Mrs Metaphor

I stumbled upon this blog a few days ago. I don’t know what drew me there because I have never sold Mary Kay Cosmetics, nor have I purchased them. (If you read my recent post about the “spa day” on here then you’d probably figure out that I am a fairly low maintinence type who rarely wears make up and treats her skin horribly.)

I keep asking myself why I spend so much time at MKS. It’s like a club, really, which keeps attracting new members each day I am there. This week they are doing a series on whether or not Mary Kay fits the description of a cult. It does seem to hit some of those qualities but of course so do many of the organized churches in our fair country so it’s hard to say how it matters really.

Perhaps that is my question. What is it that matters here? I am so intruiged by the dynamics of this blog. One moment the participants are discussing their level of experience with the organization, which is very impressive. This is not simply a group of disgruntled ex-employees, part timers, people who wanted something for nothing. From what I can gather it is a diverse group, some still in the organization, some even at high levels. The next moment the whole thing deteriorates into a “fashion don’ts” list aimed at specific upper level people. The comments that follow are relentless and build one upon another. It’s sad really how a train rolls down the tracks, seemingly out of control, carreening downhill and instead of people jumping off, they are actually jumping “on.”

But I don’t think this is because these women are mean spirited or bitchy. I think it is because they are angry and hurt. Many of the posts bring forth such a degree of injury it’s almost hard to read. I felt compelled to offer encouragement and forgiveness. There are many things in the world that seek to work against women. We are cursed with the delusion that beauty is all and that we are not worthy, not good enough, not beautiful enough, not smart enough. I find this to be very disturbing, watching these women tear each other down as they tear themselves down in the process.

It makes sense though, their anger, their hurt. When you read their stories and see the expanse of the lies, the deception and the cost it does begin to make sense. The critics of the site talk often about these women being bitter and feeling sorry for themselves. Some of this is true. They are bitter, because they’ve been injured and not treated well. Their wounds were not given the proper salve to heal so they lie open and painful. The critics of this site might say that these women are a small representation of the company as a whole. I say that this makes no difference. The women who post there are still real and true. Their experience is still theirs and their pain still present. Is it not still the calling of those who profess Jesus as Messiah to look upon them with grace and love? Someone asked me in a post at a Pro MK site if they were supposed to just ignore the insults and barbs thrown at them and I say, Yes…yes, you are because that is what is asked of us.

I think there are many out there, still very committed to Mary Kay, who see this blog as some sort of threat to them. I cannot understand that, although I am trying. I have the impression from another blog I discovered that this battle has been going on for quite some time. They, also have been injured in the fray. They too, still smart from the verbal grenades thrown over their fence. The visual that comes to me around this however is one of the upper echelon sitting back and counting cash while the lower levels scramble and argue and without really knowing what the real fight is about.

Since I have no real insight into the workings of the company I can only speculate as I continue to watch and learn. I hope that I can do so with some honor and without having the urge to put on lipstick.

I thought we were at the “mall” to go to story time at a bookstore. It’s an odd choice for me, seeing that I despise malls but my friend wanted to meet there so off we went. I had all the brood with me and was just beginning to get very nasty looks from the “concierge” (the concierge? at the mall?) because 2 of my boys were slashing at silk plants with their swords. I shouted loudly to my friend, “Hurry! They’re going to call the police if our children don’t stop attacking the plants!” and laughed heartily.

Then my husband showed up. He was going to the Mac store there and pulled me aside. “There is something I want to show you. Come with me.” I left my kids with my friend in the mall and walked with him into a swanky store and the first thing I thought was “Dear God, I hope he doesn’t want to buy my a birthday present in here. Eek, not me a’tall. But he did want to buy me a gift there because apparently in the back of the store is a very swanky spa. He walked to the woman and said, “We’re here for an appointment.”

Awestruck, I just looked at them converse about the plans and they led me back into the corridors and instructed me where to remove my clothes and put on a robe. “What, exactly, am I here for?” asked I. They were a little stunned. “You don’t know?” “I didn’t even know we were coming here” said I.

I was set up for a 90 minute massage, a manicure, a facial and a pedicure…a little overwhelming considering I barely have time to take a shower most days…this day, in fact, I was in need of one!

So I took my 90 minute massage. I like massage, this I can do, thought I. Then on to a facial. Um, not my thing. A very nice Eastern European woman took me into a small room, her first question being, “when was your last facial.” Not, have you EVER had a facial or is this your FIRST facial…which it might has well have been for me. It’s probably been 13 years since the one I had at a beauty school around the corner from our house back then. She massaged my face, exfoliated, creamed, exfoliated again, rubbed and prodded which was fine, but then she said, “Now, we remove the blackheads.” Which sounded rather foreboding…and it was.

I’m not sure of the impliment of torture used because I had my eyes closed but let me just say that it was painful, very. Add to this the commentary from the nice woman doing the torture, “My, you have a lot of these” and “Oh my, what will we do HERE?” So I said, “Well you could SKIP that area…” to which she laughed. I was not even kidding.

