Evolution of Thankfulness

Age changes things. 

I remember being very small and being thankful for Popples, the Young Authors program at school, older siblings and days when the metal slide attached to the swing set wouldn't burn my bottom. 

I remember becoming less thankful for older siblings, but rather thankful for older siblings who were active in school activities and forgot I was around most days. 

I remember being thankful for a down-hill bike ride on my way home from my first job, a front seat view to watch a tree grow and cows. 

Time moved quickly and I remember being thankful for a few good friends, small engines class in the back hall and making the cheerleading squad again, despite not being able to do a back handspring. 

I remember being thankful for a brother with a parking spot at Purdue, a whole new set of sisters which arrived with endless wardrobes and being able to fit back into my jeans after my sophomore year. 

I remember being thankful for the 4th of July in Washington, DC, co-workers that would become family, the adventure that age 23 brought and a direct flight home for Thanksgiving. 

I remember being thankful for my amazing little home, a kinda-good dog, cows and a strange yet satisfying unrest in the idea that I still hadn't found what I was looking for. 

Age changes things. 

Today my thankfulness comes from a life less grandiose.

Less travel but more miles of adventure with a carseat full of Cheerios in the backseat. 

Fewer business dinners but more time spent cutting ribeye into tiny pieces and filling sip cups with milk. 

No days of being unnoticed at home, and many more days of going to the bathroom in pairs. 
Caroline and I. Not Cody and I. 

Today I'm thankful for a good nights rest, comfortable shoes and finding Kleenex in my purse that doesn't have a peppermint stuck inside. 

I'm thankful for a child that eats anything - including 4-day-old-peas-from-the-couch, a barn cat that cleans up scraps so I don't feel so guilty about trimming the fat and a good hay supply. 

I'm thankful for parents aging gracefully, Saturday afternoon visits with the Original Jean and friends from coast to coast who care. 

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. 
What is typically my favorite holiday, I wake this morning and wonder what I'll make, when I'll go to the grocery and if I have any blue cheese hiding out in the back of the refrigerator. What is the true shelf life of blue cheese? 

Age changes things.

But it doesn't change the fact that with age comes true thankfulness for a warm home because I know folks who don't have one, thankfulness for a full refrigerator because I've seen people go without, and great thankfulness for family because I know the lonely. 

When you look back on your life 

- whether twenty-one or eighty-one years - 

how has your thankfulness evolved?

I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving from the Sankey family. Thank you for spending a little part of your day with me. 


Now - who wants to send me a salad recipe that will impress my mother? 
THIS IS NOT A DRILL. 

The Longest Walk

It began in March.
I remember being very young and spending that particular day with my mother - which, of course - I always did. Those days were nothing extraordinary, but special nonetheless. Our time together was short. 
Anyhow, on this particular day, I caught the eye of a man. 

Not any man, but rather the one who owned the place; this place that I call home. 
He watched me briefly, then went on about his business of checking mineral tubs. 

April
Shortly after, that a very similar scenario played out, except the man had his kids with him.  "That's her, 510, she has her back to us," he told the children riding in the back bed of the Kawasaki Mule. 
The kids talked. I couldn't understand them over the rumble of the motor. They only stayed by mother and I for a few minutes. 
When they drove away, the young boy in the back studied me. 
Watched me. 
Looked straight into my eyes. I returned the gesture. 
I knew then: My life was about to change. 

September
Months later I was weaned; taken from my mother. 
Clueless animal rights folks think this is torture. 
Apparently they thoroughly enjoy still living in their parents' basement and playing Tetris on the internet.
That's not the life for me. Or anyone going somewhere in life. 
Mother handled it better than I did; she is maternal enough to know that life - even as a beef heifer - is about roots and wings. 
I went through the tub system and received my vaccinations and was poured so the insects wouldn't eat me alive. 
I was hard to corral. 
I carried on like a bandit. 
I bellowed against the metal of the system and acted like I was flat out being tortured. Dramatic? Maybe. 
But I wanted to prove my independence. 

Didn't work.

This is me an hour later. 

My life moved quickly after that. 

