I Love Christmas Shopping

“Neither fortune nor position can shut out the awareness that the possessor lacks so much else,” said Huston Smith.  He probably said this while in a shopping mall, or at least this his how I feel when I walk through stores about this time.

My best strategy is to avoid the mall.  As long as I stay home, I’m happy with my wardrobe, my gadgets and my homemade coffee (really, I can make better coffee than Starbucks).  But it’s December, and I must risk wandering into that den of thieves in hopes of leaving with a few holiday gifts for my loved ones.

I Love Christmas Shopping

I genuinely love Christmas shopping.  It is the most guilt free of spending sprees because, unlike my usual selfish mall excursions, it is all in the name of generosity.  There is, however, the issue of funds.  This winter finances have been tight, and initially I was in despair about how I’d be able to afford gifts.  I took this in prayer to Jesus, and he gave me two answers: work overtime and sell stuff.

In a year of an insane production schedule, this has been the maddest two months at the factory.  Getting overtime was easy.  Meanwhile, my Varage Sale app got a workout as I sold everything that wasn’t tied down: clothes that are too big now, paintings, a set of books.  I have some bankroll to play with now.  I shop sales and get creative.

Christmas Sacrifices

The concept of sacrifice has become more real to me as I’ve prepared for Christmas.  A sacrifice is “an act of giving up something valued for the sake of something else regarded as more important or worthy” (New Oxford American Dictionary).  That is my reality as I shop.

My first sacrifice was to sell a set of books that I actually wanted to keep.  I knew they’d sell, and they were gone in a few hours.  The second sacrifice was working a Saturday when I was already exhausted from a busy week.  This week I also worked instead of sleeping, or going for a midweek run.

This is likely no more than many parents make for their kids on a daily basis.  But these small sacrifices prove gifts are a lot more than just the object: behind them is a sacrifice of money, the time that it took to earn that money, the time and gas money it took to go to the mall and pick it out, and also the loving thought that made them choose it for you.  I’m not trying to make a martyr of myself here, but rather to put that image in our minds when someone puts a gift in our hands.

The idea of sacrifice makes the gifts seem lavish, whatever their size.

Dangerous Shopping

Christmas shopping can be beautiful, but there is a dark side that I see in myself, and in Canadian culture as a whole. Have you seen those TV adds where they urge “get this for yourself?”  You deserve a new tablet, a new outfit, a new minivan (who buys a minivan as a gift?!).

I admit that I see fifty things I want for every five gift ideas I spot.  Today it was the espresso maker that I eyed up at Canadian Tire (which, for my international friends, sells a great deal more than tires), and the hat at the clothing store.  I bought neither.  Yay me.  Other times I haven’t been so self-controlled.  I remember remarking last year, “It seems my shopping trip is incomplete if I don’t find something for myself,” even in it’s just an Americano from Starbucks.  It’s downright disturbing how generous I am to myself–far more generous than I am to my family.

This idea of ‘self-gifting’ could suck the life right out of Christmas giving.  It takes this act of generosity and spins it right back to selfishness.

It’s not about me.  It’s not about me. It’s not about me.

As I peruse the shining shelves of the mall, I keep repeating to myself, “It’s not about me.  I’m not shopping for me.”

Which is not to say that come Boxing Day I won’t be back in the store shopping the sales for myself.

But for now I get heady doses of enjoyment out stashing shopping bags in my closet, buying scotch tape and gift boxes, and anticipating Christmas morning when my family will get the treasures I picked for them.  Each box and bag represents something I gave up for them.  I hope it reminds me of the ultimate Christmas generosity: Jesus gave up the luxury and acclaim of heaven so he could be Emmanuel, ‘God with us.’

Enjoy your Christmas shopping. 🙂

 

Mind Altering Drugs at the Mall

I think they must gas us at the mall–spray us with some mind-altering substance.  I went in feeling great about myself, and now I feel like a slob.

I smelled something strong around the Abercrombie and Fitch.  I thought it was cologne or the scent of those special people who can actually wear Abercrombie.  But now I know what it was: drugs.

Nothing is right anymore.

My shoes don’t match my bag, and they don’t go right with these jeans.  That doesn’t matter, because the jeans are saggy around the butt so they must go.  I will slip into a pair of these hundred-dollar jeans and then all shall be well.  My t-shirt doesn’t hug my curves right, so I’ll trade it for another.  I’ll drop a hundred bucks on jewelry.  I’ll buy new makeup, I’ll…!

Collapse at Starbucks, exhausted and broke.

The coffee soothes my nerves and washes away the drugs.  I see myself for what I am: a foot-sore consumer among thousands.  No one is looking at my clothes.  No one is looking at my hair.  They are busy looking at themselves, and their saggy jeans, and their outdated shoes.

Where has my reason gone?  Wasn’t I a fiscally responsible, ‘un-shallow’, free-spirited person just yesterday?  How did I get swept into this?

Drugs, I tell you.  They alter your mind.

So I sip my iced coffee and I resolve to smile bigger, to greet the sales people with more enthusiasm, to thank them for their help, to move with grace and peace, and mostly, to slow down–to stop this frantic acquiring and actually enjoy myself.  It may be the only way I stand out in the crowd.

