What is it we want? What do we really want? There are many answers mulling through my head. The one at the forefront, however, and coincidentally, the scariest one, is "I don't know." See, you would suspect, that at my age, with three children, a college degree and, for the most part, stability in life, I would know.
I've had a song in my head for weeks, as I once in a while do, when I hear something that speaks profoundly. Or, in this case, sings it. J.J. Heller's "What Love Really Means" is the song. In the lyrics, she describes multiple situations when people are searching for the love that will make them feel whole. And as I listen to it, I wonder how many people there are, doing that very thing. I am one of them, to be sure.
It's not what you think. I'm not greedy or discontent. I even thought I knew what love really meant a couple times. I suppose the first time I was absolutely positive I knew was the moment I saw my first baby's little wrinkly red face. And then the second one, and the third. Perfect, innocent little reminders. Let's face it though, that's not the kind of love we're talking about. Or is it?
Is it romantic love we seek? Is it the excitement of a new love, a "Bad Romance" as Lady Gaga would say? A frightful yet exciting, thrill-seeking, emotional high? Note: Mom, that's for you. I will never lose the mental image of you making claw-like hands and singing "Love, love, love."
Is it the concept of a soulmate? The romantic in me still believes that soulmates exist; the cynic in me says "fuggetaboutit." I think, if they do, in fact, exist, the whole theory is reliant upon flexibility. Your soulmate might not come in the perfect package you envisioned. Which is why so few of us have found them: we are too jaded by the fantasy of perfection.
I listen to Don Moen's Sunday morning radio show on my way to teach the teen Sunday school class every week. I love the inspirational stories. I always, always cry. Because I believe, deep down, that these people who are sharing these amazing stories of love have something I don't, but I'm convinced that I'm thisclose to finding it. I remind myself about timing, constantly. It's not up to me. God can count the hairs on my head, how foolish am I to think that I can control timing? Don said he heard a quote, I forget from where, about searching for peace, love and contentment. The quote was something like "Are you searching? Join the masses who are, the people who feel the emptiness, like a vacuum, inside. The truth is, that's there for a reason, and can only be filled by God. When you give up on looking for tangible things, or even people, to fill the vacuum, and you realize that God's love for you is the greatest form of fulfillment there is, you will feel whole." So is that it? That's what J.J. Heller says in her lyrics: "You will love me, for me. Not for what I have done or for what I become."
So, it's God they're talking about. And I can jump on that bandwagon and agree, but it doesn't mean I've accepted it or invited it myself. It'd be hypocritical to say I have. I'm still among the masses of searchers.
Inevitably, it's a process, like anything else. Accepting God's love, filling that metaphoric vacuum, is likely the first step. Maybe even not so much a "first step" but rather, a pre-requisite to step-two: the mysterious human love we crave in our every day existence.
So I'd love to hear from anyone who can tell me what that means. What is the love you crave? Are you still writing bad romances, or are you "filling your vacuum" too?
Monday, November 8, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Salon
Beauty salons are very scary places to me. They are wonderful places, don't get me wrong. I can walk in with eyebrows mimicking Bert from Sesame Street and hair like the Mad Hatter, and "poof" I walk out looking like Eva Longoria. Or something like that. I mean, if I was Latina, perhaps. Bad analogy.
Anyway...
I went to the salon last Friday. I look forward to these trips more than some holidays, I think. First of all, I am alone. My loud children are left behind, to fend for themselves. Well, not really. But they sort of are, because I'm not sure what my husband does to really "hold down the fort." There are these sleek, red leather club chairs in the salon, that immediately make me feel stylish when I sit in them. One of the multi-colored hair girls behind the counter (it's a hip place, go with it)saunters over with a wine glass full of ice water and asks if I'd like anything else. I can barely whisper "no" because I am overwhelmed that I'm holding a real glass. I would browse through the hair style books, but I'm too busy gawking at all of the artwork, the colors, and listening to the easy chatter of hairstylists with their clients. I glance at the lady next to me, in the other red club chair, and she is oblivious to the things I am noticing. Her water glass sits untouched as she thumbs through a People magazine and checks her phone every 2 minutes. I decide that this must not be special for her. She does this all the time.
My hairstylist, Jenn, is a cute girl in her 20's, with a bubbly personality. She asks me questions about my family, and I answer, dutifully. She asks what "we're doing" today, as if I will be handed a pair of shears and invited to cut along. I say the same thing I usually say: "I'm still growing it. Just the ends, and trim up the bangs, I think." She nods and says she'll give me a stress relief. Stress relief? I expect a cart of Ben and Jerry's, Diet Pepsi, and a stack of Gerard Butler movies to appear. Instead she weirdly massages my head. And it feels nice, I suppose, but my hair is getting in my eyes and it reminds me of when my boys (yes, my boys) "style" my hair at home.