October
I was halter broken - but not after raising hell for a couple weeks. As a young heifer, that was my job. 
I was rinsed - extensively. For as clean as I stayed in that pen under a barn, they were sure concerned with rinsing me. A lot. It wasn't a problem until they interrupted snooze time. 
I was fed - precisely - to ensure nutrition. Never as much as I wanted, but I never mentioned it. Obviously. 

March
And I was talked to. 
Often. 
Sometimes the young boy talked more to me than he did his family. Sometimes he cried around me when none knew where he was. Sometimes he just came in and sat behind me to get away from everyone else. Usually, I was the only one who knew his secrets.
And most of the time, he liked me more than he did his sister. Can't blame him. She can be a tic dramatic. 

It was during this time that I strangely became a safe place - or hideout - for the young boy. He stayed here long after his work is done, Angus Journals in hand. He talked to himself. He circled things. He folded corners of pages. He studied that Journal far more than any text book. In fact, between you and me, sometimes he hid the Journal in his backpack and told his mother he was coming here to do his science reading, only to never crack open the science book. Please don't repeat that; I enjoyed the company. 

May
Just as the young boy is changing - he's getting taller and thinner - I am changing, too. Hours behind those Angus Journals (hopefully) paid off as the boy made the decision to breed me to BAR Ext, a bull certain to not kill me. Of course, according to his EPDs. There was a lot of discussion between the boy and his Dad about that decision. In the end, his Dad let it be the choice of the boy who had done his homework. You know, it's interesting how some folks think that after my showing days are over, my purpose is over, too. In reality - with this one decision, it's just beginning. 

July
It's funny how excited I get when I hear the diesel engine growl and the aluminum trailer hit the holes in the lane as it pulls into the farm. My initial thought: Someone is taking a ride, and I hope it's me. This time, it was. The boy loaded me up and took me all the way to Tulsa, Oklahoma for the National Junior Angus Show. I've never seen so many kids all jacked up on powered donuts and fun dip in my life. Water balloon fights, cooking contests, public speaking showdowns and matching t-shirts. About half way through the week I wasn't sure if I was at a cattle show for some sort of halfway house for wild adolescents addicted to Final Bloom. It was a good week, all the way around. Second in class. Can you believe it? I'm tired and ready for home. 

August
Well, today was interesting. I saw those kids fling showsticks at one another like they were participants of season 25 of Survivor. I mean....both great shots, both had the passion in their shouts and energy in their arms, but there was about three minutes when I didn't know if either would survive. The boy locked his sister in the stock trailer for calling him a sissie. I guess that'll teach her. Their mother came and demanded he let her out before she died in there. He walked back to the trailer with great hesitation. 

They both went on to survive the ordeal. And traveled to the county fair the next week.
What a week for all of us. The kids were extremely excited, the parents were somewhat excited, I was was most excited when it was over. It was a hot week for a gal used to a fan on her back. 
There were so many spectators taking it all in, commenting on each of us as we walked around. Some even made spectacles of themselves and commented on the kids. Don't get me started.  Anyhow, I did well. Like - purple banner over my stall card - well. Can you believe it?

After that it got cooler outside of the barn and the days got shorter. We took fewer walks with a show stick but increased our walks to and from the wash racks, for whatever reason. My days became mundane during that period. I always looked forward to that next trailer ride. 

November 
I had an interesting experience with the young boy. I rode in the stock trailer for several hours before unloading some place quite bigger than the county fair. Much of the week was similar, though. Eating, being rinsed, the boy watching me, being tied outside at night, his sister running around socializing. Two major differences I noticed: There were hundreds of head just like me. Blowers were constantly running, funs were buzzing around the clock, the wash racks were always full - can you believe that? I wasn't just the lone animal in the barn anymore. And, can you believe this, when the boy showed me I walked on green wood shavings. Green! I felt fancy. 

Except, when we got home, 

I realized how much my life 

was about to change. 

Now, it's my turn. 
I speak - or, something - with confidence when I say these kids have done everything they could to make me successful. The miles hauled across the U.S., the dedication and time, the investment of money, feed and space, the knock-down-drag-outs in the barnyard...all of that was for me. I didn't win a national show, but I don't think that was the goal at hand. The goal at hand is still in the making. 

