Insane Deal on a Peacock Jacket

This is a story about how dangerous it is as we get older to purchase things ahead of time and hide them, and also of how a message gets changed as it gets passed on.

When my husband and I were out shopping, for his birthday, actually, we ran across a display of colorful jackets.  The tags on them said, "Insane deal!"  We just didn't know yet how insane it would turn out to be.

I admired the jackets.  I couldn't help it.  Paul held out a dark peacock one. I drooled over the lime.

"This is a nice color," he said.

"Yes, but fall's coming," I responded.  I was fixated on how many pairs of brown pants I suddenly seemed to have, and how nice it would be to have something other than brown to wear with them.

And Paul was right about the peacock.

Because I hesitated over both, my generous husband suggested we get both.  I didn't want to spend that much money on myself at that time.  It was, after all, about to be his birthday, not mine.  He offered to give me one of them for my birthday, some weeks hence.  I agreed, and both jackets were purchased.

I put away the things we'd bought for him, leaving the bag with my peacock jacket out for him to deal with, as it wasn't officially mine yet.

Fast forward to just before my birthday.  Saturday evening, I was wondering what to wear to church the next day, and I remembered the peacock jacket.  I reasoned that, since we would be celebrating my birthday Sunday evening, maybe I could get Paul to give me the jacket in time to wear it to church.  I looked around for it a little where I'd last seen it, but there was nothing there.  Clearly, he'd taken care of it.

When he got home from work and we were talking, somehow this came up.  I mentioned I would like to wear the peacock jacket to church, if possible.  He got a funny look on his face.

He started looking for it, searching for it, hunting for it.  He couldn't remember where he'd put it, or if he'd put it anywhere.  I helped him look, and I told him it didn't matter--I could easily wear something else.  In fact, I got out a beautiful red silk blouse I'd gotten handed down from my sister and hung it on the dresser.

Anguished at the thought of disappointing me, though, Paul scoured the closet (three times), the garage (twice), the basement, the china closet, even the furnace room.  He mentioned it might be in someone else's closet.

That didn't make a lot of sense to me.  But, then, I wasn't the one who had hidden it, so what did I know?

He didn't want to wake the children, so he didn't venture into their rooms to search their closets, but he couldn't seem to stop hunting.  He wouldn't take my reassurances.  I have been too mean to him about other things, I suppose.

"I have no memory of what I did with it," he admitted.  This didn't help me much.  It either meant he had not been the one to move it, or he just couldn't recall what he'd done with it.

We did look in the smallest children's closets, to no avail.  Paul was still searching, and my heart went out to him.  Plus, my heart was set on wearing that jacket if it could be found, even though I knew I could content myself with something else.  So, I said a quick prayer, thinking how foolish a concern about a peacock jacket must seem to God, who has so much else to worry about.

I went to find Paul.  He was in the family room, looking in cabinets.  Maybe, I said to him, our teenaged daughter had thought it was for her and had taken it.  It is, after all, in one of the few colors she is allowed to wear to school.

"I thought the same thing," he said.

That clinched it for me.  If he'd thought it and I had also thought it right after praying, it had to be the answer.  After all, when we are both on the same wave length, we have the ability to say, at the exact same time, and at the exact same speed, "That's a load of hay!" as a trailer loaded with hay has just passed us on the freeway, just as though we had opened our own mouths and heard the other's voice come out.

I opened my daughter's door and went to her closet.  I fingered the first item hanging in her closet--what was up next for her to wear--and at first thought, no.  Then I felt the sleeve, which was gathered at the end.  That was it!  I pulled it out and showed it to Paul.  It still had the tags on it.

We quietly hurried back to our room. 

"I wonder what she thought?" I said.  It wouldn't be like her to just assume something was hers and take it.  I couldn't wait to hear her side of the story.  But, I had to wait, till morning.  I hung the peacock jacket on my dresser and put the red silk blouse back into the closet.

Morning came, and I approached my tall, sleepy daughter.  "Do you remember this jacket?" I asked her, gently.

She did.

"What do you know about it?"

She said her sister had brought it to her, saying it was for her.  She had hung it up.  I told her what it had been intended for, and she accepted that with her usual grace.  We laughed about how funny it would have been for me to just see her in it, or find it in the laundry.

So, we asked her sister for her side of the story.  "Dad told me to put it in her closet," she said.