 

Mother’s Day is from Venus

“He says, ‘You’re not my mother,’” she said as I rang up her stack of clothes. That was why she was buying her own Mother’s Day gift. Her husband wasn’t going to be buying one.

Her kids, well, I dunno.

That was just the first. I kept hearing it: “I’m going to go buy some flowers, since my husband won’t be.” “I’m buying my own Mother’s Day gift.” Etcetera.

Granted, these were far outweighed by the daughters buying clothes for their moms, the little girl with the long blond hair, who came running in to pick out a necklace with her daddy, and the sheepish husbands buying gift cards, who’d never be caught dead in a women’s clothing store for any other occasion (except Christmas, when they come in droves—sheepish droves).

But I found the whole scenario rather pathetic.

Some Men Have Dropped the Ball, Here

I’d never say that all men MUST buy their wives Mother’s Day presents. You’ve got to take budget into account, and specifically, the love-language of the wife. Not everyone receives, or gives love the same way. Some prefer quality time, acts of service, physical affection or affirming words over gifts.

So if gifts aren’t her thing, well, they aren’t her thing.

But clearly these ladies would have enjoyed a gift, so…

Fail.

Women Are Lousy Communicators

I’m tempted to say that the men are at fault. I mean, if they just knew their wives, they would have known she wanted a gift.

Give them a break.  I’m not very old, but I’ve already learned that it doesn’t work that way.

I’ve stood in the kitchen with my brother and my Mom said, “This needs to go downstairs.” I heard “please take this downstairs,” and my brother heard “this needs to go downstairs.”

I carried it downstairs.

I’ve been thoroughly pissed, ready to cheerfully wring someone’s neck. And my male boss and coworkers never picked up on the steam coming from my ears. But at least they didn’t ask me why I was crying… or maybe they just didn’t notice.

They don’t know, okay? (As a qualifier, I’m not a man, and I could be wrong. Correct me if I am).

Women are LOUSY at communicating expectations.  I actually am a woman, so I think I can say this with some certainty.  We speak in subtexts and hints and only one in ten is ever picked up.  But, like Einstein’s definition of insanity, we keep on trying the same thing over and over, expecting different results.

Still, the guy who told his wife “you’re not my mother” passed up on a simple opportunity to make his wife happy.  The investment probably would have paid off in droves–you know what they say: ‘happy wife, happy life’.

So, still a fail. Big fail.

But my favourite image of the day is that of the tall young Dad with tattoos, and the little girl with the streaming blond hair perching on his knee while picking out a necklace. Her brother stood alongside, also debating what to get. Finally the daughter picked out a silver pendant. After much discussion, the dad and son decided to go with gift cards. His wife will not have to buy her own Mother’s Day gift.

A Fat Girl’s Guide to Fashion Freedom

Because learning to dress myself was only the beginning.

They were white, with purple and pink roses. No wonder I still remember them. I doubt those hand-me-down sweatpants were ever stylish, but I rocked them. When I was six I wore what I liked. Purple and pink were my favourite colours, so I wore them together, along with every barrette in my arsenal. I even had this splendid set of pearl earrings (clip-ons), which I would wear to church and embarrass my mother. Those were the carefree days, where I didn’t even stop to consider what people thought of my clothes. Would that I could go back.

Or not.

Bellbottoms, or flares, were coming into fashion as I was entering my teen years. Pants, with flared-out legs so wide that you could park my little car under them, were paired with platform shoes—the clunkier the better. And I had neither.

When my birthday rolled around, I took my birthday money and bought a pair of black flares with white stripes down the side. They were haute. I wouldn’t be caught dead in them today, but I was twelve, and anxious to fit in. I asked my most stylish friend if they suited me, and she assured me they did. Great, I had one pair of fashionable pants.

I was a chunky, acne-riddled teenager. While my friends were wearing low-slung jeans and baby tees that showed off their flat midriffs, I was wearing a hoodie and modest jeans. Stores for kids that age don’t sell size XXL, and even if they had, my allowance didn’t permit much clothes shopping. I wouldn’t have known what clothes to put together anyway. That had to be learned.

I thought I wasn’t popular because I was fat, that I didn’t get attention from boys because I wasn’t beautiful like the other girls.

I did what I could. I bought makeup and experimented with covering my acne scars until I got it right. I tried different clothes, though I refused to shop in the plus sizes because that, somehow, made me ‘fat’.  But somewhere in my late teens I started to pull my wardrobe together. I had this great jacket that made me feel like a million bucks, and some pretty tops that dressed up my jeans. I remember (and laugh) about the first scarf I bought, when they were a new thing. I was afraid that my family would think it was too ‘out there’.

I suspect growing up and gaining confidence did more for my body image than new clothes ever did. I got a job in a meat-packing facility, which is a direct route to looking like crap every day. But I was forced to associate with guys (gasp), stand up for myself, and assert myself among a group of adults that didn’t give a damn about me, or my feelings. It thickened my skin. Knowing that I could hold my own in the real world helped me hold my head high, even when I couldn’t afford to dress like a show-window mannequin.

