I sat on the edge of the bathtub this morning, wearing a bathrobe and a bad attitude. The tip off that the problem was my attitude – as opposed to any circumstances – was that what had set me off was a simple text: “You are a blessing to me.”

Just BURNED me up, that nasty little text.  The NERVE of someone texting that on a Sunday morning!

How… dare… that person… even consider offering that sort of statement when clearly I should be so much more than can be summed up in how I positively affect THEM.

Here, I should note, that I’ve kinda had it with people in my life who use me. The people – and I’m sure it’s entirely my fault that there are so stinkin’ many of em – who only care about me in terms of my direct value into their lives. What is my tangible contribution of worth into their lives? I’m measured by the things I do, say and give to THEM. Who I am is entirely irrelevant.

People can use you, if you let them. And the type of people who are interested in using you might only stop when they’ve used you up.

Not everyone is like that, of course. There are other – far many more other people – who like and care about me regardless of if I do, say, or ever give them anything at all. I may or may NOT be a blessing to them, but it isn’t the most important thing, by far. No pressure. And certainly they don’t give me the impression that I need to consistently earn my way into their good graces with contributions they find favorable.

Maybe I am a blessing to that person, who clearly meant well. But I wasn’t terribly moved to express any thanks that it had been noticed. I expressed nothing, and left the text unanswered. But if I had… it might have read something like: Yeah… I can see how you’d think that. But I’m actually so much more – with thoughts and ideas and dreams and plans and opinions and wishes that actually have nothing at all to do with you… and therefore have nothing to do with my value to you… and so they are not interesting to you in the slightest.  I’m actually so much more in this world than a blessing to you – and it would just be awful if we both forgot that.

But I didn’t say that. As it is, it’s difficult to even tell YOU that, and really I’m trying to figure out how to appropriately include a disclaimer that no, I’m really not battling PMS, thank you, and this is really just all me. Lucky family, I have, right? Gah. I must be such a glorious blessing to them.

Eventually I got dressed and made breakfast and cleaned the house and went to church wearing the most shocking shade of red lipstick I own. It was an accident. But once you accidentally grab a red lipstick, there’s no going back that day. It just doesn’t come off, and you’re better off not trying because you’ll end up looking as if you grabbed a red lipstick, tried it, hated it, and then couldn’t get it off your face. Whereas, if you just go with it – well. You look like you wore the most shockingly inappropriate red lipstick to church. (Worse, if you have a huge mouth like I do.)  But for some reason, that seemed the better way to go. Until the boys started reminding each other, “Do NOT kiss Mom. She’s wearing red lipstick. It will NOT come off, so don’t forget – no kissing Mom.”  Even my 3 boys get that red lipstick is not to be messed with.

But maybe it was fitting, after all. A few months ago I read an article written by a woman who wanted to spread the red lipstick trend. More than that, she was irritated at the pale, nude shades of lipstick a lot of women (like me) wear. She equated it to women not having a voice – and, the opposite would be women so empowered and vocal that they wore red lipstick.

I thought her views were utterly ridiculous.

But it’s probably a good day to find a voice, regardless of lipstick color. Watch out – do not mess with Mom. She’s wearing red lipstick and you better not tell her she’s a blessing. She’s empowered, somehow, and she’s kinda nuts.

And I WAS quite outspoken, later, as the boys somehow decided to try to sniff their bellybuttons and compare notes on whose was more disgusting. This wasn’t easy, since they were all strapped into two rows of seats in the car. Sometimes, when you are shocked into finding a voice on a matter, all you can do is yell. Or, that’s what I do. One loud, primal mommy scream to blot out the reality of whatever it is they are doing, and possibly simultaneously stop them with shock value. Not that these rare screams are voluntary – they aren’t.

But the Bellybutton Sniff Survey really undid me.  (It doesn’t take much, today.)

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