I survived the torture though and she was apologetic. My skin felt sort of slimey because of the abundant moisturizer but she kept saying that now my skin was “clean” so I guess that’s good.

I moved on to the pedicure which was awesome. God love the person who put together this idea of the pedicure. Being a bit ticklish it was only difficult for a moment during the scrub down of the heels but other than that I’ll take someone massaging my feet and painting my toenails ANY day.

It was during the last part, the manicure that I began to feel really odd about the whole thing. On one level I felt so honored that my husband would take the time and energy to plan it all out and execute it without my knowing. Birthday “presents” in the past 13 years have been a little lacking to say the least. I’ve never been one for traditional gifts, though. One year all I really wanted was affirmation, a few words like, “You’re doing great with the kids” or “You look nice today.”

But during the manicure we moved out of the spa area and into the swanky store, me in my favorite tee shirt, baseball cap and my rolled up Gap jeans, showing my hairy legs and spa flip flops. I’m sitting amongst designer perfumes and bags which were circled by high maintenance looking women with expensive looking taste. I just kept thinking, “I don’t belong here, I don’t want to belong here.” So when the lovely woman doing the manicure started chatting with me I spent the time asking about her. We talked about how long she had been in the United States from Viet Nam, we talked about her little boy who is 19 months old. She showed me pictures, he is adorable and I told her so. She beamed. When her next appointment showed up 15 minutes early and shot looks over at her because the manicurist was not able to take her yet, I talked about how I didn’t feel I belonged there and I expressed to her my gratitude for that moment.

She was very taken with this. She said, “You do deserve to be cared for.” And I knew she was right, but not like this really.
Still, I am thankful for that day but mostly I was happy to come home and clean up the chaos that happened in my absence. I felt cared for AND valuable. I was happy that my husband was pleased with his efforts, that he knew I was thankful. I was happy that my children came running back up to me and wanted my attention. I was thankful for the cards they made for me during my time away.

I think it would be very good if I could see that each day I deserve to be cared for…that I AM precious and valuable. Perhaps I won’t need to have a “spa day” or a month of verbal affirmation then. Wouldn’t that be amazing?

I had this thought last year around my birthday. I thought that birthdays for me ought to be like little Easters, mini rebirths, restoration to life after a year of death. I thought that perhaps what I ought to do is take some time to reflect on my year and see how life has unfolded for me, see how God has worked in my life, see how I have changed and how I have stayed the same.

This past year I have been too quick to anger, prone to rage and childish behavior. I have been a hurricane, unpredictable and damaging. I would like to find myself healed of this. I would like to wake up one day and see that the sky has cleared, that I no longer have this tendancy.

But sometimes I think I spend too much time trying to find ways to change the things I do not like about myself and not enough time thinking about the things I don’t want to change. I think I have a quick wit, a sly sense of humor that is rooted in stating the unstated obvious things. I love when someone laughs at a joke I’ve made.

I like telling stories each night to my children. I like how they jump into the fray of it and come up with outrageous additions to our tales, even when some of the suggestions involve characters from Star Wars, a current favorite at our house.

I saw a great deal of loss this year. Two friends dying of breast cancer, a daughter of a friend (7) dying of leukemia, my “second mother” from my childhood passing away, a move far from my home of 18 years and yet, amidst this I have found time to see the leaves fall from the trees, seen Great Blue Heron’s flying low across the small river near our home, seen just how muddy four small children can get with a yard of mud and began to understand the value of silence.
Perhaps when I wake up tomorrow and have my birthday I will end my day of reflection with the eyes of someone looking forward in hope and gratitude. I hope so.

Prone to wander
Lord I feel it
Prone to leave this God I love.
Take my heart Lord
Take and seal it
Seal it for Thy courts above.

I heard a story about this hymn, written by Robert Robinson:
There is a well-known story of Robinson, riding a stagecoach with a lady who was deeply engrossed in a hymnbook. Seeking to encourage him, she asked him what he thought of the hymn she was humming. Robinson burst into tears and said, “Madam, I am the poor unhappy man who wrote that hymn many years ago, and I would give a thousand worlds, if I had them, to enjoy the feelings I had then.”

I know this word, wandering…I feel myself wandering through the house, the grocery store. This feeling of not quite knowing where one is going but moving anyway. What is it about those of us who are “prone to wander?” When I hear that line sung I usually am brought to tears. “Prone to leave this God I love” Why do we wander away from those we love? What does it look like for us to close our eyes and breathe, just for a moment and then take and seal our hearts for things higher?

It fluttered down, silent. This red-gold messenger, this newly enlisted harbinger. I watched as it glided without words, recruiting others, spinning and tossed til they touched the tips of the grass below. “There is something,” thought I. “Something new.”

And so, I began to write. A change of season, a time for something new.

Because things come to me in visuals, because everything is connected, because often I see those connections I became Mrs Metaphor.

In this leaf, this sign of change, of death and rebirth, hope becomes real in the spring of the day.