Shortly thereafter, I began college. My wardrobe consisted of 90% MCC thrift-store items—like a ruffled ‘pirate coat’, a spangled tunic, and a never-ending supply of cardigans. I had classmates who rocked their eclectic thrift-store duds, and from them I learned that clothes were art—meant to be original and expressions of your inner self—not one size fits all. My clothes might not have fit into the prepster, hipster or sophisticate categories, but I was accepted anyway. I was accepted for being me.

I’m still learning that.

These days I work as a ‘fashion associate’ part-time, which comes with discounts that make trendy clothes affordable. I’d say I’ve found out what I would wear if I could wear anything I liked. Right now it’s purple, fish-scale pants, a wine-colored blazer, a sequined black tee, and boots that have caught my fancy (notice the reappearance of purple?). And, I’ve at last found peace in shopping in the plus-sizes. Face it, they fit me better, and they look great.

It will eventually get through to me that my clothes have never won, nor lost me any friends. Rather, it is the content of my character that attracts others. The coworkers who see me in a cerulean uniform and safety glasses like me just as well as the ones who see me in purple pants and sequins.

I can’t go back to being five years old and carefree, but maybe I’ll grow up a little more and care a little less about what people think of me.

A Lesson from Purple Fish-scale Pants

I’m a vain, vain soul. I know this because of the inordinate amount of time I spent staring at my purple fish-scale pants when I should have been paying attention to the pastor this morning. And yesterday my coworker teased me that every time she turned around I had my scarf arranged differently. And that would have been almost true.

I can buy new clothes every month and still not have enough. I can fix up my hair (which never falls perfectly even if I’m trying) and do my makeup, wear my most stylish outfit, strut around like a peacock, and feel like I’m really quite a spectacle—and that’s not enough.

And it isn’t enough. All the outer trimmings can’t make me truly beautiful.

The Apostle Peter said, “Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as elaborate hairstyles and the wearing of gold jewelry or fine clothes. Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight” (1).

Someone once told me a story about a woman I know. This lady was working at a summer camp, and, as a grandmotherly woman, went to one of the girls’ cabins at bedtime to say goodnight to the girls, tell them stories and pray with them. As she gave out goodnight hugs, one of the girls said to her ‘you are the ugliest lady I ever saw’.

I was taken aback when I heard this. Ugly? The thought of this lady being ugly had never occurred to me. If I thought about it, I could reason that perhaps she wasn’t going to be on the cover of a beauty magazine. But ugly? Never. This woman, who is very dear to me, is a constant positive, smiling, encouraging presence. She has the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit.

I was convicted today, while gazing down at my purple pants, that I spend far too much time and energy on my outward appearance, and far too little on my inward appearance.

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it” (2) and “the mouth speaks what the heart is full of” (3).

I’ve been praying for God to graciously show me the selfishness and hardness in my heart, and clearly this is one such example. I pray that as I know him more, this self-absorption that keeps my eyes on the mirror and on my purple pants, will dissipate, and leave behind the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.

References:
(1) 1 Peter 3:3-4, New International Version
(2) Proverbs 4:23, New International Version
(3) Luke 6:45, New International Version

All verses taken from Bible Gateway, at http://www.biblegateway.com/

Bicycles, Bad Weather and a New Pair of Pants

I have a girl-job. By that I mean I work at a clothing store, part time.

By nature, girl jobs require you to look like a girl when you arrive and remain thus throughout. That means makeup, hair, stylish clothes, etcetera.

I also have a bicycle. By that I mean I drive it pretty much everywhere.

By nature, bicycles do not have roofs, and that can be a problem. Most of the time I am prepared—I pack the nice clothes and wear ratty ones so I can change and be presentable for work.

Yesterday was the exception.

It was bright and sunny as I left for work. I left a bit early and stopped off at the library to get a little WiFi. Fifteen minutes later I came out and it was drizzling.  No problem, I thought. I have a coat. So on went my coat, and I went down the road. A little water never hurt anyone.

I turned the corner onto the main drag and was instantly buffeted by gale-force winds. Dang.

Be strong, Geralyn. Be strong.

But then the rain began to pelt down, blasting off my makeup, running into my helmet, soaking my nice, purple jeans.

Dang. “What a fiasco!” I laughed, because there was no use crying. There was no way I could work like this, and there were no dry clothes in my backpack. But fortunately, I work at a clothing store. I quickly devised a plan. I would buy a new pair of pants. What girl doesn’t want a new pair of pants?

I parked my soggy bike at the rack and dripped my way into the mall. It was quiet and there weren’t many people to witness my bad fortune.

“Peyton!” I said as I sloshed through the door. “I have a problem.”

Thus and thus, a dry pair of pants were taken from the sale rack and, ten dollars later, I was dressed for work. Actually, the pants are very comfortable and stylish. So my little natural disaster turned out just dandy.

As I quoted in “The Weather Wimp,” Ken Blanchard said “I go out into the world every day with the attitude that my ‘OKness’ is not for grabs”. Don’t let a little rain steal your ‘okness’. Make the best of it—you may get new clothes out of the deal.

Tell me your best ‘bad weather’ stories–a little singing in the rain, maybe?