Now it's my turn. 
As the boy leads me down the gravel path to the pasture, his sister tails me - though she does not touch me once. She need not. I walk willingly, as taught, as trained, as I know best. Where he leads me I will go; I am amongst friends. 

This, the longest walk, leads from the barn to the pasture, where I'll truly live out my purpose: producing a calf every year for the boy. Building his herd. Fueling his passion. Providing the next generation of breeding stock for the producer. Up until now, I've taught the boy animal husbandry, a bit about nutrition, the value of getting the work done before the day gets unbearably hot and why it's important to not kill your sister: She's a good co-worker. Now, after the longest walk, I'll teach him about raising safe, affordable beef in the U.S. 

Now it's my turn. 
And my job as a show heifer was never to get the young boy to the backdrop; this - all of this - was never about the backdrop. This was about becoming a cow that produced a live calf. This was about producing beef cattle that perform and reproduce - without a jack and chains.  This was never about tail adhesive, paint or crippled competitors. This is about beef. My life is about the offspring yet to come, of which the young - turned adult - boy will one day say to his daughter as he points, 

"Her grand dam was 

the one that started it all."

For a mother's perspective, 

check out It's A Wonderful Life.  

The Week Before The County Fair

It's the week before the county fair in our tiny part of the world.
The wonderful, beloved, long-awaited, anticipated, (right-about-Tuesday-overrated) county fair. 

What does that look like?
Well, per usual, not this Rockwell painting:

I reflect back to the week before the county fair when we were in 4-H and think that possibly the greatest display of sincere love and patience Momma ever showed was not killing us - or herself - the week before the county fair. 

Looking back, I don't know how she did it. 

It's the week before the county fair. 

Show boxes are being pulled out, scrubbed out and rinsed out. Old ribbons are being straightened out then carried to the house. Do you keep yellow ribbons? That is an internal debate. Show halters are being scrubbed then conditioned. Kids are realizing that their parents may have known what they were talking about when they said, "Clean it out now. In a year you'll be glad you did."

Kids are wishing that they had. 

It's the week before the county fair. 

Women are feverishly leafing through Southern Cooking and Taste of Home cookbooks, searching for the perfect four-layer-chocolate-truffle-cake-sure-to-beat-'Ol-Always-Wins-Whats-Her-Name.

Ugh. 

For as much sugar as she puts in her cake, you'd think 'Ol-Always-Wins-Whats-Her-Name would be just a little bit sweeter...

It's the week before the county fair. 

4-Hers are rummaging through the trash trying to find the ingredient tag off of any feed sack. Project books are being completed - because of everything short of a gun held to the head - at the stroke of midnight, then being hand delivered to 4-H leaders' homes at the crack of dawn for the final signature. 

It's the week before the county fair. 
A crowd sits in the rural school auditorium, watching shy girls transform into confident young women in chiffon during the beloved queen contest. That same crowd shares coordinated seat shifts when a contestant question is answered without thought. That same crowd beams with pride when the most deserving young lady is crowned. 

Julie Moyer Arnold

1986 Wayne County 4-H Fair Queen

It's the week before the county fair. 

Mothers are stuffing their growing children into the white jeans she bought too sizes too big last summer, sure they'd fit perfectly this year. She is also wondering why said children chose the dairy project again. They don't even regularly finish the leftover milk from their cereal. 

It's the week before the county fair. 

Open class exhibitors are watering, plucking, scouting, pruning, picking, poking and poaching the perfect produce. They're also trying to remember what time the old Master Gardener around the block usually goes for his Saturday morning coffee? Before open class check-in ends at 10:00, they hope. 

It's the week before the county fair. 

Muffins are burning, cakes are collapsing, little brothers are taste-testing things they shouldn't and young gals are calling their grandmothers to decipher cursive writing on a recipe card, From the Kitchen of: Mary Lou, 1978.

It's the week before the county fair. 

Show numbers, registration papers and health papers are held in higher regard than the third child's birth certificate. Perhaps even the third child, entirely. 