Then Paul remembered having handed it to her with those quick instructions in a hurried, off-handed moment, to keep it from being crumpled in the bag.  Which was really nice, because I could just put it on and wear it to church, with a multi-layered smile.

I'm Looking Out of the Same Eyes

When I arrived at my son's kindergarten class with his birthday treat, two little girls rushed to open the locked door for me.

"Are you his mom?" asked the blond one.

"Yes!  Are you his friend?" I asked back.

"You look old," she said.

So, she never told me whether or not she was his friend.  She only told me, in those three words, that she was not my friend.

I wanted to retort, but couldn't think of anything both clever and kind quickly enough.  She bested me.

And, the funny thing is, yes, I am getting older, all the time, but I feel better than I used to.  I'm deliberately choosing the things I want in my life, instead of waiting to see what falls into it.  I'm achieving my goals, step by step.  I am mindful about my living--not just living--most of the time now.  In more ways than one, I am almost in shape again, after several years of childbearing.

I have a beautiful turquoise suit sitting in my closet that I plan to wear soon.  I checked it the other day.  It was still in perfect condition.  I remembered as I fingered the buttons that I wore it on my oldest child's first day of kindergarten.

Which, honestly, does not seem all that long ago.

Yet, it was.

I felt a flash of shame that I would still have something in my closet that ancient.  I once worked with a woman who told me that she threw out all of her clothes and her daughters' clothes every season and bought new ones.  How would it be to have a whole new wardrobe every three months?

Jealousy, fifteen percent.  Shock at her wastefulness, seventy percent.  Knowledge that I enjoy wearing  favorite clothes again as the seasons change and would be missing a whole level of joy in my life if I lived that way, ten percent.  Anticipating the thrill of putting on and zipping up something that I wore years and years ago, when I was pretty, five percent.

That's how I felt about her choices.  Not that they aren't right for her, but they wouldn't exactly suit me.

Should I throw out the suit, I wondered?  Why?  It's in perfect condition.  And, very soon, I should be able to wear it again.

Not that I will ever be as young again as I was that late summer day when I hugged my firstborn goodbye in front of his school.  But I am still here.  And I still hope to do something meaningful with my life, just like I hoped to then.

Honestly, I seem to me to be looking out of the same eyes I've been looking out of since as far back as I remember.  Sure, the furniture got a little shorter a long time ago, but I seem from inside my eyes to still be the same.

As long as I am still here, I intend to be me.  And if I look old--or my clothes do--to others, I guess that's for them to evaluate behind their own eyes.

The turquoise suit and I are on trajectories that are leading right into each other.  Any day now, they'll meet.  And in that moment is exactly where I want to be.

Driver Door Ajar

It's the morning before the biggest test of my life.  In another county.  That I paid several hundred dollars for the privilege of taking.  That I put off taking for twelve years.  That I can't reschedule because it's just that close.

It's morning, according to the clock, but still dark outside.

I get into my car and turn the key.  It won't start.

Really?  I think.

I try it again.  No go.

I get into the other car and head to the gym.  This just can't be happening.  I try to imagine what is wrong.  For two weeks, I've been reading all about how to diagnose mental conditions, so I try to diagnose my car.   

I remember that the day before, it warned me that it was headed for a breakdown.  It was clearly suffering from a delusion when it said, "Driver door ajar."  I slammed that door three times--hard, and, in the face of clear and convincing evidence to the contrary, it stuck to its delusion: "Driver door ajar."  Other lights had come on, too.  The poor thing had been having hallucinations about brakes, air brakes, and the battery.

Well, maybe it was right about the battery.

I had come home and unloaded the way-too-full trunk, and all of that nonsense had seemed to go away.  I had turned it on again to reassess it, and all signs were normal.

What could have gone wrong in the meantime?

I try to think through different scenarios.  I can't take the other car to take my test, because my husband will need it to go to work.  My test won't end until after his shift starts.  I can't have him drop me off up there, because how would I get home?

I park at the gym and go in and work out--hard--to relieve my frustrations.  I burn 1000 calories and come out panting, but with no less anxiety.

I drive home, evaluating my situation seriously.  Maybe the stuff in the trunk pulled a wire, or made a short?  Maybe the battery is just old?  There is no going-to-the-gym episode between where I am and the rest of my day, now, and I have to have solutions.

I try.

In a desperate, mad moment, I contemplate walking home from the test site.  I plan to Google it when I get home.  It's probably less than twenty miles.  It could be tomorrow's exercise.

