Written by Frosty Rose

There are many reasons I appreciate our community here on Pink Truth. Chief among them your willingness to let me process my pain with you. It’s been over six years since I gave up on Mary Kay. And I thought I’d gotten all of it out of my system, uncovered every tender spot in my soul left by adherence to a cult that stole my time, my talents, and my finances for fourteen years.

I was wrong. Last week’s article about seminar sparked a memory that still hurts. Sadly, it wasn’t unique.

My director skipped one seminar. Her husband was in poor health, she had just moved to a new state, her adult daughter was struggling. Way too many reasons to give for skipping a legitimate business conference, but this was Mary Kay seminar, and nothing she could have offered would have been accepted as anything other than an excuse and cop-out. Confirmation that she just wasn’t cut out for leadership.

This left me as the lone member of my unit attending. The good news was that I got to spend those few days with my director’s senior director, who was almost MK royalty. She was the daughter of a national, a million-dollar director several times over, and was on track to be a national herself someday.

Her I-story from the stage each year hit all the right notes. Her kids came home from the hospital in a pink Cadillac, and it had been a shock to them when they had to actually purchase a vehicle for themselves at 16! (“Wait, Mom, you mean not everyone’s job gives them a car??”) She had never had to have another job other than Mary Kay. Her now husband had to work really hard to date her, because she was consistent with her work and was always on the phone until 9:00 pm. Cute anecdotes about starting her business in college and figuring out that all she had to do was sell a single mascara each week to buy a pitcher of beer on the weekend. “Not that my mom ever knew that! Tee hee!!”

It was all glitz and glamour, at least on the surface. In reality, it was fools gold.

I received an exclusive invitation to her unit’s annual awards ceremony, to be held in her ritzy home on the outskirts of Dallas. She even rented a limo to transport us all there! So I got glammed up in evening wear with 17 of my new bestest best friends, most of whom I had never met before. And we all piled into the limo together. Unfortunately, there was no air conditioning in the limo. Nor, as we discovered, were there any refreshments to be had, not even a bottle of water.

Oh well. It’s all part of the story, right? You don’t have a story until something goes wrong! And we’d hit our quota of “things going wrong” for the evening. So, we did our best to take up as little space as possible, to make as little contact as possible with the other sweating, women crammed into this luxurious transport, trying to ignore the body odor under the heavy-handed perfume, and dealt with it for the 45-ish minute ride to her house through Dallas traffic.

Her house was a typical McMansion, too large for its lot, too gaudy for good taste. But it spoke of wealth in that way that Southerners refer to as “new money.” And it did a good job convincing us all that Mary Kay was a legitimate way to make it big. Which, I suppose, was most of the point of holding the event there.

There were obligatory pictures before dinner was served, which must be posted so everyone (especially my director) could see what they were missing out on! There was pink lemonade, of course, and a dinner that was one tiny step up from the chicken catastrophes typical of low-budget conventions, all served on flimsy paper plates around flimsy folding tables seated in folding chairs that threatened collapse at any moment.

After dinner, she started the awards program. I already knew that my recognition would be sparse, given that I was the only person there who wasn’t in her direct unit. But, after all, I was in DIQ. I was to be her first second-line director, all important in the development of a national area. And I was queen of both sales and recruiting for my own unit, so I hoped there would be some acknowledgement.

Woman after woman was paraded down the curved staircase to receive her accolades.

“Amber was the queen of sales this year! She earned the Company’s Princess Court ring and pocketed $18.47 in profit for the year!” crowed Ms. Director. (Okay, I made up that last part. But it’s true!!)

“Coral was our very own queen of recruiting! She brought in 12 new recruits this seminar year, and they each ordered $14,000 in product, none of which was sold. We’re all keeping our fingers crossed that none of them figure out how to return product next seminar year. They’ve all ghosted us already, after all.” (I know, I know. She never said the quiet part out loud, especially not at such an exclusive celebration.)

The best recognition was saved for last. You see, she had her own DIQ that month. A new consultant with charm and charisma, who had “started her business” approximately 5 minutes prior. But she was on a roll! She was going great places and going there fast! She was going to be a national herself one day soon, just like Allison Lamarr! (Yes, she really did say that part. And if you’ve forgotten the end of that story, check out this article and search her name in the search bar.) The dear DIQ was showered with gifts in recognition of her meteoric rise. Contrary to the usual cheapness of recognition gifts, the director splurged on nearly $400 worth of goodies.

From the audience, I waited patiently and clapped for everyone’s accomplishments. I certainly did not expect hundreds of dollars of gifts, nor did I want them. But after the over-the-top accolades and praise of the evening, I thought I might get a little speech.

I was wrong. I was so clearly an afterthought that it was painful to everyone in the room. Essentially, after all the fuss made over DIQ 1, it was my turn, and it was basically, “Oh, yeah. Frosty Rose is a DIQ, too. Her director chose not to come to seminar, so she’s hanging out with us tonight.” And she tossed a cheap journal my way.

The worst part (yes, even worse than the limo ride) was the trek back to our hotels at dark thirty. You see, the limo was only contracted to get us to the director’s house. Not back. I assume she didn’t want to shell out twice for little ole’ us. And, since I was not part of the official flock, I was staying at a different hotel. And their answer to, “How am I supposed to get back?” was, essentially, “We don’t know. Figure it out!”

This was early days of Uber, and taxis were expensive. Shuttles were available, but only if you pre-ordered them, and usually only to and from the airports. My nerves were raw after two days of being an afterthought among the people who were supposed to be my “future area,” and I wasn’t used to any kind of taxi or Uber.

In the end, I sucked it up and figured out how to order an Uber. I overcame my fear of riding with some rando through a city I was only barely familiar with, paying with money I did not have. And by the time I got back to my hotel, I locked myself in the lobby bathroom and sobbed. Because, of course, I was sharing a room with three other women, none of whom would have appreciated my “negativity.”

Y’all. I know this sounds whiny. It’s pathetic that I cared so much. But this is the reality of this company that “enriches women’s lives.” It explicitly creates a caste system. You are constantly compared with women more successful than you are, or who you are supposed to believe are more successful than you are. You will always come up short. It is baked into the system to keep you striving for more, ordering more, always feeling less than and like it’s all your fault.

If I were alone in this experience, I would write it off as an overemotional day. But I am not alone. Former consultants, what’s your worst experience with your director playing the comparison game? Or trying desperately to create luxury with a shoestring budget?