Bad for the Eyes, Good for the Thighs

This is a lengthy post and I've written it more for myself, for proof of my sacrificing ways. I might need this later when the kids are older.

This morning my eyes look like little squinty slits.

Yesterday was a prime example of the difficulty one may face when planning for any sort of semi-formal event in Jordan. The forty-five year old brother-in-law who is finally cutting the proverbial apron strings and embarking on a new life as a husband is/was the catalyst for all of yesterday's mayhem.

My search for tasteful clothing to wear to his wedding began two days ago, when I ventured out alone to a smaller mall that is known for having decent prices and a good selection. The first thing I tried on, I thought, "I can make this work. I can live with this," but the price made me choke and gag because the quality was just not there! I left without making any purchases related to my reason for shopping; I did buy an iced coffee for myself and a dozen donuts for my kids.

Yesterday's quest began early. I was at the mall when its doors opened. I found a store that sells only high-end Turkish clothing. The sales gal was very helpful, and I was ecstatic she was not a smoking man. She asked me my size. I told her. She gathered all sorts of outfits that were lovely and tasteful. I tried the first one on. It was not my size. I tried the second; again, not my size. I gave them back to her. She asked again, politely, what my size was. I added four additional numbers to the original size I had told her. (It's alright; I needed a reality check.) She brought my back the same clothing in my 'new' size. The first thing I tried on worked. She was honest. She did not make me feel like an old hag, complimented me on my bleach-stained sports pants she saw hanging on the hook, and asked me if I'd teach her English. She found my Arabic "cute" and "entertaining." I found her helpfulness absolutely priceless. Cha-ching, purchase made. And a fez tip to the Turkish, who know how ladies are built.

I quickly found shoes to match, jumped in the car and stopped by the supermarket. I ran home and put on the beginnings of lunch, ran back out and picked up child #4 from pre-school, then ran back home to check on lunch, then ran back out to pick up child #3 from her school. I drank three glasses of water and waited for the other kids to arrive.

Once lunch was finished and everyone was home, it was time to get ready for baseball practice, where they were having a good-bye gathering for one of the players and his Dad, who is also one of the coaches. Such is the life of embassy employee ex-pat types, who are bound to be re-assigned to new places. I left the Lone Ranger at practice and took the three girls to find shoes for the little ones and an entire outfit for the older one. We lucked out at "Special Italian Shoes," a store whose name always makes me laugh, as if the shoes are somehow learning disabled--either that or the shoes are for learning disabled Italians. The little girls were finished, with outfits completed, since their aunt had already sent them beautiful dresses from America several months back. Way to think ahead, sister!

This left the Lone Ranger and Oldest Daughter. She is in that in-between stage where she is young enough to be called a "girl" but old enough to wear something a bit mature. We walked and walked and walked, roaming in and out of stores carrying the most tasteless clothing. When we did find something suitable, it was either too big or too 'old.' Fruitless.

It was time to pick up Lone Ranger from practice/pizza party sendoff. We found him sweaty and full of pizza. We drove home, dropped off the two girls whose task had been completed, and flew to the nearest mall we had not yet visited. We found Oldest Daughter's ensemble in an American store whose clothing line is well-known and who just so happened to be having a sale, reducing its prices to almost affordable. She looked like a princess and I had to turn away quickly and bite my lip to fight back tears. By this time my bleach-stained sports pants were soaked with sweat, because we had literally been running for hours on end.

Three down, one to go. We meandered from store to store, trying to find a simple outfit for the boy. Everything was either for preschoolers or gelled teenagers, of which my son is neither. Farouq was limping from having pulled a muscle at practice, and he said he'd wear his old jeans to the wedding--he just did not care. I persisted. Finally I found myself drawn to a suit store. I asked the man if he carried suits for boys. He told me he did not, but a neighboring mall did, and he even knew which floor it was on. Thank you, helpful suit store man.

Back in the car, to a different mall. By this time it was already past my kids' bedtime. I was feeling shaky. We rounded the corner of the food court and found the store the man had described. I saw the prices hanging from the suits and was taken aback but I told the man, "We want a suit for my son." We found a beautiful grey one. Shirt, tie, everything. Alterations being done today, will pick up this evening. He looked so handsome standing there in his baseball cap, dirt-stained face, and brand new suit. Again, I fought back tears. The salesman felt sorry for me. I asked him if he had any idea how much money I had shelled out since 10 a.m. that day, just to get myself and four kids ready for a two-and-a-half hour event. He knocked an additional 30 JD off the price.

Today I have the remnants to buy--shoes for the boy, some accessories. Oldest Daughter kept telling me, "Remember, it's for Uncle Akram." But it really isn't. It's for them. Me. Us.

Thighs are aching, eyes are squinty, but we're going to look smashing.