When I get home and relate this to my husband, he laughs and puts his arm around me.  I can't walk home, he tells me.  That's crazy.

I have a car hallucinating, having delusions, and making suicide threats, and he tells me I'm crazy?

"I don't have time to deal with this today," I say, on the verge of tears.  The few hours of the day have already been allocated very carefully to boning up on the other things I need to study before my exam.  And I need a good night's sleep.

He assures me he will take the time to make sure that the car gets dealt with so that I will have it tomorrow morning, when I need it.

He gives my car electroshock therapy, and we take it to the mechanic.  Both he and his receptionist visibly flinch when I tell them how much the exam cost me and how important it is to get my car back in good condition by night.  And you should see their faces when I tell them my diagnosis.

I go home and study, and wait.

Later in the day, we take a drive to the testing center.  I know myself well enough to know that I will sleep better and have less anxiety if it is not somewhere I have never been that I am expected to drive to in the dark and not be even one minute late for.  Despite one moment when it seems the instructions mixed up east and west, the route is not hard, and we find the place.

I insist, since we are there, that we park and go up to the suite number listed.  I want to have no surprises and the chance to ask questions.  We walk up to the testing office, only to find a sign on the door saying, "Do not open this door for any reason! The police will be called!"  Another sign says, "If you are here to take a test within thirty minutes of your exam and no staff member is here, call this number."

I write down the number.  I have a premonition that the sign may not be there tomorrow morning, and then what would I do?

When it comes to taking a test that the rest of my work life depends on and that I have already had too much anxiety to take for the past twelve years, I am the anxiety queen.

See, with this test, if I can't take it--or can't finish it--don't bring the right documents, am late, look suspicious, my shoe comes untied, eat or drink, or mess up in any possible way, I forfeit my fee and can't reschedule it for six months.  That's why it's such a big deal that nothing go wrong.

Every time I am tempted to start a list in my head of the things that could go wrong--
I could get sick
I could forget
A child could get hurt and need to be taken to the ER
My car could fail me
The Internet could go down
I could get lost on the way to the testing site
I could be missing some required document and get turned away
I could have a coughing fit
I could have insomnia all night
I could oversleep
There could be a death
--I slam it down in my mind as fast as I can.

We drive back and I study.

At the end of the day, we pick up my car with its brand new battery.  We put the kids to bed.  I review my notes.

I tell my husband that I feel I would give anything in the world not to be at this point right now.

I tell myself that I have handled it all pretty well--I am healthy, I have studied as hard as a person in my situation reasonably can, I have paced myself well, and I have met my study goals.  I can go to bed at a reasonable hour.  I have planned well.  It has all worked out.

And I go to bed.

I get through the night pretty well--only waking up four times compared to my usual two, and getting back to sleep after three of them.

I turn myself into a robot who cannot feel anxiety and go through the motions.  I complete all the plans I have made for getting ready.  I have the papers, ID, comfortable clothes ready.

I shower, dress, and eat.  I leave on time.

I take the test.

I pass the test.  I shed one tear in relief.

I drive home, starving and thirsty, hardly able to wait until I can tell my kids that they can have their mother back.

And now, I am going to sound just like my mom would have as I say that I am so blessed that my battery died when it did, instead of on the day of the test.

Longing for a Do-Over

Have you ever said something completely stupid?  Something you wished you could take back, even as it came out of your mouth?

Or made a bad choice that you regret?

Weren't there for someone you loved when they needed you?

Told a child you were too busy for him at that time?

Sometimes, we miss an opportunity.  Or throw it away with both hands.  Out of carelessness, or weariness, or anger, or fear.

Honestly, I've tried my whole life to be good--and I'm sure I avoided many pitfalls this way, but some of my nights are ripped apart by regrets.  There are tears, memories, learning, and prayers, but not sleep.

In frustration, I have said words that I never meant.  I have lost my head in anger.  I have put off things until they were no longer options.

I have hurt someone who fills up so much of my heart that I fear I have mortally wounded myself.

I listened to conference talks this past weekend.  I listened to one talk while on my back, in bed, silently weeping, wiping tears off my face so they wouldn't roll into my ears.

The talk was about the apostle Peter.  I feel for Peter.  Peter, after all, said the words that he didn't know his best friend, Lord, and Savior.  When He needed him most.  And he said this not once, like the worst statement I ever made, but three times.