It's the week before the county fair. 
Showmen are shaking aerosol cans, checking volumes, to determine just how much money they'll pay Mr. Sullivan next week. 

It's the week before the county fair. 
This is right about the time that the $200 in creative spending you've invested in at Hobby Lobby should kick in, but doesn't. 

It's the week before the county fair. 

Grandparents are gathering their one dollar bills, sure that half of their life savings will be spent on fair food and the livestock auction in the next 10 days.  As long as the grandkids are happy...and hydrated. 

It's the week before the county fair. 
Young, inexperienced mothers are laying out clothes: Shirts you're allowed to eat a snow cone in, shirts you cannot. In two weeks they'll pre-treat, wash, dry, fold and put in a trash bag for cousins. "Barn Clothes" she'll label them. Some may become dust rags with a story. 

It's the week before the county fair. 
Thirty-somethings are looking at their open class projects, glue still drying the morning that it's due for judging, thinking: I thought I'd have it more together by now. 

It's the week before the county fair. 
Teens are wondering if their fair crush will remember them. 
Two things I want you to note here:
1. Of course he/she will; there are 16 teens your age in 4-H in the county. Your crush is related to 8 of them. Your odds are fantastic. 
2. You're the complete package, you just haven't come to realize it yet. 

It's the week before the county fair. 
Campers are being pulled out of the barn. Fathers are making to-clean lists, mothers are still wondering why they bought the dirty old thing and kids are trying to convince both that they'd rather sleep in a tent. "Memory Maker" dad called it; I won't type what Momma called it. Young people read this blog. 

It's the week before the county fair. 
The Worst of the Worst sibling fights are sure to take place this week. Things will be said, done, sworn and physically carried out. None of those things are true or good or right. In fact, those things won't be said, done, sworn and/or physically carried again out until the Summer Type Conference in Springfield next week. Or the week before Junior Nationals. Or Louisville. Maybe (probably)  all of them. 

It's the week before the county fair. 

Mothers say things such as:

You are never - ever - doing this project again.

When I was in 4-H I had my projects done in April.

I swear if I find out you talked to your brother that way in public...

You kids are lucky this only lasts ten years. I would have killed you in the eleventh.

Get your hair out of your face and tuck your shirt in. 

It's the week before the county fair.

Survive it, embrace it, love it, and remember:

The next ten days will go so quickly. 

But seriously -  next year? 

Start earlier. 

Part One: Better With Age

Following a Memorial Day weekend spent out of town for a wedding, I came home to an alarming site:
Granola bars scattered across the kitchen floor. 
A Bonnie Mohr print that was once on a tripod, laying face down in the middle of the living room floor. 

And worst of all: My beloved fern in pieces across the dining room. 

Confused and quite freaked out, I spotted the bandit still inside our home, laying under the kitchen table...DEAD. 
But before dying, of course, it left droppings all throughout our house that sat empty for three days. 
A Starling. 
In our home. 
Reeking havoc. 
And demolishing my fern. 
I removed the disgusting bird (while crying and gagging simultaneously) with pliers and bleached the place down. 
Our home looked better, but the fern was a mess. It was as though the dirty bird nested there all weekend. I was sick. 
Sick over a house plant, you ask?

This fern isn't just any house plant. 

It is a symbol of things that 
get better with age. 

When I was a young girl, we visited Bob and Ula Marie House at Wonder View Farm. The names may ring a bell - or maybe not. They were the couple that sold Momma and Dad their (our) first Shorthorn cows. Rosewood was one of the great ones that came from the House family and Wonder View Farm, and today her story lives on at BSG.

Driving down their lane that evening was like stepping back in time. A beautiful, well-maintained yard. A full garden. No weeds in site. A modest white farmhouse which stood with great pride. While the guys went to the barn, I remember that Ula Marie invited Momma and I inside their home to exchange some information for our Home Extension Club. Momma was a fairly young member, and Ula Marie was quite active. As we entered the home, I couldn't help but notice dozens of ferns in the back entry way. Ferns of all sizes, in several different pots. Momma raved over them, and that's when Ula Marie told us about the profound significance of these ferns. 

