March 20, 2008

Confessions from the Carpool

Before and after karma

By Shana McLean Moore
Special to the Times

Parenting and puppy training books insist that the “correcting” of a misdeed should be age-appropriate and timely. So why can’t the karmic universe work the same way? I, for one, am dog tired… no, make that “mom tired” of paying for mistakes I made decades ago. In fact, I’m thinking of going after the Dali Lama for karmic extortion.

I mean, geez, if a girl only committed the moral equivalent of piddling on the carpet, must she spend the rest of her life paying the price for eating one of Momma’s Jimmy Choo shoes?

Go ahead, rub my nose in it, cage me in the kennel or sit me in the timeout chair—just don’t send me back down the long, winding hair shirt of a road to Hana, where I will eventually be allowed to pay the conch blower, the Hawaiian equivalent of the “piper,” in full for my mistakes.

My husband might actually argue, in the Dali Lama’s defense, that the delay in the correcting of little old me is due to my own personal karmic backlog—that the universe can’t possibly keep up with the righting of my wrong little soul.

Exhibit A could very well include a story about my little slip of the tongue (or was it a slither?) when he was taking an arguably well-deserved Saturday afternoon nap. As I walked past him balancing a laundry basket while barking instructions to our daughter about her fifth grade state report mega-project, I couldn’t seem to hold back a bitter attempt at a Scottish accent with, “Oh, you take your nap, Deadweight Donovan.”

Wouldn’t you know, just seconds later I slammed my baby toe into the leg of the coffee table and shouted “KAR-MA!” Well, actually, I gave karma a memorable introduction by including a few juicy adjectives before it. My husband’s response?

“Yeah, I’ll call your brother and let him know you finally got your comeuppance for pouring the hot dog juice on his face when you were 10.”

Unfortunately for me, the stubbed toe was much less painful than the stubbed psyche I was about to experience.

My “psyche-toma” would be due to a karmic debt I incurred back in the days when I thought it best to solve my problems with my brother with hot dog juice. During the rare moments we weren’t fighting, I would often skim through Mom’s issues of Ladies Home Journal or Family Circle. Because I had no interest in reading the articles about “How to Mediate Sibling Squabbles with a High Risk of Salmonella Contamination,” I ended up focusing on the pictures. The ones labeled “Before & After” were particularly compelling to me. I just couldn’t get over the degree of contrast between the two photos.

I confess that I was judgmental when I spoke to the photographs by saying “Dang, girl, did it really come to this?” And sure, my friends and I had a few laughs at the ladies who had surrendered to the battle of the bulge, the brow, the bouffant and the bellbottoms, but it’s not like the ladies heard us.

This pastime of ours left quite an impression on me and, consciously or not, made me take a quiet vow to never be an obvious candidate for a makeover. I managed this for quite some time by trailing safely behind all current trends and most doughnut shops.

As you might have guessed, this smugness and the earlier laughter were enough to put me on the road to my own Hair Shirt Hana. The first hairpin turn hit me when I was a 25-year-old high school Spanish teacher, who assumed she was somewhere on the cool side of the schoolmarm spectrum. That is until the day one of my favorite students came rushing toward me exclaiming “Señora, don’t take this the wrong way, but my friends and I were talking at lunch and we want to get you a Jenny Jones makeover!”

I stood there frozen in my forest green wide-whale walking shorts, matching hunter’s jacket and the ultimate accessory of matching green tights that pulled it all together, and said ¿QUÉ? How could I have possibly gone from Liz Claiborne hunter to Bambi the hunted in a single sentence?

I swallowed this ugly truth and was ultimately thankful that the girls were only as dedicated to my makeover as they were to their homework. I also muttered a quiet prayer that this humiliation would cover any past and future misdeeds I might ponder.

Imagine my shock, then, when I recently found myself studying a weight-loss ad that boasted a dramatic transformation. But rather than think to mock the woman who lost inches and toned her frame, all I could think was I’d be lucky to look like her “Before” shot.

If karma has more in store for me on that subject, I hope the gods take credit cards.

Shana McLean Moore is a resident of Almaden Valley. She invites you to listen to her free podcast and read more of her columns by visiting www.caffeiantedponderings.com.