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Honesty is last resort if Sweet, Kind falter
(by Christine Thome - August 27, 2009)
BEYOND MY CONTROL, BY CHRISTINE THOME
Honesty is last resort if Sweet, Kind falter
Most of my shopping excursions can be filed under "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly." And definitely not in that order.
With three teenage daughters, I rarely find myself alone in a boutique, department store or mall. Not because they want to spend precious time with their devoted mother, but because I carry the almighty credit card, and there's always one more thing they could use.
And as most teenagers do, my girls have very definite opinions, especially about me and my wardrobe. I refer to my three daughters as "The Sweet, the Kind and the Brutally Honest."
The Sweet daughter never wants to hurt my feelings and will tell me I look beautiful even when I know I'm looking my worst. I could be wearing an Islamic burqa, and she would tell me the blue fabric makes my blue eyes shine beneath the veil. She is the one I take shopping when I really want to splurge on something and need someone to remind me that I'm worth it.
The Kind daughter will always find something positive to say yet steer me in the right direction if what I'm wearing is not quite right. She is the one I take shopping when I try on bathing suits. She won't make me suicidal by telling me straight out that I look like a stuffed sausage, but she'll get her point across by gently suggesting a cute cover up.
The Brutally Honest daughter is just that -- brutally honest. She is the one I take shopping when I need to buy something that I wear out in public all the time -- like jeans.
"Ewww!" she'll say with a disgusted glance before going back to her phone. "The waist is too high, the length is too short, they give you a 'mom butt,' and, if you waste your money on those, I swear I won't be seen anywhere with you."
"Really? That's all I have to do?" I silently wish I could yell at her. "Just buy these horrible jeans, and I'm rid of you?" But as I glance at my large "mom butt" in the three-way mirror, I realize she's right. She's still mean, nasty and brutally honest, but she's right.
As you can imagine, I rarely take all three of them to the store when I'm shopping for myself and need an opinion, because it's like shopping with Goldilocks. No matter what I try on, I will get three different opinions: it's too big, it's too small, and it's just right.
But one afternoon, I had no choice. I had a special event the next evening that required a formal dress. It's not that I didn't know about the event in advance. It's just that I was hoping to lose about 30 pounds in the two weeks since the invitation arrived. That didn't happen.
With all three girls lined up like the "American Idol" judges, I took a rack full of dresses into a dressing room, stripped, avoided my near-naked image in the mirror and prepared to face the judges.
"It's pretty, Mom," the Sweet daughter said about the shimmering brown dress I was wearing.
"It's nice," the Kind daughter hemmed, "but I think I would like it better in a different color."
"Definitely a different color," said Brutally Honest. "That brown makes you look like a corn dog. A corn dog on a stick, because your legs are too white. I hate corn dogs! Remember when I puked after eating corn dogs?"
This torture went on for what felt like an eternity, making the CIA's water-boarding practice seem like a day at the beach.
I finally put on the last dress, a simple, black one similar to at least three other black dresses I had in my closet.
"I really like that one, Mom!" said Sweet.
"Me too, Mom," said Kind. "We'll need to find you some fun jewelry and cool shoes, but that dress looks really nice on you."
Brutally Honest gave me a long, hard look, raised an eyebrow and replied, "I would get that one. You can always wear it again to a funeral."
By God, I think we have a winner.
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