Bob (who, as I write this, is 85-years-old) had a great-grandmother who maintained a fern at her homestead and would give "starts" of that fern to family members. She would separate the roots and place them into a new planter to begin, or "start", a whole new fern. 
Pieces of that original fern were passed down through the generations and the original plant spanned homes, families and decades. 
In 1951 Bob married Ula Marie, and Ula Marie was given her own "start" to the family fern.
The array of ferns that I observed as a young girl in the House Homestead was just a small sampling of how much that fern had reproduced - and thrived - over the years. 
I was amazed by it. 

Weathered by time, change, location, atmosphere, various owners and more - these ferns remained a testament to the power of all things that are able to stand the test of time and get better with age.  

As a young girl, the story of that family fern certainly remained in the back of my mind. Because of the symbolism they held for family and time-tested durability, ferns became my favorite plants, and I've used them widely as a homeowner over the last six years. Each time I bought - or buy - a fern, with gratitude I think of Bob and Ula Marie House and the "start" they gave my own family in terms of Shorthorn cattle. 

Aspiring to have a wedding day - and marriage - where even the smallest details hold great meaning, at our wedding last August we had nothing at the alter but ferns. 
My bouquet was made of ferns and The Growing Tree. 

BowSankey Wedding Flowers Getting Watered

As a wedding gift, Bob and Ula Marie gave Cody and I our very own "start" to the family fern. A gesture of heritage, dedication, durability and things that get better with age. 

Soooo.....It was our "start" that I found in the middle of the floor Sunday night. Perhaps you now understand why I'm nursing this plant back to life after the bird of death has demolished it.

In a world where few things actually improve over time, I find myself holding onto this darn heritage house plant with the hope that I can give someone else another "start" as Bob and Ula Marie gave my parents in cattle and Cody and I in marriage. 

Few things get better with age. 

But oh, some things do. 

Your friends
Your favorite song
Your favorite pair of jeans and boots
Love you give and receive
Your judgement
Your 401K plan
Your confidence
Your breeding program and legacy
Your antiques
Clint Eastwood and Sam Elliott
And let us not forget the The Wine.

Look around you. 
What things in your life can - or do - get better with age?
Do you appreciate them as you should?
How can you preserve them?
How can you make them better for the next?
Or Protect them?
Or Pass them on for the next generations?

I encourage you to be the kind of person who enjoys the things that get better with age. 

Because quite frankly, you're not getting any younger. 

This is the first of a two part series. 

Read tomorrow for the second half of Better With Age!

Three Feet of Confidence

I remember standing in the dressing room and being envious of a three year old, wondering how on earth I had gotten to that point in my life.

We (technically I, but it was a team event) were trying on wedding dresses that day when I stopped dead in my boots and realized something was terribly wrong. 
After a long morning of tight and white on me, my impatient niece was ready to give a white dress in her own size a whirl. 
And give it a whirl she did. 

Marlee, then three years bold, spun around to see herself in the mirror. With glowing eyes and striped socks, her smile radiated. 
"Mommy, I look so pretty," she said to my sister as we each adored Marlee's reflection in the mirror. 

Herself, included. 

She was a solid three feet of confidence. Every little bit of her. 
Unwavering. 
Unquestioned.
Unbroken confidence. 

I drove to the Original Jean's house that afternoon thinking about my niece's reaction to seeing herself in the mirror. 

She was mesmerized. 

She was impressed.

She was confident. 

Confidence: At what age do we lose it?


In perfect time, a friend posted this on Facebook yesterday. 
Not yet tainted by outside influences, his confidence made me smile - countries away.
I let his mother know what today's blog was about and asked her if I could use this perfect example. Her response: "Sure!! I can't wait to read it! I was just wondering the answer to that question myself. My other 2 ages 8 & 10 have both lost it. "

Have you ever considered that? At some point, maybe at 7-years-old, maybe at 17, an event happens that beats us down just a little. It may not seem like such a huge event at the time (or maybe it does?), but the impact is great. How do you get that back after it is lost? 