Then he went out and wept.  Bitterly.

I have my own bitter tears.  I wish Peter had never said those things almost as much as he must have.  I wish I never said some things, too.  So I know.

The talk I listened to was about Peter, but not about that moment in his life.  I brought that moment into the talk myself.  The talk was about another time when Peter saw the Lord, and the Lord asked Peter whether or not he loved Him.

And Peter said, he did.  Of course he did.  Even, Thou knowest that I love Thee.  What most people get out of this scripture story is that the Lord emphasized to Peter that He needed him to do His work--feed his lambs and sheep.

That is what I've always gotten out of it, too.  It's an important point.

But what struck me this time was that the Lord asked him three times. 

Three times, He gave Peter the opportunity to repeal his prior, regretable statement.  He gave him the opportunity to heal his error, one time for each time he had made it.

Maybe the Lord showed a tender mercy to Peter that day, letting him have do-overs.

It's just a tiny part of the larger story, but, to me, it's huge.

Someone My Children Could Be Proud to Know

What is happening to us as a society?  We've regulated our information to the point that we can't even access it.

When I paid a utility bill this week, I realized I couldn't remember whether or not I'd paid a utility bill the previous pay day.  So, trying to be someone my children could be proud to know, I looked it up. (Because, in my experience, children do not want parents who let the utilities get shut off.)

It turned out it was the phone company I was supposed to have paid, and I really couldn't remember doing it.  I might have, but I might not have.  Since the last pay day, I've been attacked by an army of germs, which has killed one-third of my brain cells and taken another third hostage until its demands are met.

I'm still trying to figure out what its demands are.

So, I called the phone company.  Before I got to talk to an actual live person, I had to punch in all kinds of information.  You know how it is.  They had my phone number, my zip code, the name of the doctor who delivered my firstborn son, and a detailed description of my wildest fantasy.

Finally, I seemed to have run through all the options, and I got to push a number for "other options," and got a live person.

Before I could ask my question, "live person" rifled a few at me.  She also needed to know my name, birth date, and shoe size.

Then, she stumped me.  She wanted "the three numbers that come after your phone number."

"Numbers that come after my phone number?"

"Yes."

I think I laughed.  "Really?  What are those?"

"We added them," she said in a self-important tone.  "It's part of your account number."

"Okay, but I'm not looking at a bill.  I'm at work."

"The last four of your social, then."

I supplied them.

"That's wrong.  We need your husband's social."

I checked my mental files, and that one was one of the ones the germs took hostage.  "Nine seven four three?" I guessed.

"That's not correct," she said.

"Well, ask me something else."

"I can't," she said.  "I need the either the three numbers that come after your phone number or your husband's Social."

"Look," I reasoned.  "All I want to know is whether or not I paid my bill two weeks ago."

"I can't tell you that."  What bothered me the most was how much she seemed to be enjoying not giving me my information.  I am younger and have more brain cells than you, I could almost hear her thinking.  I wanted to quip back that maybe she just had less information to track in them.

"I punched in a whole lot of information before I got to you," I pointed out.  "Can't you use some of that?"

"No."  It had to be the three imaginary numbers no one, I would think, would ever know, or the few that I just couldn't, in my old age, come up with.

So, I sat there, on The Twilight Zone, wondering what I could do to get this human robot to figure out that whether or not I paid my bill is not really classified information.  She could call my worst enemy and tell him I'd made a payment, for all I cared.  She could publish it in the newspaper.  "Janean Justham paid her phone bill on September. . ."

So I sat there, feeling mighty foolish, because I might have been able to come up with my worst enemy's Social before I could access my husband's.  Old age is funny like that.  "What's your name?" I asked her.

"Tammy."

"Tammy what?"

"I can't tell you."

Of course.  Whatever her last name was, I was tempted to make up three letters to go after it and see if she could guess them.  "Okay," I negotiated.  "Will you hold while I call my husband, wake him up after his night job, and ask him?"

She said she would. And she sounded delighted to provide that level of astonishing customer service for me.

So, I dialed.  And, my husband answered.  I told him that the nice lady at the phone company would not tell me whether or not I'd paid our bill unless he reminded me of his Social.

"I don't remember," he said, sleepily.

So, there you have it.  Tammy at the phone company knows whether we paid our bill, but we're not allowed to know that information.  Since she's not too worried about us being responsible about our payment, I guess I don't really need to be, either.

Maybe that was a clue.