Pressure

Remember those Mystic Tan spray tanning booths? I’m 24 years old. I’ve stripped down to nothing except for a shower cap and I’m standing in the booth waiting to be sprayed with a freezing cold mist that promises to make me look like a freaking goddess. I push the button, but nothing happens. Panic. If I mess with this thing too much I run the risk of coming out looking more Oompa Loompa than goddess. I wait, then push the button again. Still, nothing. Shoot. I’m naked. The only person in here is a tanned body builder/male model who appears to be running this place, and I’ve spent the last of my “fun money” on this tan. I creep into the little room where I’ve left my clothes in a heap. I can’t very well walk out into the lobby like this, but also if I get this guy to come push this button and start this timed spray tan, I’m not going to have time to undress again. And that’s how I found myself butt naked, wedged behind the door yelling at a hot male model to come fix my Mystic Tan machine. Having grown up in the church in a time when the purity movement was all the rage, not only was I embarrassed by this whole predicament, but also felt the soul crushing burden that the mere thought of my naked flesh behind this wooden door was probably causing this poor soul to stumble. He fixed the machine. I think he just pushed the button, which is entirely unfair and also par for the course of my life. He left the room, I jumped in with enough time to get sprayed down with a cold, sticky mist, and then I got out of there as fast as I could and vowed to never return. Blindingly white skin isn’t so bad.  

 

When I was in college I dated this upperclassman who was way out of my league, or at least that’s what I told myself. I had intentionally snagged his attention by wearing braided pigtails a la Britney Spears and a tight pink crop top and taking the seat next to him in a relatively empty classroom. Partner work turned into late night swims and drunken parties with his friends. At first I felt cool and like I’d finally made it (like dating a drunken loser was making it because he was popular and I wasn’t), but it wasn’t long before I just felt like everyone was secretly making fun of me, including the guy I was dating. One night at a party they were playing some form of Charades and the card I drew was Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’d never seen a full episode of Buffy and had no idea what a vampire slayer did (salt? A cross?). I ran into the room doing some sort of karate kick move and everyone laughed at me. I guess Buffy didn’t do karate. Turns out, hanging out with the cool kids wasn’t all that great. 

 

Being thrust into the preschool world was a total game changer as a mom. Suddenly there’s a whole host of other moms to compare yourself to and see how you stack up. When my third child started preschool, I suppose I looked like a seasoned pro to the outside world. The teacher cornered me one day between the class bathroom and the reading nook and asked if I could be the homeroom mom. I have a lot of gifts, but leadership and organization are two that are not on that list. I reluctantly said yes and spent the whole year trying to figure out what a homeroom mom does. I’m pretty sure offering a Ziploc bag of cash as a class Christmas present was probably not the norm. 

 

Confession: I’m afraid to invite people to my house. And if I do gain enough confidence to throw out an invite, I will spend days making sure that everything is as perfect as a house built in 1980 can be. On my knees scrubbing baseboards. Painting. Yes, actually painting the walls. Dusting above doorframes. Trying to attain an impossible level perfection. And I’m not even a perfectionist. I mean, we eat dinner off of paper plates every single night! So, I’m not sure if it’s a societal pressure to maintain a certain lifestyle, or if it’s a demon of my own making but I’ve stopped inviting people over altogether. And I think of my grandmother, how people will show up at her door at all hours and she just opens the door and in they come. She feeds them, “entertains” them with stories and memories, heck she will even clothe them and give them a bed if necessary. It doesn’t matter if all she has for dinner is a ham sandwich or a casserole made up of random leftovers. And oddly (or really, not so oddly) enough, no one ever leaves disappointed that there wasn’t a Pinterest worthy meal laid out on a table with an elaborate seasonal tablescape. 

Have you ever read that Berenstain Bears book “Too Much Pressure”? I so relate to the page in that book where Mama is hurriedly talking to Gran about how they’re too busy to accept Gran’s dinner invite and mid-conversation she drops her hat and then trips on the phone cord (remember phone cords?!) as she tries to grab it and she ends up sitting in a tangled mess on the floor. Then the kids walk in and are like “Mama! Why are you playing on the floor?...we’re going to be late.” That is my life every day. Four kids. Three different schools. A variety of extracurricular activities and clubs and events. I’m always running out the door, kicking myself for leaving too late or forgetting something. Sometimes I just feel like running away from my own life…that I myself have created. 

 

Pressure has its place. Wound care. Attaining goals. Rolling out cookie dough. A few years ago I got onto the Marie Kondo train, learning how to roll my socks and shirts up in a tight little bundle. Asking myself if that 15 year old college t-shirt brought me joy. Yes, obviously it still does. I wasn’t very good at the Marie Kondo thing. But just like we declutter our homes, KonMari-ing the heck out of everything, we have to declutter our lives. Set up some margin because rest is vital to growth. Jesus definitely wasn’t running at the frenetic pace that we run at today. He was often found praying alone, making that a priority even when others had a different agenda. Can you imagine the peace you’d feel if you made prayer a priority instead of hastily trying to get it in before bed, but inevitably falling asleep 3 minutes in? Is it just me that does that? There’s so much pressure these days to fit in, get it right, keep everyone happy, look a certain way, and meet everyone’s expectations. I don’t know about you, but trying to keep up with all of that gives me serious anxiety and that doesn’t spark any joy. The pressure is sometimes self-induced, sometimes pushed on by outside forces, but it’s ultimately up to me to decide whether I let it dominate my life. And maybe it’s because I turned 40 this year and I just want more out of my life, but I’m choosing to let it all go. Here’s to finally really tidying things up.