Confidence is certainly something our world lacks but desperately needs. And the vicious trend of decreasing amounts of it does nothing but damage. 
The worst part: 
It starts at home. 
Parents invest their time and energy into demanding jobs, social obligations, intriguing cell phones or personal fulfillment, instead of investing attention and instilling confidence in their children.
So their children find the attention and confirmation they long for elsewhere. 
Anywhere.
The children get into relationships that are totally wrong for them.
They subscribe to activities that are completely bad for them.  
They turn to damning sources like modern day media to learn what or who they should be.
They conform to "normal" (what ever that is) rather than the person God designed them to be. 
Then the gap between the necessity of lessons learned at home and the young adult deepens.
And the confidence to listen to the little voice in their head weakens. 

And just like that, we've lost another person who might have been confident enough to stand up for what they believe in, even if they're standing alone. 

We need more of those. 
Then that child grows up and is loaded with the responsibility of teaching confidence to their children. 
All of the sudden, the poorly taught student has become the teacher. 
Ever taught a lesson you've never learned yourself?

Log onto social media and you're bound to find the greatest form of poor confidence: the selfie. 

I believe that regularly posting photos of yourself is nothing more than an outcry for  confirmation and attention; a confidence booster based on how many "likes" you get from a random sample. 
What's really a bummer is logging on and seeing married women - and even mothers - posting selfies. 
And sometimes...they include their kids. 

I've learned that confidence is far more quiet than insecurities. 

Consider this: The person who must be heard and seen 

is likely the one who relies on others'  validation. 

The confident person rests assuredly on 

their own beliefs, values and goals; 

they need not accreditation from other sources. 

Fathers teach us confidence. 
Mothers teach us compassion. 

The degrading boss. 
The 20 extra pounds. 
The public slip-up. 
The divorce. 
The middle school bully. 
The broken heart. 
The competition.

There are many people who can (and will) suck the confidence right out of you.
And there are few who can put it back. 
Find a way to invest your time into the latter. 
Giving and receiving. 

Confidence is learning to outgrow the confinement of others' expectations. 

Confidence is doing something for yourself for once. 

Confidence is encouraging yourself, and that being enough. 
Confidence is unplugging and doing what is right for you and your family. 
Confidence is grace: having it and extending it. 

Confidence is spinning around in the beautician's chair and absolutely hating your haircut.

But then realizing it's just hair. 

And it grows back. 

Usually. 

It matters not if you're 6' 3" or 4' 2": 

Today, I encourage you to have three feet of confidence. 

Three feet of 

unwavering

unquestionable

unbreakable 

confidence. 

After all, Confidence is Happiness. 

Lessons From The Dressing Room

If you need a confidence check, squeeze into a wedding dress that you hate, surround yourself with floor length mirrors and stand on a pedestal in front of complete strangers. 

I did it approximately 15 times last Saturday. It was worth it. I found the dress that I'll show my daughter one day - many, many years from now. 

But it was a journey to find "the dress". 

We were in Indianapolis where I had one of those encounters worth passing on. Once I barreled out of the dressing room, I didn't take time to explain to Momma or my bridesmaids what had just happened. I simply held my hands in the air, grabbed my coat from the coat rack and said, "BLOG!"
They didn't ask questions. We had been in the store a total of twenty minutes. 

You know that saying, if you want to hear God laugh, tell him your plans? 
I believe that. 
I also believe if you want to hear a bridal consultant laugh, tell her your budget. 

I was skimming the window displays when a gal approached me and introduced herself as Shonda, my "personal bridal consultant". 
I should have known then that I was in over my head. The only personal consultants I've ever had were two older siblings, and they've both lead me astray more than once in this life. 

Shonda gave me a tour of the entire store then turned to me, head down, pen and card out. "Give me ya number." 
"My phone number?" I asked. 
"Amount you wanna spend on the dress."
Why do I always assume people need my phone number?
"Ohh, ha! Sorry," I apologized, then I gave her a number. 
She looked at me over her bifocals. "Girl, you serious?....You flexible?" Shonda's response worried me. 
"Well, no, not really. I mean, I'll go less....of course. But that's a pretty hard budget I'm trying to stick to," I uncomfortably told her. In a moment of awkwardness, I reached out and grabbed one of the dresses beside us while she wrote notes on the card. I grabbed the price tag: 4x my budget. I was crushed. But I knew how much I thought my wedding dress should cost and I was sticking to that.  

