“It’s simple,” my friend said. “You just sign up on the Web, and you’ll find out how our friends from high school are doing!”
Strangely, twenty-five years this side of graduation, it sounded fun. What was I thinking?!
My post-high school world crumbled when my first Internet contact came from an old boyfriend, Rick. We dated when he was the soccer team captain and I was a perky cheerleader.
And now? Now my little toe couldn’t fit in those hip-hugging, patch-adorned bell-bottoms I used to wear.
Get the picture?
Not many days after that, the phone rang and…it was him!
“Yes, it’s so nice to hear from you, Rick," I lied. "Oh? You’re coming to town? Yes, I would love to see you and meet your family! When? Next month?!”
(Dear Lord, open the earth and swallow me up now!) “Sure!”
NOT!
Please understand I wasn’t panicking because he was my old boyfriend. And I did want to see him. I just didn’t want him to see me.
As I hung up the phone, I wondered how much weight I could lose in one month if I stopped eating altogether.
I was acutely aware that in many people’s minds, being overweight is a sign of failure. God had spent many long hours with me on this very subject. Only recently had I learned about letting go and letting God, as the old saying goes. At the time of Rick's call, I was happily kicking insecurity's invisible fanny out of my life.
Now, I looked in the mirror to see if the situation was really as bad as it seemed. Insecurity’s miserable face was staring back at me.
“Rick isn’t even going to recognize me!" I said to no one in particular. "He's going to be embarrassed that he ever dated me… He and his family will never get to know the real me in such a short visit…”
On and on it went. However, my thoroughly un-jealous "loves-me-just-as-I-am" husband, John, was totally comfortable with the whole situation.
Over time, I began to think, Y’know, I was a cheerleader and I gained this much weight. Maybe he’s gained some, too, and we can just have a good laugh about it.
That idea was nixed the day that photos of his family arrived via cyberspace. The snapshots revealed a beautiful wife and daughter, a football player son, and a Rick who was still playing soccer…and was still a hunk.
Rah…rah…rah….sis. . . boom. . .Whaaaaaaah!
I warned him on the phone. “I’m not the person I used to be,” I said nervously.
He chuckled reassuringly and said, “None of us are.”
Ha! Easy for him to say!
The dreaded day arrived. I hadn’t lost an ounce. When it came time to get dressed, I turned to my fashion-conscious daughter, Kailey, for help.
Pulling outfit after outfit out of my closet, I asked, "Which one makes me look best?"
All the while, I searched for a way to explain to my ten year-old how hard it is to meet with old friends who might think you're a failure because you hadn’t "preserved" well.
We finally settled on a lime green silk blouse and slenderizing black pants. I knew shoulder pads were “out,” but I decided the blouse needed them. Those little rescuers riding on my shoulders helped to counterbalance my hips!
When we met Rick and his family in a local restaurant, as expected, Rick looked right through me, never imagining I was his former sweetheart. But after I waved him down and we had a good laugh, Rick introduced me to his buffo family.
After being seated, we entered into lively conversation. For some unexplainable reason, normally-independent Kailey chose this moment to cling to me. She rested both hands on my shoulder, and then stroked them down along my arms. After repeating this exercise many times, it felt as though my blouse was twisted in five or six directions.
I decided it was time to check on those shoulder pads. I casually draped my right hand on my left shoulder, Garbo style. It wasn’t there! I moved my hand ever so discreetly down my arm. It wasn’t there, either!
Rats! I began to panic. It’s probably sticking out of my neckline!
Keeping eye contact, and stroking my chin as though intensely interested in the upbeat conversation happening a mere two feet away, I slowly moved my fingertips across my v-neckline.
It’s…not…there! I tried to control the creeping panic rising within. Where could it be?!…. No…it couldn’t be… I knew I had to check, but how could I, without being noticed? The oldies tune flashed across my mind: Slip slidin’ away…
I stole a glance down at my chest. There was the renegade shoulder pad-- stretched across my left bosom like a two-inch thick, super-sized Band-Aid!
Oh, to be invisible! I knew I couldn’t just stand up and dash out. I patiently waited for a lull in the conversation, my hand searching my face for a bump, a mole, anything to pick at, so that my arm would cover my Band-Aided bosom.
At last, the lull arrived, and I nonchalantly sashayed to the bathroom. I picked up speed the closer I got to the ladies room.
Blustering in the door, I studied my form in the mirror. Yup, there it appeared. One side of my bosom was an entire Sears Catalog-width larger than the other. I began to giggle, which turned into a snort and then a belly laugh.
With gusto, I reached inside my blouse, yanked the perpetrator out and slammed-dunked it into File Thirteen. With pleasure!
And I enjoyed the rest of my evening, even after I had cried all my makeup off by guffawing in the water closet.
Why is it that though I am happily married, and had become a confident, contributing member of society, I was still quite capable of becoming a half-wit when an old friend showed up? I reverted to a silly school girl, overly concerned with such a temporal thing as looks.
(This is not to say I am championing a new ban on shoulder pads or anything else that makes us look better. As my loving brother always says, “If the barn needs painting, paint it!”)
However, I am championing the goal of putting our confidence and trust completely in God . . . and leaving them there!
It’s true I am no longer the 12th grade cheerleader with long blond hair and “abs of steel." It’s also true that I am a forty-something woman who has added an entire extra person to my hips, and yes, I don’t always have my act together.
