Confession

Someone asked me where I go to church the other day. Is this something restricted to the South? I was as shocked by the question as if they’d asked me how often I beat my children. It’s just that kind of question.

For the record, I’m Episcopalian, but most of my family is Roman Catholic. I sort of relate to each, since they’re both Catholic religions. I mean, I’ve attended both types of Mass. I have to say that, though on a personal politics level I agree more with the Episcopal way of thinking, that brand of Catholicism lacks some of the mystery, the ceremony and reverence of Roman Catholicism.

Sometimes, I fantasize about sneaking on over to Christ the King and slipping into the confessional or a pew, but I know it would be largely unsatisfying. I’d end up just feeling like a fraud. Besides, I’d have to start off with, “Okay, I know I’m not really supposed to be here, but…”

That’s never a good start.

Okay, things to confess:

I’m starting to really love my feet. Not in a fetish way. They’re just cute. Even that obnoxious, slightly longer second toe that’s always bothered me and my tiny baby toe that hides up against the piggy that didn’t have any roast beef. No, they just look good in my little gold Sanuks, toenails painted pale pink against tanned feet. I’d post a picture, but you already know what feet look like.

I’m slowly emptying my house, my life, of the things I’ve held on to for the last twenty years. It’s easy to hoard these objects that were useful at the time and oh so important to have. White ceramic canisters from a time when I had a huge kitchen have been collecting dust for four years, packed away in a cardboard box, because I now have a teeny, tiny kitchen. Pictures I’d meant to sort through years ago and put in albums, but I’ve forgotten in what chronological order they’ve been taken and who these people are. I stand in the garage picking through things, reminding myself that I need to have a garage sale or haul it down to Salvation Army. But I’m paralyzed by my inability to let go and finally just put everything back, hitting the light switch on my way out.

I’ve decided that I’m giving my current career one more year, and then I need to go. It’s time.

I can’t decide what I want to be now that I’m all grown up, so I’m working toward all these different things in a similar vein. I’ve decided I want to do something working with the public that has an almost zero stress and responsibility level. For reasons I choose not to share, I’ve already eliminated Wal-Mart Greeter from my list, so I’m starting a class in medical terminology next month. Then it’s on to anatomy and all that mess. Funny. No one told me that a degree in Humanities trains you for absolutely nothing practical beyond the ability to reason and a tendency to over-analyze every-frickin-thing.

I’m secretly addicted to the Food Network. Or rather, it WAS a secret. The first step is admitting you have a problem, though. Right?

Hope you have a fantastic week! :o)

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