Shonda grabbed my arm and guided me to the discount racks. Fair enough. 

In a rush around the set of discount racks, Shonda grabbed two dresses and asked if I saw anything I liked. If I would have had time to let my eye focus I guess I could have found something, but she didn't give me an opportunity to search for a dress that fit my budget and my guidelines. Probably because Shonda knew better. 

She grabbed the two dresses and told me to follow her - into the dressing room. Momma, Laura and Betsy each followed this madness until Shonda stopped them, hand up. "You girls sit here. I got Lizzy (I didn't feel the need to correct her at this point) here in the dressing room." 

Until now, I hadn't tried on a dress that my sister hadn't zipped, buttoned or tucked. I was a bit concerned. I turned around and gave Laura a little wave. So long, sister. I followed Shonda into a land of white lights and mirrors.

"Miss Lizzy you just strip down and let me know when you ready. I stand out here 'til you ready."
"Got it," I replied as I closed the curtain behind me, set my purse down and unclipped my necklace. 

Approximately 13 seconds passed.

"You ready?"
"Not...quite....yet....." I responded while thinking, Ok, listen lady, I'm still trying to pry this second damn boot off. 

One minute later and Shonda was in the tiny dressing room with me, holding the first dress. 
This was the step-in kind. 
One leg at a time.
Shimmy it up. 
I had the routine down. 

Then, it was stuck. 
Right around my hips. 
Shocking. 

I tugged. 
Shonda pulled. 
The dress didn't move. 

"What size is this?!" I asked, bending my knees back and forth, trying to get the thing to move a centimeter. 
"Six. Can you believe they'd put a six on the clearance rack?"

Game over. 

Together, we worked in silence, shimmying, shaking, everything short of jumping up and down to get the dress past my Shafer hips. 
I started laughing. Out loud. 
Is this really happening? 
Is she really trying to stuff me - literally - into a size six wedding dress?
Why?

Shonda started laughing, too. Loudly, from the belly, deep down inside, laughing uncontrollably. 
"Girrrrrlllll, there is one thing we know....you ain't no siiize six! Pull it down. We ain't doing this."

And before I could even prepare myself, dear Shonda yanked the dress right down. 
To my ankles.
And the hook on the back of the dress get snagged on my underwear. 
And...you can only imagine. 
That's all I'm going to say about that. 

"I ain't seen nothing, girl, I ain't seen nothing!" Shonda said as she tried to unhook the dress from me and back herself out of the dressing room, head down. 

I was mortified, but still laughing. It all happened so quickly. 

In a rush to adjust myself, I tried to make small talk with the stranger who just had arguably the worst experience of her personal bridal consultant career. 
"Two things learned today, I'm not a size 6 and you don't get paid enough," I told her through the curtain. 

"Ha! .......I tell ya what. You found any dresses you like so far?" she asked.
"Oh, yeah, at a store this morning I found two that I really adore."
"Great. 'Cause we ain't even gonna try to stuff you into that other size 6. No way, no how!" she continued to talk as she left the dressing room, carrying both dresses. "And as for that number, good luck giiirl, Ha!" she laughed to herself. 

I laughed, too. Some crazy lady in Indianapolis just saw more of me than the law allows, she's thinks I live in a fairyland because of my frugal ways, and Momma, Laura and Betsy are sitting on the other side of this wall confused and awaiting my fashion show. Did that really just happen?

I learned a few things that afternoon in the dressing room. 

1. Stick to the budget. As with any big purchase, you know what you want, what you can afford and what is right for you. Don't let anyone talk you up or down. You'll find it. 
2. Self confidence is a great thing that fluctuates. Some days I have it, some days I don't. Luckily, I had it with Shonda. 
3. If you can't laugh at yourself, someone else will. Trust me.
4. Twenty minutes can last forever.

I did find the dress - under my budget, thank you very much. It is beautiful, so me and perfect for the day I marry Cody.

In fact, of the dresses below, can you guess which one I chose to wear August 10th?

 

You're right. None of them.