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Gindi Vincent

The Dish on Career, Fashion, Faith, and Family

Search Results for: an inch away

Fashion Fridays: Memory Series, Jennifer’s Grandmother

July 22, 2016 by Gindi Leave a Comment

I have loved hearing your fashion memory stories for this summer Fashion Fridays series.  I love reading how almost every biggest fashion memory is linked to a person.  Mine are the same way!  Today we welcome my friend Jennifer with her beautiful, transport you there, memory of her first professional fashion and her grandmother (she just couldn’t find an old picture so use your imagination!).  Welcome Jennifer today:

When reading your fashion memories, this one came hurtling back to me. I can literally smell the clothes pre- and post- dry cleaning as I think back to my first job out of college. I can see myself vividly unwrapping my first professional garb in my grandmother’s nursing home room to show her and my mom my new threads. She had recently fallen and broken her hip, and she was suffering from dementia. Unfortunately she was also experiencing the onset of Alzheimer’s which would keep her chained to that nursing home for the rest of her life.  I don’t know if I’ve ever felt that strongly about threads before or since! But I do know it’s one of those rare moments in a career woman’s life you can never duplicate. Kind of like meeting your true love! Here’s my story.

I was 22 and nearing graduation. I was looking forward to hanging up my beer-soaked waitressing uniform after four years of slinging bangers and mash at an English pub. I had big plans. I was taking one week off to get my wisdom teeth pulled, and then I was officially becoming a Professional.

The thought of my first day of work – real at-a-desk-with-a-dedicated-phone-line work – made my shoulders stand tall and my mouth smile from ear to ear. I was pumped. I had never worked in an office before! Internships were for the business majors back then (or at least I was led to believe). I happily waitressed and bartended my summers away. When senior year came around, I started asking the regulars around the bar what kind of work I should pursue. What kind of company would hire a psychology major? What is the going rate for a college graduate these days? I clearly had no clue. How innocent and exposed I felt! How shiny and new the world seemed. Turned out the restaurant owner’s wife was the founder and president of a prominent marketing communications and graphic design firm in the new building next door, and they were in need of a receptionist. Of course, I’d love to apply!

Somehow I got hired. Upon reflection, they should have never hired me. I failed every basic interview principle besides being polite and showing up on time. I feel like I wore overalls to the meeting (or might as well have). That’s how stupid I felt walking out of the building after my first interview. Ever. Hopefully I wore a skirt and at least a sweater or jacket.

So it’s the Friday afternoon before the new job, and it’s time to get serious. I’m on cloud nine and nervous as all get out. I am in the zone, and I am heading to where all the ladies shop for professional garb – Foley’s. Or so I assume since it is pretty much the only department store where I remember my mom spending her time.

I drove to the downtown Foley’s, and it felt very appropriate amongst the skyscrapers. The sales floor was dead, so I basked in my private shopping paradise. I opened my first Foley’s card, and I got a discount on my first day’s purchases. I purchased two suits, Jones of New York, both exactly the same. One in black and one in khaki. I liked the sheen of the fabric, and the fit of the jackets. The fit was a little big in one color, but I knew I could make it work. This was about a decade or so before I discovered that tailors are God’s gift to professional women.

I kept going, feeling confident as the clothes pile up. I added a skirt to match the pant suits. And a sweater set – how smart! I bought a light pink and blue pin striped Ralph Lauren shirt. It had new iron-free technology and was fitted to my frame. I purchased a traditional Ralph Lauren striped shirt as well and forever regretted it. Though it was marked extra small, it felt like it was built for a man – always too billowy around the waist and ridiculously long. After the third wear, I became concerned that Mr. Lauren actually expected 5 foot 4 inch women to wear these shirts and like them! I spent hours looking at shoes and belts and purchased something brown or black – classic but completely boring. Luckily, working with creatives in the dead of summer quickly gave way to colorful heeled sandals and slides so my toes didn’t suffer too long.

The day after my score at Foley’s, I was excited to share my new wears with my mom and grandmother. We met at my grandmother’s room in her new nursing home digs, and the fashion show began. I recall the light through the window created a golden cast across the room. It must have been the afternoon and the sun was shifting. So many things shifting. My grandmother was very happy to see me and enjoyed my company as I pranced around the room as if I was six again playing dress up in her closet. I remember an old afghan was folded on the edge of her bed, and I remember thinking how yellow and golden everything was. It was the last time I would recall seeing my grandmother lucid, and honestly I’m not sure if she truly was that day, but I remember that she was. I felt her quiet smile.

