Okay-some things you SHOULD give women for Christmas; and some things you SHOULD NOT give women for Christmas. I received many, many nice gifts on Christmas. My sister, for instance, made me two different hand knitted blankets for movie watching in our basement. I also received an oil thermometer, one of those nagging things I’d wanted to get but never made a special trip to head out for. My third son bought me a wonderful coffee mug with a big old rooster on it:
“Because you have a rooster on the table and you said your Grandma had roosters in her kitchen”.
And my husband, my dear, dear husband did a wonderful job this year with his selection of things he knew I wanted and a nice mixture of surprises. There was a Santa for my collection, a much needed massage, a Starbucks gift card and a new set of knives by Henkel (really good chef’s knives). There was just one little thing I could have lived without this year that my husband bought me, and unfortunately it was something I’d wanted.
On the occasion of my last birthday I asked my husband to buy me a new, lighted, make-up mirror for a gift. All things being equal, and because my husband cannot stand when I tell him what to do, I received this great lap top I’m now using for my blog. It was a wonderful surprise, but was not what I needed to put on my makeup in the morning. Being a man who learned a long time ago that:
“If momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”
I was thrilled on Christmas morning to open my brand new makeup mirror. Not only did he get the mirror, he got the mirror that magnifies everything in its path by 10 times. At first, I didn’t even think about the impact of seeing portions of my face ten times larger than the way God intended it to be seen. After all, I have nice skin. I’ve only gained a few happy lines on my face these past 10 years. I also didn’t mind that the “light” was supposed to brilliantly light everything in its path so that nothing in the making up process would go unnoticed. Here’s what I didn’t anticipate. That first time I turned on the blaring white light that seemed to make the sun look darker, and pulled my face up toward the mirror to look at myself.
“Oh My God!” I screamed. “Who the hell is THAT and where did all that HAIR come from?”
I mean my lightly haired little area over my lip now looked like it belonged to a tenor in the Wild West barbershop quartet. Every single hair was illuminated and magnified including my nose hairs that I hadn’t really paid attention to before. My cute little smile lines that I proudly proclaimed were a testimony to my happy life, looked like fissures in the Grand Canyon nestled in between boulder sized blackheads. As I placed my hand to my face in disbelief, I saw how torn and awful my cuticles were. My fingertips looked like they’d been through some ancient torture technique. I couldn’t escape the dang thing. Everywhere I turned I was again met with the explosion of my real self. All of a sudden my merry little Christmas morning transformed into a scene from some Twilight Zone episode where Rod Sterling was telling me
“You cannot adjust the picture in your mirror—you have entered the Twilight Zone.”
I would love to say the story ends there and that I was smart enough to put the mirror away and not face myself in such magnified terms; however dear reader, I cannot. While the rest of the family sat downstairs after gifts were opened, playing with their new cameras, game boy games and Hungry, Hungry Hippos; I was upstairs with my hair pulled back frantically plucking. In fact I was up there for so long that my husband came up.
“What are you doing dear, it is time to stop.”
“I’ve just got a few more to get” I said, like an addict with a needle.
“Honey,” he said, “you’ve only got half an eyebrow left.”
“I know,” I said “but at least it’s even now”.
I’ve got a meeting with my new boss tomorrow. She’s a girl, she’ll understand when I show up with a swollen upper lip, no eyebrows and tissues packed up my nose from over plucking.
Ahhh, the price of beauty.
Parenting Tip of the Day:
If you do a Christmas letter, address one to each child and put it in their memory box. I always write a note to each boy telling them their height and weight and teachers name. It’s a quick way to let them remember what was going on in their lives as the years pass along. I suspect their wives will appreciate it when they get married.