But I want to now take those “truths” about myself and hand them over to God. I want to experience His peace, His approval, and His perspective on it all. I long to realize, and thoroughly accept, that I can dare to be me …the one and only.
Doesn’t God have a great sense of humor? He showed me my insecurities, in the shape of a shoulder pad. What a ridiculous object to plant my security on! Especially when I realize whom I should be relying on: my God, the One who makes me truly unique…just as I am.
With or without shoulder pads.
I love autumn in Texas. After a summer of perspiring through all my t-shirts, I breathe a sigh of relief as temperatures cool, school supplies go on sale, and the days begin to shorten. I take out my flannel pajamas—hoping to use them by Christmas. And I wait for the real highlight of the season to begin.
Each night as I lay in bed, visions dance in my head—not of sugarplums, but of greasy corndogs and Frito pies. I dream of high school marching bands flitting around fifty-yard lines.
That’s right, fall in Texas is all about two words—foot and ball.
However, even while I’m salivating at the thought of concession stand goodies, my unique “not a sports fan” husband flips through the television channels. He tries desperately to find one station that hasn’t lengthened its sports coverage by thirty minutes (it really irks him, too, that they rename the sports section of the news and give it a separate theme song). “What IS it with these people?” Carey asks.
He forgets that I am one of them. I try to be civil as I explain to Carey the hold that football has on my home state. However, his brain—which has been warped by drinking one too many glasses of sweet tea--can’t quite wrap around it.
My dear hubby simply doesn’t understand the thrill inherent in Friday-night games full of talented coaches, cornerbacks and cheerleaders (okay, so he gets that last one). Maybe it comes from too many nights spent on smelly school buses when he was a high school trumpet player. Perhaps he still sees football from a band member’s perspective: the game is too long and the athletes are snotty to the band nerds.
And then I try to explain the concept of “The Homecoming Game.” You see,
in Texas, a gal lives for the moment she gets asked to her first Homecoming football game. In a state known for burly men, big hair, and beauty queens, this special night combines it all into one gigantic, gaudy package.
The festivities begin with a week of pre-game activity at all the local schools. Students have spirit contests for locker and hall decorating, dress in crazy costumes, and put on bonfires and parades (okay, so the parade consists of a streamer-strewn bicycles, souped-up hot rods and rickety trailers covered with crepe paper and balloons—it’s still a parade, people!). All week long, high school students talk about who they’re voting for as Homecoming Queen—and who they’re taking to the after-game dance.
My junior year, I told my buddy Chad I would go with him on one condition—that he didn’t spend a lot of money on a mum. In Texas, boys buy corsages as big as an oil mogul’s ten-gallon hat (called “mums”) for their dates, and the girls reciprocate with a gift of a garter (the kind single guys clamor for after weddings). But these aren’t just any old works of floral craftsmanship, mind you.
Under the mums and garters are streamers full of sparkly stickers, miniature cowbells, football helmets, feathers, and even a number of “extras”—including twinkle lights and music boxes. The biggest mums can set guys back hundreds of dollars.
I knew I didn’t want a friend spending that kind of money on me. And because Chad wasn’t someone I was trying to impress, I even decided to go with a homemade garter for him. I affixed all sorts of little goodies to it with staples (this was before hot glue became my weapon of choice).
I was quite proud of myself when I looked at the finished product. I had saved a few bucks, and it still looked nice. Chad would be none the wiser—or so I thought.
However, by the second quarter of the game, I observed that the garter was looking a little peaked. By the third quarter, things completely unraveled. After a few moments, we were covered with glitter, feathers and staples. It looked like we had been attacked by a Vegas chicken.
”Wow, I hope you didn’t spend a lot on this,” he finally said. “Whoever made it for you sure didn’t do a very good job.”
I mumbled something about “you sure don’t get much for your money these days.” Then I excused myself to go to the bathroom, where I laughed and cried for several minutes.
I should have told Chad the truth that night. Years later, I’m ashamed and embarrassed that I didn’t.
Since then, I’ve been known to cut corners a few other times in my life (just ask my husband!). I tend to drive too fast, seldom dust and usually don’t have back-up plans when things might go wrong.
I also hate to say it, but I tend to try and maintain my friendships with emails and short phone calls. That’s better than not communicating, but it’s not the best way to encourage others to invest in a long-term relationship. If I’m not putting the time in, why should they?
I even cut corners spiritually. Instead of spending thirty minutes with God each day, I sometimes try to keep my spiritual life going on “Help, Lord!” prayers and five-minute devotional readings, sandwiched in between phone calls, church activities, and pediatrician appointments. And while I know my relationship to God is not based on performance, I also know that I’m the one who misses out when I choose that sort of drive-through approach to spirituality.
So I’m making a resolution this football season: to try to quit cutting corners in the important areas of my life. I may not dust a lot more this year, but I want to give people (and the Lord) the quality time and attention they deserve. Pray for me, will you? I’m gonna need it!
And just so you know, my Homecoming story is not without a happy ending. I think I changed the course of Chad’s life. Recently, I was reading a local magazine that featured prominent business people, and Chad was one of them. And I promise I’m not making this up: the person I shared those “football follies” with is now (drumroll, please) . . . a florist.
I guess mum’s the word.