I went through each piece and described my choices in great detail. The bargains I found, the discounts I applied. The endless options I had by mixing and matching the pieces I chose. Such pride I felt driving home that afternoon. Such pride I saw in my mother’s and grandmother’s eyes. One of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences. Thank you Gindi for helping me to remember.

Filed Under: Fashion Fridays Tagged With: fashion fridays

On Your First Day of Kindergarten

August 18, 2015 by Gindi 3 Comments

My dear ones,

I’ve known this day was coming for three months.

Well, I suppose I’ve always known it would come.

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And yet, blink, in quickest flash of a moment it is here.

I am so proud of you on this special day.  I had no idea, staring at each of your little faces in the NICU almost six years ago, who you would become and how immeasurably I would come to love you.

I want so much for you.  Today and in the days to come.  I want all the basics, of course.  For you to read this year as you each so love books.  It will be a passion we share together as we grow.  For you to add and subtract as you begin to compute facts and figures in your head.  For you to begin comprehending the fascinating mysteries of science as you experiment and sense new ways for things to come together.  For you to learn about different countries and peoples and languages and cultures as you imagine the vast world you have yet to travel.

Oh, but I long for you to learn so many things beyond the basics.

I want you to begin to read other people.  To understand their emotions and reactions so you can empathize and understand how to form deep and fulfilling relationships with peers and with elders.

I want you to start understanding how to add in the things which are important and add value and improve your character and subtract out the things which don’t really matter and belittle others and attack your self-esteem.

I want you to passionately seek to find glimpses of the fascinating mysteries of Christ and His sacrifice and His grace and His unfathomable, unfailing, unflinching love for you.

I want you to thoroughly enjoy meeting all peoples of all backgrounds and cultures and incomes and families and respect the diversity they bring to your learning and know that God formed each one of them uniquely with special talents and life purposes.

I know it sounds like such a tall order, but your momma is an optimist.  I believe in the best in you and believe you will grow from a funny, high-spirited child into a purposeful and passionate young adult.

I want to do all I can do to help, but I also want to take one step back this year (just one step at a time, my love).  You see, you’re growing up and you’re not my little one who needs help getting dressed or who holds my hand on every sidewalk.  If I’m being honest with you, I’m crying just typing that up.

See I lose all three of you to a new stage at the same time.  I don’t get to hold one baby back while I release the next one.  No, no, I have the best and the worst job.  I get to send you off to spread your wings all at the same time.  While that brings me tremendous joy, it also makes me sad that you’re growing up so fast.  You are so much of my heart, a bigger heart than I even knew possible, and it breaks just a bit when you’re able to step further away on your own.

But I would never stop this.  Because I believe this is all a working out of His big plan.  I’m so honored to just play a role.  I am confident of this, He who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it.  (Phil 1:6)

I know God is working your life verses into the fabric of what you learn and understand, and I know this kindergarten year will stitch even more of it into the fabric of your lives.  My loving, diligent eldest, you will win favor when you trust God with all your heart.  My passionate, artistic only girl, as you know His love more, He will do beyond what you could ever fathom in your life.  My smart and emotional youngest, you will live a life worthy of Him as you grow in understanding and wisdom.

Have a great day my big boys and girl.  Have a great year.  You will have both successes and failures and each experience will form you into a stronger, more capable human.  No matter whether your days or good or bad, I am always here.  I love you.  I will always love you.  Thank you for making me a mommy.

All my love, to the moon and back,

Mom

Filed Under: Family Tagged With: kindergarten

The Hard Love Stories

March 18, 2015 by Gindi Leave a Comment

I love a dewy, feel-good, happily ever after Hallmark romance.

I love the “meet cute” over video rentals (long gone), e-mails, car accidents, and spilled coffee.  I soak in the formulaic “circumstances” that nearly break apart the adorable 20-something couple before they laugh over the misunderstanding, and the movie fades as they kiss off into the sunset.

But I know, ever more now than ever, it only happens in the movies.

I’ve seen some gut-wrenching love stories wrestle with realities lately.   The porn addiction.  The relapsed alcoholic.  The cancer diagnosis.  The loss of a child.  The affair.  The job loss and bankruptcy.  The family scandal turning brother against brother.

I have watched up close my friends beg God to release them from a marriage that is in the darkest of places.  To escape the hardest of the hard.  The unfathomable.  Those parts left vague in the wedding vows promising for better and worse.

