?”  I’m just happy they don’t laugh at me.

“Isn’t a pedicure supposed to be relaxing?” asks one.

“Yeah, but it just wasn’t, because I felt weird being there. You know me.”

“I totally understand. I feel weird going to get my hair cut at the beauty salon.”

“Really? Are you serious?” I ask.

“Yeah, it’s intimidating because I don’t go there very often and it’s so fancy.”

“Really?”

I cannot believe what I am hearing. This conversation comes from a recently married friend who is beautiful, has a handsome husband, always looks nice, and is respected and successful in her line of work. I never imagined her being intimidated by anything related to beauty.

I email Susan, the driving force behind the whole “looking nice is crucial to my social and mental well being.”  It is difficult to type when my arms keep crossing due to my resistance. I try to convey the entire event; to explain in fifty words or less that I have cleared this major hurdle, I feel good about it, and she has been huge to encourage me.  I tell her that yes, she was right and I am glad she pushed me, but she had better have some patience in the future.

Now I am okay with having my nails painted and wearing earrings, but I still fear the day someone calls me into that cable TV show “What Not to Wear.” The hosts provide the unsuspecting victim with $5,000 and some “rules,” and send them out to shop for better clothes. But first, the fashionably clueless guest has been secretly filmed. This step is so we the audience, can see why he or she has been nominated to receive this windfall of personal shopping assistance. I imagine what they would think if they were to catch me. So on occasion I check over my shoulder to make sure there is no cameraman in the bushes.

I am afraid of being called out, via TV or God himself. I am not comfortable hearing “You are beautiful.”  Beautiful is a word tacked to flower arrangements, Mozart concertos and sunsets on the beach. I fall more safely into the framework of athletic or unique, descriptions unrelated to any parts of the female anatomy that guys are attracted to.

I convinced myself I didn’t care. Beauty was for the other girls, the ones that guys liked.  Now it has taken much effort by friends and this “ongoing conversation,” to begin undoing the world’s lies.   I finally realize I haven’t missed any secret classes on becoming a woman. And I know I am not alone.  I know there are other women, in fact most, who question exactly the same things. 

I know God is God. I know He knows I am uncomfortable in my own skin… or at least I was. I am making progress. I’ve moved one notch forward on the continuum…gone from being uncomfortable in my skin to being uncomfortable in my clothes. We’ll save that for another chapter…