It was a bad day. Some random lady at a ministry event decided to zing me with an acerbic comment and then my hubby stood me up for lunch. All of a sudden the weight of the world descended upon my shoulders like a heavy backpack of cranky boulders.
This is the part where I am supposed to say I lifted my tense spirit up to the Lord and it all washed away like a Holy Spirit Calgon bubble bath. Sadly, my dormant deviant side kicked into gear and I decided at that moment all I wanted was a margarita and chips to soothe my weary soul.
But, I didn’t want to go alone. I needed a partner in crime. So, I called Keri, knowing she probably wasn’t going to be up for an impromptu luncheon at our favorite Mexican restaurant, Casa Ranchera, but crossing my fingers that maybe, just maybe, she might be open to a little frivolity.
When Keri didn’t pick up, I pulled up to her house on the off-chance she might be at home. There she was in all her mama glory, standing outside in the sunshine with her two adorable munchkins. Her little boy had a watering can in hand as he dug in the dirt while Keri planted flowers. I pulled the Expedition up to her driveway and stuck my head out the window.
“Hey Ker, want to go get a Margarita with me?” I nonchalantly inquired.
She looked at me quizzically. I could see her mind chewing on my request, “Bad day?”
I nodded yes. Can you come?’
“I really don’t want to drag the kids and we just ate lunch. How about next week and I’ll get a sitter.”
“I think I’m going to go by myself,” I said.
She gave me a long look. You can’t go by yourself to have a margarita.”
“Why not? I go there all the time. Besides, I have the baby with me.”
She didn’t say any more but I assumed she was thinking that it made me look like a sad and lonely soul nursing my sorrows like someone from the cast of Cheers. “I’m going,” I declared defiantly, gave her a forced smile and set off for the Ranchera.
The baby and I arrived at the restaurant and were led outside by my favorite hostess. She placed us at a table with a waiter we were familiar with and in my favorite spot for the baby to run around. When the waiter came by I ordered up my chips, quesadilla and one perfect margarita.
I sat back in my chair and savored each moment; the warm sun, the salty chips, the tasty snap of lime in the margarita, and my sweet baby girl who tottered around my feet taking her first steps. I breathed in slowly and then took a moment to ask the Lord what the heck was going on my heart.
First, my pride had been wounded by the insensitive woman. I felt inadequate and underappreciated. I had been criticized for my teaching outline. In my haste to complete it, I had inadvertently mismatched the fonts and the lady compared me to another teacher who performed more up to her standards.
The truth is between my two jobs, three kids and busy ministry schedule; I was amazed she even got an outline in her hands to slam. The other teacher simply had more time and was operating in a different season of life. It wasn’t an apple to apples comparison. More like a grape to apple comparison and I was the squished grape.
I also felt the sting of disappointment by being overlooked by my husband. I knew it was unintentional but I had been jilted and forgotten none the less. The one man in the world I wanted to share my dang quesadilla with was too busy for me. That made me sad and I needed to forgive him.
The margarita in my hand raised another issue. Why did I feel the need to make a statement and drink by myself in public? It wasn’t about the alcohol, because I haven’t over imbibed in almost twenty years. But there was definitely a desire to escape; to run and hide from the thumping pain of rejection. Consciously, I knew that chips and a margarita would not soothe my soul, but it was an outward attempt to heal an inner boo-boo that only God could address.
And then there was the final crux, my unwavering passion for authenticity. A good thing, usually, but possibly teetering on defiance in this instance. My stubborn spirit cried out, “I will order the real margarita, and not ice-tea. I will not hide or posture for any man.”
I so badly want to be defined as real, rejecting hypocrisy and my perception of Christian posing, that the very act of proving my independence might have been prideful in and of itself. I was throwing out the baby with the bath water (Or the tequila with the margarita in this case).
Despite my misgivings, the baby and I enjoyed our little outing and I learned a few things about myself that day. As long as I am doing what God calls me to do, to the very best of my ability, I have nothing to be ashamed of. And even though my husband stood me up, he is generally a stand up guy and I am tremendously blessed.
I realized the margarita was merely a symbol for relationship and it was this longing in my heart to be known and loved that drove me to reenact a normally rewarding experience. And while God met me for this margarita, next time, I think I’ll wait to go with friends.
Related Articles
- Skinny Girls’ Margarita (beautypinup.wordpress.com)