It doesn’t make an entertaining story filmmakers want to shoot.  Reality, without the farcical injected drama of today’s television shows, is hard to stare at in the face.  In fact, the colleague you pass at work would never tell you about what’s going on.  The person in the pew next to you would never show you the pain.  Even friends out to celebrate a birthday together won’t make mention of the horror.

It’s whispered in the cavern of a car to a soul-friend on the way to carpool or in a bathroom after everyone has gone to bed.  It’s shared in bits and pieces because it hurts too much to say it all at once.  At times, sobs choke the words from coming out.  Other times, the voice is devoid of any feeling at all.

I love him so much, but I can’t trust him.  I want to leave.

I have loved her with all I have, but this, well I can’t bear it.

But it is still a love story.  And bear it they do.  Stay, they decide against all logic.  They fight and claw and cry and beg and scream and, most of all, they hope.  They hope they can survive.  They hope they can rebuild.  They hope and pray and long for a miracle.

I’ve seen the miracle.  I’ve seen those dedicated faithful friends grit their teeth and strengthen their grip and spend their mornings on bended knee believing their relationship can survive even this.  I’ve watched their inner circle come around them to do whatever needs to be done: laundry, accountability, restoration, bringing meals, showing forgiveness, mercy, picking up kids, recommending doctors…  They checked judgment at the door and sat down to hold a hand.

If you are in one of these marriages struggling to make it through to the other side, you are not alone.  Others have gone through the battle and bear the scars even after making it through.  I’ve had girlfriends battle everything from sexual addiction to infertility to alcoholism to great loss.  Their marriages survive.  Their marriages end up stronger in the place it was broken.  Their marriages light the path for others still in the darkness.  They are the survivors living to tell you that God can make it better and restore you to love each other even more than you did when you innocently took those vows.

Hang in there.  Say a prayer and take a step away from packing your bags.  Dare to hope.  This can be restored.

He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
    to proclaim freedom for the captives
    and release from darkness for the prisoners,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor
    and the day of vengeance of our God,
to comfort all who mourn,
and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty
    instead of ashes,
the oil of joy
    instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
    instead of a spirit of despair. (Isaiah 61)

Put your hope in the Lord,
    for with the Lord is unfailing love
    and with him is full redemption. (Psalm 130)

Filed Under: Marriage Tagged With: hard love stories

The Point of Re-Entry

January 6, 2014 by Gindi 1 Comment

“You are so special,” I whispered to her as we lay sideways facing one another mere inches apart.

“You are too,” she replied with a smile and twinkling eyes, then promptly hugging my neck.

We grinned at one another and fell asleep.  It had been a full day.  She and I had hosted our first princess tea party for our two local cousins while the boys went with daddy as guests to a monster truck rally.

We set the formal dining room table with embroidered linens and crystal and china.  We prepared the tea sandwiches and dessert tray.  As our cousins approached the door with us in our finest dresses, we lit the pink candles held high by my wedding crystal candlesticks.

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It was a fun evening which capped off my two weeks off.  Two. Weeks!

I’m an attorney.  And for the first fifteen years of my career I was in private practice and had billable hour requirements every month and billed my day in increments of six minutes.  Vacation was a rare luxury because of the impact it would have on my hours billed.  I didn’t even take two weeks off when I got married!  Now, working at a company, they actually made me take vacation.  I hadn’t taken more than a handful of days over the year so out I went for two weeks.

There is nothing quite like the luxury of staying at home for two weeks as a career momma.  The first two days were all projects, projects, projects.  I wrote about a few here.

Christmas was wonderful.  Full of fun and excitement (despite little man’s face).

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The kids were sick, which was a bummer and meant the boys couldn’t go to the ranch with daddy over the weekend (and hence mom didn’t get anything done over the weekend but disassembling Christmas décor), but Christmas itself was wonderful and warm and full of family.

Then, last Monday, I truly took the day off.  My husband gave me a spa day gift certificate for Christmas at my favorite spa which I actually used! Immediately.  After a completely fun few days at the farm for New Year’s, I was back at work Friday morning painting my laundry room, rearranging the kids bedrooms, and setting up my home office somewhere other than the dining room table.

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So now, I’m back at work.

The point of re-entry.

I was ready.

I didn’t make any big New Year’s resolutions.

