TouchedByMadness

In Remembrance of Presents Past

‘Twas the night before Christmas break, when all through the place
Every employee spread cheer with a smile on her face
The timeclock was watched by the workers with care
In hopes that closing time soon would be near.

With two hours to go they were popping their meds
While visions of Jack Daniel’s danced in their heads.
And I and my colleague (poster child for Gap)
Had just settled down for an eyes-open nap.

When what should deter me from the promise of slumber?
Silver wrapped packages for myself (and the bumbler)!
Away to my present I flew like a flash,
“This gift is from Nordstrom! Damn, she dropped some cash!”

I tore into the package, my eyes all aglow
(Cause presents are the whole point of Christmas, you know)
When what to my wondering eyes should appear?
The terror! The horror! Good God, my worst fear!

I knew that this gift-giver thought she was slick
Buying me crap in the name of Saint Nick.
More rapid than eagles the curses they came
And I hollered and shouted, knowing I was to blame.

“Damn karma! Oh irony! That’s just my luck!
I guess that will teach me to promote presents that suck.
At the top of my game, I thought I knew it all.
Now my hope’s dashed away. How the mighty do fall!”

And I sighed in defeat as I wrapped up my box
Containing, of course, new wine-hued slipper socks.

Reconciliation

I totally bombed my first confession.

It’s something that the perfectionist over-achiever in me can’t let go of (almost twenty years later).

It started off well enough. I hesitantly crept into the holy hallowed phone booth. (I realize that “holy hallowed” is redundant, but there were confession boxes on both sides of the priest.) I was just working myself into a good claustrophobic panic when the little listening door swung back with a loud, echoing THWACK! which I mistook for the sound of the Angel of Judgment alighting on the top of my booth ready to smite me for my horrible digressions. I instinctively ducked and slowly gazed up towards the ceiling.

A deep voice acknowledged me.

For a split-second I might have honestly believed it was God, but then I experienced a moment of clarity and realized that the priest was ready to hear me. I found my voice and recited my well-rehearsed, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession.”

I delivered every practiced prayer and response flawlessly. I knew them by heart. I was such a good little Christian.

But when it came time to actually confess my sins . . . I drew a blank.

It occurred to me then that in all my efforts to perfect the rote memory portion of this blessed sacrament, I had never once given any thought to the sins I was going to confess. Maybe I expected they would just come to me at the necessary time, but in the moment of truth I found my skill for improv lacking.

I began to tremble. Surely I must have sins to cleanse from my unworthy mortal soul. How hard could it be to think of them? I closed my eyes tightly and tried to remember the last thing I’d done to get me into trouble. Still my mind was a tabula rasa. I considered making something up but that would be lying, which was a sin in itself and, at the very least, counterproductive.

By now it seemed as if the priest had been waiting an eternity. The whole world was created in less time. I began to panic. Would Father believe I had a Jesus complex and fancied myself without sin? Or would he think there were so many to choose from that I didn’t know where to begin?

I tried starting over, hesitated, stuttered and stopped. Breathing became difficult and my eyes brimmed with tears. Realizing we were getting nowhere, the priest began to feed me ideas. He started off with what I expect are standard sins.

“Do you obey your father and mother?”

“Yes,” I replied in a quivering voice.

“All the time?”

I thought about that for a moment as I clasped and unclasped my shaky hands. “Um . . . I suppose not.”

“Have you ever hurt another person?”

I had a younger brother and sister. I couldn’t remember for sure, but I was fairly certain they may have received a Smurf bite every now and then. I nodded and sniffled. “Yes.”

My nerves were shot. My heart was pounding in my ears. I was weak and vulnerable. I agreed to every suggestion the priest gave. I was like a mentally deficient criminal unwittingly confessing to murder one. I admitted to things that weren’t even true without giving a thought to if I had done them. By the time I was finished my sins included skipping church to go to birthday parties, being lazy about doing my homework, telling ethnic jokes, setting the neighbor’s cat on fire, stealing my grandmother’s prescription painkillers, loving Santa Claus more than Jesus, saying something unholy about one of the altar boys, and plotting world domination.

