Pride Goeth Before a Face Plant

I used to be cute.

Used to be. Way back in the day, before all those cute parts began their migration south. Perhaps migration is not the optimal word, since the migratory tend to return to their place of origin. Last time I checked, my thighs had settled quite comfortably into their new region, with no apparent intention of moving back.

Ahhh...but the glory days were indeed glorious! Bikini-clad romps in the ocean side sun...shorts and miniskirts and summer dresses... flawless, bronzed skin. Cellulite, wrinkles and spider veins were blips only on my mother's vanity radar. I frolicked in the surf like some living version of Sports Illustrated's airbrushed beauties, deluded that time and age would never betray.

In my teenage naivete, I also dismissed the dastardly rumor about that grand dame, Fleshly Pride, leading the Fall on Your Face Parade. And even if such were true, I didn't consider myself proud. I was simply bearing the burden of my God-given physical assets in an era that labeled snug baby tee's, exposed midriffs and Daisy Duke shorts "high fashion". Yes, I was a Christian. But I was not fresh off the prairie. Laura Ingalls could keep her frock and bonnet.

There came a woefully fateful day, early in my college years, when I took a nose dive off my pedestal. Quite literally. Summer had South Carolina in its tyrannical grip, the breeze just off the ocean the only outdoor respite from suffocating heat. Towel, chair and beach bag in tow, I tucked myself into the space between the lifeguard's tower and the catamaran rental hut, a tactical maneuver to assure maximum exposure. All that remained was to shed my cutoffs and tank top and let the Alisha Show begin.

Never mind that pesky, inner Jiminy Cricket chirping about modesty and causing a brother to stumble. Sakes alive, it was the beach! I was one of a gazillion half-naked girls that paraded the shoreline every day. Here, men were subjected to a veritable smorgasbord of visual temptation. And I...well, I was simply a chick pea on the salad bar of beach life. Just another ingredient.

As I'd expected, my occasional strolls to the water's edge had the nearby lifeguard tuning in. When several surfboard huggers gathered around his high seat to talk waves, I recognized a delicious opportunity. A five-for-one deal. The noon rays had evaporated the sea water I'd been splashing on my skin, leaving a white, salty residue. Solution? The public shower on the boardwalk adjacent to the rental hut. No guy could tear his gaze from a dripping wet Betty.

Mapping the most advantageous route, I sauntered towards the dunes. But my audience was otherwise engrossed, limbs flailing in flamboyant re-enactments of wipe outs on the distant swells. No sweat...I'd wow them on the return. Moments later, I twisted the excess moisture from my hair and set a new course through the maze of watercraft that reposed just off the boardwalk. A glistening babe...interesting. A glistening babe and a boat...irresistible. A Christian young woman ignoring that her body is the temple of the Lord...heart breaking.

I gagged my conscience and plodded on as gracefully as the deep, scorching sand would allow. Sun-bleached heads turned as I wove through the catamarans and other boats, their flapping sails intermittently blocking transmission of my performance. This would not do. I cut back towards the dunes, intending to eliminate all interference, then ventured a fleeting glance at the boys. Yes...still watching...definitely impressed...going to remember me forever.

Oh, they would surely never forget me. The moments that followed, I am positive, are emblazoned upon their memories. How could they possibly erase the Youtube-worthy image of the self-absorbed girl who strutted around the backside of a catamaran and overlooked the vessel's rudders? Yeah...that genius.

In a move Jim Carrey could take to the bank, I took a header over that rudder and belly flopped every sopping wet pound of me into nature's sandbox. The searing grains blistered my limbs and torso while my brain kicked into instant replay mode. I just fell... fell... fell...

"Are you okay?"

I struggled to my knees and squinted up at the lifeguard. "I think so." He pulled me up, then stepped back to assess the damage, pointing out that both of my legs were bloody and packed with debris. But the throbbing in my mangled shins could not compare to the sting of my shredded ego as I stood feet from the young man I'd been scheming to impress. Some sight I must have been, sand caked into my damp hair and every crack and crevice of my front side.

"Better go wash out those cuts," my hero instructed, an expression of mingled pity and amusement clinging to his face. "Do you need my help?"

"No! I mean, I'll be fine. Thanks anyhow."

I was grateful, after I'd rinsed away the evidence of my wrestling match with the boat, to find the lifeguard was preoccupied by a herd of beach bunnies and the other witnesses had dispersed. Oh, for Jiminy Cricket's star that I might wish to shrink from view as I gathered my things and quit that scene. Wish number two? A less vociferous conscience. Pride goeth before a fall...

No kidding.

In the years that followed, I wished on many occasions to get that irritating bug in my cross hairs. But as I've aged, I have grown more fond of the still, small companion examining my intentions and guiding my actions. He has whispered to me of the inestimable value of modesty. Warned of the dangers of tempting young men. Shouted of the destructive nature of fleshly pride. I traded humiliation for preemptive humbleness, and have been more than satisfied with the results.

Granted, those now constant pings on my vanity radar--the laugh lines and crow's feet, the road map on my thighs, the unsightly dents in my fender-- aid in keeping me grounded. But it is God's Spirit who has done the greater work, and has given this ex-egotist an undeserved gift: my husband.

And he still thinks I'm a hottie!