Coming out of the restaurant she told me, “I love your hair! You look so sassy and smart!” The thank yous were still tumbling from my smile when she said, “But I guess that comes from the inside, doesn’t it..” My heart was smiling too.
Now, I consider myself pretty good at giving compliments, but this was something! She took “beautiful inside and out” to a whole new level. And she seemed as happy as I was, to give it. Bravo to the lady outside Martina’s Restaurant.
My mother was the first to teach me how to give a compliment. (And just by being herself, she gave me ample reason to want to.) She also taught me how to receive it, as the gift that is given.
It’s curious, we wouldn’t do it with a regular gift, refuse a birthday present let’s say. We wouldn’t put our hands out and say No! So why do so many do it with a compliment? “Oh no, not me,” or “not this old thing,” they’ll say, while backing themselves away. When really, thank you, is all that is needed. That is the reciprocal gift.
I’m still receiving this offering in the morning mirror. (Never underestimate the power of a compliment.) And I think the bar has been raised. So I challenge myself. I challenge you. Today, let’s give the compliments freely. (Even to ourselves.) And accept them with joy — so much joy that we have to bundle it and give it away again. Would that make us sassy? I don’t know, but it would make us smart!
I began mothering a set of lifelike plastic dolls from Ben Franklin at around the same time Florence Henderson familied her six on Friday night’s Brady Bunch. It was clear to me, as I lined up each baby in front of the tv set, smelled their heads, tucked in their blankets, that the only thing I was missing was a polyester pants suit like Mrs. Brady. Thus began my first lesson in patience.
I hope I asked, but most likely I demanded a trip to Herberger’s basement. “I’m not sure they make them for little girls,” my mom said. I swept my arm across my plastic family to say that surely I was no longer a little girl. “Maybe Agnes could sew something for you,” she replied. Agnes was a seamstress — and by that I mean she was my grandma’s friend who sewed things periodically in her kitchen/workstation, for women who couldn’t afford luxury, but still had a taste for it.
My enthusiasm was quickly quelled by our first visit to Woolworth’s in search of a pattern. My arms hung at my side. My head tilted back. Tongue out, grasping for air. Grasping for a choice to be made among the Butterick. She only had to give me a look. It was enough to say, “You wanted this. Straighten up.” So I did, but not without a few impatient floor kicks of my bumper tennis shoes.
I had no real sense of time. I could only mark it, episode by episode. The series of painstaking events made me wonder if I would even have a pants suit by the end of the Brady Bunch season. We moved from pattern to bolt. Bolt after bolt. Searching for fabric. Then I got measured. And measured again. Each trip out to Agnes’s farm seemed to take up another week. But then the day magically arrived. In front of the kitchen-stained mirror that leaned up against the wall, she smoothed out the navy fabric across my chubby waist, and I was more Carol Brady than Florence Henderson had ever been.
I don’t know what it cost. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the mirror as my mother pulled out the dollar bills from her purse. Surely it was more than we had, but what I was taught, what my mother always showed me, was that it was not more than I was worth. What a gift. She’s still giving it to me.
I think of now, and it had never been Florence. On the days I need a little lift, I still play fashion show. And standing in front of the mirror, I smooth out the fabric on my waist, standing tall, straight, hoping, praying, not to outdo, but by some chance come close to Ivy-ing as best I can.
Just before leaving the Mall of America, I tried on one last dress. I twirled a little in front of the three way. I put my hands in the pockets. Looked to the side. Over my shoulder. Floated out to the main area of the store. Dominique said it was pretty. I smiled. Saw myself in summer’s south of France, and gave one last spin. Put it back on the hanger. And we went back to our final night by the airport.
We used to do it all the time. Just try things on. My mom and I. We had everything when we were together, but for extra money to spend. But that didn’t stop us. Standing waist high, the tag of her dress dangling in my face, I looked up at her at her three reflections, and knew she was a princess. A queen. She tucked the tag in and gave a twirl. Dancing with all four of her, I was sure she was going to buy it. She took it off and gave a smile of “maybe next time,” to the clerk.
We went on to another store. She was swinging her hand in mine, like she was really happy. I was confused. “But you didn’t even buy it…” She bent down. “It’s better to look pretty in it, than to own it. Anyone with a few extra dollars can do that.” I nodded. “I want to try,” I said. And we never stopped.
Of course she bought things. Of course I do. But the real treasure was, and still is, the experience. With anything. Everything. How we feel, will never be surpassed by what we have. I, we, cannot own this day, but we would do well to swing it by the hand, and enjoy it for all it is!
We were at the doctor’s office yesterday. A routine, non-urgent appointment for Dominique. A small hedge separates the office from a school. Facing the window, I could see the kids running with a ball. A makeshift soccer game on the small playground. It has occurred to me through the years, traveling through countries, cities, villages, that there is a ubiquitous sound — children playing. It has a universal language that is distinct and recognizable. Words mixed with laughter, that can only really be described as joy.
This lilt was broken up by the sound of the ball hitting against the exterior wall of the doctor’s office. She said excuse me, and allowed herself the one minute it took to open the back door and throw the ball over the hedge to the now silent children. As soon as the ball landed on their side, their beautiful chorus continued.
It was only a moment, but it was beautiful.
I picked a few tulips from our yard and placed them in a vase. I have always been told to place your flowers, your plants, whenever possible, in front of a mirror. This doubles the beauty. Tulips become Tulipalooza! The bouquet seems vast. The joy is reflected.
What a lesson in humanity. I ask myself, “Am I doing that? Am I reflecting the joy?” I hope I am. And it can be as easy as returning a smile. Joining the laughter. Being present. Involved. Throwing a ball back over the fence. We have a decision to make. Minute by minute. Day by day. Are we going to focus on the negative, or reflect the best of us. I want to be a part of the lilt. The song. What if we all tried to reflect the universal joy?
