I'll never forget standing beside a friend in Woolworths, mesmerized by a makeup display of gleaming gold tubes of tangerine colored gloss. Mesmerized, and longing to buy a Tangee Lipstick so badly. Because it was Tangee, the lipstick for seventh grade girls. Tangee, the only lipstick our mothers would allow us to wear since, while it looked and felt so grown-up—once we applied it, the shade paled to almost invisible.
The only problem was that it cost thirty-five cents, and I was trying to be responsible with my allowance.
As I stood, letting the color and texture imprint themselves on my mind, my friend suddenly laughed. "Let's steal it," she whispered. "Quick, while nobody's looking."
Call me sheltered, but no one had ever suggested to me that it would be a lark to steal. Both of our families were very comfortable. And it was a given that stealing was wrong. On top of that, each of us had enough money in our wallets to buy the lipsticks. So none of it even made sense.
My thoughts raced past the obvious scenarios like, what if we got caught, and the store called our parents? And how my parents would have ranted, "You're too smart to be that stupid," then grounded me for life and beyond. But what really convinced me not to sneak the Tangee into my purse, and risk losing a friend because I wasn't cool enough to play her game? It was that suddenly, when I looked at the cherished gloss, all I could think was, "Do I really want to feel guilty for the rest of my life for stealing a thirty-five cent lipstick that I don't even need?"
So what saved me? I remembered what my mother had once told me. "Joanie, if anyone ever tries convincing you to do something you know is wrong, or that you don't want to do, just tell them, "My mother is a mean bitch, and she'll kill me." Then she laughed and added, "And you have my permission to use those exact words."