That’s actually progress for me.  I’m a planner.  A rule-follower.  A list maker and do-er.  I even found myself, while hammering out a brutal 30 minutes on the elliptical machine last night because I’m so out of shape, making weight resolutions.  What I would and wouldn’t eat and drink and how long I’d work out every day and how much weight I would have dropped by month’s end.  Then I stopped myself.  Because, yes, I have goals.  But all the rules and limitations and do’s and don’t’s doesn’t actually help me.  It helps some people.  It serves as judgment for me.  Then it freezes me up from doing something because I didn’t do everything.  Ahhh. That’s its own post.

So I head back, along with so many of you, grateful.  Thankful for the time away.  Thankful for the job to come back to.  Thankful for the family-full weeks.  Thankful for progress, however slow.  Ready for re-entry.

According to Wikipedia, which couldn’t possibly be wrong, re-entry, also known as atmospheric entry is the movement of an object into and through the gases of a planet’s atmosphere from outer space.  There are two main types of atmospheric entry – uncontrolled entry, such as in the entry of celestial objects – and controlled entry, such as the reentry of technology capable of being navigated or following a predetermined course.

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I’ve decided it’s okay if I’m not coming back following a predetermined course.  I have no master plan for 2014.  I have no course navigated.  But I’m comfortable coming back akin to a “celestial object.”  I’ll just hold on tight for the ride ahead.

(Photo credit JimsAstronomy.)

Filed Under: Family, Women

When It’s Hard Being a Working Mom

February 21, 2013 by Gindi 1 Comment

[We Are What He Calls Us to return next Thursday.]

I know the second the nanny arrives, around 7:28, I have to dart out the door.  Big meeting today at the new job.  I’ve already put my gray suit on.  I’m praying I can get my kisses and hugs in without getting covered in oatmeal and berries.  I wake the eldest, who is remarkably still sleeping at 7:10, so that I can have a little time to hug on him knowing he’ll be upset if I leave before he wakes.   She arrives, I rattle off a couple of scheduling notes, and grab my travel mug of coffee which Bray has graciously brewed since I woke up 15 minutes late and I haven’t had time to go buy more K-cups.  We don’t function in our house without coffee. 

The weekend was such a blessing.  All five of us home without a thing on the calendar.  We bummed around Saturday morning.  Ran errands.  Napped.  Played outside almost all day because it was a glorious February day.  Those days are rare but so precious.  I was elated.  Great first week of work.  Great weekend with my wonderful family.  Low key.  Relaxed.  No e-mailing or conferencing calling – just being (my work Blackberry’s arrival was delayed so I had no access to business all weekend long). 

But I know that those times make Mondays and Tuesdays harder.  The kids don’t want me to leave.  Remarkably, it’s harder to leave now than it ever was that first year.  I doled out hugs and kisses and ran for the door, hoping to catch the traffic report in case I had to redirect my route.  The eldest was the first to burst into tears.  I could see him from the glass back door in the kitchen crying for another kiss.  I told him to come, hurry, we’d give more kisses.  And so he came, lips puckered, kisses given in rapid succession.  This left the baby bereft.  He also needed kisses.  So I told him, trying not to count the seconds in my head and praying for light traffic (ha!), to come too.  He also gave big kisses, one right after the other.  The little lady, willing to accept kisses when given, didn’t need the second round and she focused on finishing her oatmeal.  I knelt down with my boys.  Told them I would be home for dinner tonight.  Said how I would miss them so much but they would have a fun day. 

I know I’m not cut out to stay at home full time.  I know that the kisses turn to kicks after nap time.  I know that I sometimes climb the walls on Sunday night because I haven’t showered or had one adult conversation.  But that doesn’t make the decision on days like today any less hard.  It doesn’t make it any less of a struggle.  It doesn’t push away the guilt that says, they are only three for a few more months, you don’t want to miss a minute of it.  Even the kicks. 

I am so crazy about these three little people.  I love the new words they use every day.  I had to explain what stupefy meant to the baby this morning and that it was unrelated to the bad word, “stupid.”  I love that they have such huge hearts and love on each other, and me, more than they fight.  I love that they are learning their manners and they remember to say yes ma’am and thank you now.   But as I buy them shoes one size larger and tick off another inch on their growth chart, I watch the baby fade further in the distance and the child emerge.  I know these days of begging for kisses are numbered, and I hate to leave.  I look in their eyes and share with them how special they are.  How God has blessed our family by sharing them with us.  I remind them that I love them all the way to the moon and back.  But then I leave.  And I’m gone for at least 10 hours today and every day.  And I fight that on days like today.

Filed Under: Family, Women

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