“Oh!” I said, finally remembering one of my own, “and I instigate my sister.”

“Five ‘Hail Marys’,” the priest said.

I said two. Five seemed a little steep to me, considering I hadn’t perpetrated half the crimes I’d confessed to. Granted, five wasn’t an exorbitant number. It was really quite manageable. But I had to stick to my principles. Did I deserve so harsh a sentence? No, of course not. So what if I pared down my penance? I mean, it’s not like anyone was counting, right?

Right?

I added an extra ‘Our Father,’ just in case.

I Could Never Be Your Personal Trainer

Life altering decisions should not be made first thing in the morning. Trust me on this.

This was the lesson I learned when my alarm bitch-slapped me out of sweet repose one morning not long ago. I writhed about until I got within reach of the clock. My body was being wholly uncooperative. The effort of turning off that obnoxious siren left me ready for a nap. I lay there like the slug I am trying to convince myself that it was alright to sleep late. After all, I had the day off. But I knew that I would face a restless night that evening unless I dragged myself out of bed at the same wakey wakey time as every other day.

I sighed into my pillow. I was exhausted. I was too tired to breathe. Finally, I willed myself to roll over. I pried open my leaden eyelids with my fingers and glared at the alarm clock (on principle). 6:03am.

What the hell am I going to do with myself so early in the morning? I thought. I waited for the rational part of my mind to answer. Unfortunately, the Voice of Reason was still snoring. In fact, the only section of my brain that was alert was the tiny piece in back that believes in Santa Claus, the Boogeyman, and World Peace. “I know! You should exercise!” it said.

Had the gears of my mind been turning yet, Rational Thought would have protested, “The last time you showed any interest in fitness, there was a different President.” But the sun was just beginning to filter through my bedroom window and the rebuttal never came.

The next thing I knew, I was stumbling into walls wearing a comfy black jogging suit (which I had never actually jogged in, but I might once have broken into a brisk trot). I plodded into the living room and turned on the television. Ten minutes, one glass of orange juice, two bananas, and a vitamin later, I threw myself into an actual workout.

By then I was awake and beaming with pride. I was exercising. Fresh out of bed. And I could keep up. I wasn’t even breaking a sweat! Too easy! I gloated.

Turns out the first thirty seconds aren’t that difficult.

Twenty minutes into the workout I was gasping for breath and fighting the desire to collapse. Previous to that morning I considered myself to be in pretty good physical condition, but by the second set of hover squats, I became aware of how woefully out of shape I truly am.

I was determined not to quit, despite the fact that my body was aching and I was in a miserable mood. The fitness instructor, with her perfectly styled hair and flawless make-up, flashed a smile full of straight, artificially whitened teeth and said, “Come on! This is fun!”

Fun? I beg to differ. Rock climbing is fun exercise. Softball is fun exercise. Fornication is fun exercise. Aerobics and weight training? Yeah, not so much.

My negative attitude was rewarded with another round of cardio that made me feel like I was auditioning to be a back-up dancer in a bad *NSYNC video. Being the type of person that trips over her own two feet while walking, the techno dance moves were a little too complicated for me. I tried to keep up the best I could. Kick, double tap, side step, sweep the arms, lift, samba, kick again, tap and curl, front to back, dip, side to side, do the Hokey Pokey and turn yourself around . . .

I couldn’t have been more thankful when the fitness instructor told us to lie down on our stomachs for cool down exercises. I dropped to the floor and hugged it. It was so soft and inviting. Oh thank you, carpet! Thank you for caressing my face and giving me your sympathy. You’re my one true friend, carpet.

I swear the rug hugged me back.

I was still lying there when the program was over. I waited for that burst of energy that fitness fanatics claim you get after a workout. I didn’t feel it. All I felt was the need to take a hit off of my great aunt’s oxygen tank. And it was only 7:00am.

While it’s clear that I could never be your personal trainer, I do have a bit of advice for anyone that plans to begin an exercise program. Start small.

Stop parking in the handicap spaces.