Never Polished . . . just being perfected.

We ate lunch at Olive Garden yesterday. (One of my personal favorites, by the way.) I'm sitting there waiting for Ken, who graciously dropped me off at the door, while he went to park the car. Anyway, I'm looking around the room and realize that I'm surrounded by "perfect" people.

You know the type. Women who are probably 55 but look 35. It's obvious they've never carried an extra pound anywhere on their skinny frames. Their hair is perfect, streaked with the kind of highlights you can only get at the best salons. Their clothes are "just right" - cute little shorts with coordinated tops, darling sandals, perfect jewelry choices. Their makeup looks as if they just stepped out of a magazine shoot and their nails are always perfect - tastefully done - nothing too bright or gaudy.

Some of them even have their perfect daughters with them. Teenage girls who look better in cut-off shorts and a tank top than I looked on my wedding day - perfectly made up, beautiful hair and teeth. Young adult women who you just know will marry someone in finance or law, look like a princess on their wedding day and who will produce offspring that will never spit up on their designer baby clothes.

I'm sitting there in the new khaki shorts that I splashed bleach on while trying to help my dad clean out his pool and a top that I grabbed because it was cool. (Hot flashes and humid Arkansas summers are my definition of hell.) Only later did I realize that it was much to short for the waistline on my pants. Consequently, I looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy from the neck down. And I kept having to shove my bra straps back up under the sleeveless shoulder. My hair was piled on top of my head in a jumbo gator clip that I had grabbed earlier in the office when sweat starting pouring down my neck. (Hot flashes - you use what's at hand). And my finger nails were sporting the remainder of a manicure from three weeks ago - most have it having peeled off along with the ends of my always soft, ragged nails.

For just a split second I was incredibly jealous. Why couldn't I have been born with those genes? But in the next second the feeling passed and I realized, "Who cares?" I have a great life. God's been good to me. So I'm not always perfectly put together! But I am being perfected

I know that over the years God's been working on me. Through my trials and my triumphs, through my friendships, my experiences and my marriage. But His perfecting has absolutely nothing to do with the outside and everything to do with who I am. I'm not who I want to be, but I am becoming someone who is lovely. (Not always, not every minute. But more minutes today, than yesterday. And yesterday more than the day before . . . and the day before . . . and the day before.) And that's enough.

So I smiled at the perfect lady across the room and her two perfect daughters. It was a confident smile that said, "You might look perfect. But I'm eccentric, and happy, and, for all you know, creative and brilliant and well loved by others." They smiled back and I found myself sending up a little prayer that if their inside wasn't as put together as their outside that God would bless them that day.

Ken came in and I thought about telling him what I was thinking. But he'd do one of two things: 1) tell me how beautiful and wonderful I am and that I'm every bit as attractive as those perfect women - (he's crazy like that ); or 2) he'd think that I was fishing for him to encourage me to go get my hair and nails done; and buy some new clothes. That wouldn't be my intention. But once he offered, I'd do it. And then I'd have to feel guilty for guilt-ing him into offering. So I just kept my thoughts to myself.

A funny thing did cross my mind though . . .when I die and you all come for the viewing . . . would someone please be sure that my bra straps aren't showing?!