We head to the awkward, neck-paralysis sinks. She washes my hair with things that smell expensive and she chats about her dog, her husband, and what they're doing for Halloween, which, she mentions nonchalantly, includes a trip up north for a weekend party. She asks what we're doing, and I tell her, just staying home and trick-or-treating. As I say it, I realize it must sound lame. But to me, it's an excursion, because on any normal weekend, we do much less than even that.
I feel a little grateful when she starts the blow dryer, not because I don't like talking, but because I am running out of things to say. I wonder what my kids are doing. I wonder if I turned on the dryer.
This appointment, I also scheduled an eyebrow wax. I did this because I have shamefully let things get out of hand, and even the best tweezers couldn't bring me back. I need wax intervention.
I sit back in another paralysis-inducing chair as another jovial little elf-like gal comes to examine my mess. She says "Are we just shaping up?" and I giggle, thinking of how she's GOT to be trying to be polite.
"Divide and conquer," I tell her. She chuckles a tiny bit, but she has no idea what I mean.
As she leans over me, she apologizes that her scarf is falling into my face. I mutter some dismissive response, and she says "I hope it at least smells good. I sprayed it with perfume this morning. I always do, I would hate it if I smelled bad and I'm leaning over people all day."
I haven't gotten past the spraying of the scarf. People do that? I have never thought of it. I tell myself I am going home and spraying all of my scarves.
When they announce that I'm finished, I examine my red skin on my eyebrow area, but I'm not bothered, because at least I see skin. My hair is shiny and even, and I am secretly proud that I wore a skirt and tights, because now I'm "complete."
On the outside, anyway.
Look out, Eva.
Anyway...
I went to the salon last Friday. I look forward to these trips more than some holidays, I think. First of all, I am alone. My loud children are left behind, to fend for themselves. Well, not really. But they sort of are, because I'm not sure what my husband does to really "hold down the fort." There are these sleek, red leather club chairs in the salon, that immediately make me feel stylish when I sit in them. One of the multi-colored hair girls behind the counter (it's a hip place, go with it)saunters over with a wine glass full of ice water and asks if I'd like anything else. I can barely whisper "no" because I am overwhelmed that I'm holding a real glass. I would browse through the hair style books, but I'm too busy gawking at all of the artwork, the colors, and listening to the easy chatter of hairstylists with their clients. I glance at the lady next to me, in the other red club chair, and she is oblivious to the things I am noticing. Her water glass sits untouched as she thumbs through a People magazine and checks her phone every 2 minutes. I decide that this must not be special for her. She does this all the time.
My hairstylist, Jenn, is a cute girl in her 20's, with a bubbly personality. She asks me questions about my family, and I answer, dutifully. She asks what "we're doing" today, as if I will be handed a pair of shears and invited to cut along. I say the same thing I usually say: "I'm still growing it. Just the ends, and trim up the bangs, I think." She nods and says she'll give me a stress relief. Stress relief? I expect a cart of Ben and Jerry's, Diet Pepsi, and a stack of Gerard Butler movies to appear. Instead she weirdly massages my head. And it feels nice, I suppose, but my hair is getting in my eyes and it reminds me of when my boys (yes, my boys) "style" my hair at home.
We head to the awkward, neck-paralysis sinks. She washes my hair with things that smell expensive and she chats about her dog, her husband, and what they're doing for Halloween, which, she mentions nonchalantly, includes a trip up north for a weekend party. She asks what we're doing, and I tell her, just staying home and trick-or-treating. As I say it, I realize it must sound lame. But to me, it's an excursion, because on any normal weekend, we do much less than even that.
I feel a little grateful when she starts the blow dryer, not because I don't like talking, but because I am running out of things to say. I wonder what my kids are doing. I wonder if I turned on the dryer.
This appointment, I also scheduled an eyebrow wax. I did this because I have shamefully let things get out of hand, and even the best tweezers couldn't bring me back. I need wax intervention.
I sit back in another paralysis-inducing chair as another jovial little elf-like gal comes to examine my mess. She says "Are we just shaping up?" and I giggle, thinking of how she's GOT to be trying to be polite.
"Divide and conquer," I tell her. She chuckles a tiny bit, but she has no idea what I mean.
As she leans over me, she apologizes that her scarf is falling into my face. I mutter some dismissive response, and she says "I hope it at least smells good. I sprayed it with perfume this morning. I always do, I would hate it if I smelled bad and I'm leaning over people all day."
I haven't gotten past the spraying of the scarf. People do that? I have never thought of it. I tell myself I am going home and spraying all of my scarves.
When they announce that I'm finished, I examine my red skin on my eyebrow area, but I'm not bothered, because at least I see skin. My hair is shiny and even, and I am secretly proud that I wore a skirt and tights, because now I'm "complete."
On the outside, anyway.
Look out, Eva.
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