. . there’s a lot of stuff to do before they get here.”
He pads down the hallway toward the bedroom. True, there is a lot of stuff, and Rick won’t be doing any of it. His contribution amounted to remembering the Shaws were coming, and even that he almost botched.
I didn’t wash my hair. No time for that. In front of the misty mirror, I rifle through my makeup organizer in search of my favorite blush. My makeup collection is a testament to my support of the many stay-at-home mothers at church who are trying to get a career going on the side. Avon. Mary Kay. Shaklee. Amway. Arbonne. There’s more in here than I’ll ever use, and I don’t wait to run out before reordering.
I feel for these ladies. So many of them are ultratalented. They have the degrees I wanted but never got. Some of them do it for the extra income, but at our church there aren’t many people hurting economically. It’s more about putting themselves out there, finding an identity besides wife and mother. If they can’t be in the boardroom, they can be Pampered Chefs.
Confession: I’ve never used a 1-2-3 skin-care system for longer than a week. When I admit this to the ladies, the response is always the same: “You haven’t tried this one yet!” So I write the check and, of course, nothing changes. The bottles end up in the drawer until Rick discovers them. He never met a grooming product he didn’t want to try. And anyway, everyone compliments me on my skin. “I wish I had skin like yours! What do you use?”
Confession (don’t hate me): I don’t even wash my face.
I dress in jeans and a gray knit top, stacking bracelets on my wrists, some silver, some tribal beads, none of which go together but somehow, when it’s all together, it goes. Making a pastor’s salary stretch for a family of four means not many of the clothes in my closet are original to me. I swoop down on the secondhand shops, making up for my reluctance to spend with a little good taste. I know what looks good on me, if only because I’m blessed with a husband who has no qualms about telling me what doesn’t. Not to mention two sons who’ve learned from their dad’s example.
The key to being frugal without having to host jewelry parties in my living room? It’s simple enough. I don’t waste time thinking about things I can’t have and don’t need. Things that aren’t broken aren’t replaced. Collections all seem designed to collect dust, and who needs more housework? I realize most of the planet has less than I do. That alone curbs my acquisitive instinct.
It also doesn’t hurt if, like us, you live in a neighborhood where you could never hope to afford any of the things your neighbors take for granted. When I see Roy Meakin driving by in his vintage Rolls, all I feel is aesthetic joy. I can wave at the old guy without a trace of envy. If I’m stopped at the intersection behind someone’s ten-year-old VW van, one that’s old but not ancient like ours, that’s when my thoughts go black. You’re only tempted when the prize isn’t too far out of reach.
“You look nice,” Rick says, poking his head through the bedroom door. He’s wearing his off-duty uniform: one of his ironic T-shirts, a pair of shorts, and his “dress” flip-flops, the ones with the leather trim.
“Thanks. I’m just gonna finish in the kitchen.” I slip past him, catching a whiff of floral scent. I wonder which of my cast-off skincare products he tried today. “Eli’s going over to his friend Damon’s house—”
“Damon who got the new Nintendo? We won’t be seeing him for a while. Does that mean Jed is joining us?”
I lower my voice. “Would that be a problem?”
“No,” he says, but then he purses his lips so I’ll know that it is.
“What’s wrong? You aren’t mad at Jed again.”
He shakes his head. “It’s the other way around. He’s been on my case the past couple of days. I don’t know what I did, but it’s getting old.”
“I’m sure it’s a firstborn thing. He’s eighteen, after all. He’s trying to spread his wings a little.”
Rick laughs at this. “Who, Jed? I think you’re confusing him with someone else.”
“Lay off,” I say, emphasizing the point with a jab of the elbow.
He follows me into the kitchen, still chuckling at the thought of our tall,