I thought I could say anything in the confessional. “Father, my bowling ball got stuck in the (bleeping) gutter. Then some (bleep) almost rolled his ball over my toes. If that wasn’t bad enough, the same (bleep) almost hit me with his car in the parking lot. But I was good Father. I really didn’t want his (bleeping) car leaving scratch marks all over my key.”
Venting doesn’t always go as planned. I had to repent that day for using inappropriate language, and was forced to dust the entire Tabernacle. But I have another confession to make. I work for a living, so I can afford to buy something that will keep me sane when trying to be a prudent person in society. Or at least when it comes to social surroundings. After a huge high school hiatus comes the reunions, those night long conclaves with former classmates. Similar in many ways to the Berlin Reunification, the gathering of Germans who fought for their freedom. Although I doubt any Deutschlander went on a diet or for a makeover before attending such an event.
I confess that the reason I looked a little bit better than Sheila McIlhooters was because I applied primer as a base for my makeup. It’s bad enough that I had to duct tape my mammaries several inches above their normal resting position. I get it. Men like to see a lot of flesh. But when some boobalicious babes bend down and flash their perky udders directly into your corneas, it tends to send a sigh of non-relief to those who have blueberries for bosoms. In theorizing, why spend a whole day face painting when you can simply lower the wattage in the overhead chandeliers, wear a Wonderbra, and act all Marilyn Monroe-ish. It didn’t matter. The men still gawked at Sheila’s vivacious personality. She had a chest that could shade the entire island of Grenada. The last time someone stared at me when I walked into a room was when I forgot to remove the Clearasil from my cheeks. So I must confess again. Without feeling the nudging necessity to participate, I made up an excuse why I couldn’t go to the latest reunion, forfeiting my chance to stand in front of a group of commentators who like to convey feeble impersonations of fondness. Plus, I suspected Barry Manilow would infiltrate the sound system by the powers that be. Being sprawled out on my couch and validating the dust accumulation seems far more enticing than being held captive by Copacabana. Besides, I would worry that the underlying tape might give way revealing my true shelf. It would be equally agonizing if the high school heartthrob showed up with a fifty inch thick waist and eyeglass lens.
I never did confess to a divine authority that I stole something once. I mean six times. So I’m confessing now. But it wasn’t just something, it was a lot of something’s. I’m always budget minded, so when I bought my house in Michigan, it needed to undergo the various vicissitudes of remodeling. This is where my financial flexibility required disciplinary action. Which was basically flipping a coin to see if I should renovate, or feed and clothe my still-at-home daughter. If it was the latter, my dismay could have only been resolved with liberal doses of antidepressants. Because I just couldn’t live with the hideous carpeting or kitchen cabinets that were built in 1880. Neither of them coordinated with my curtains. So I had to figure out a way of getting what I wanted without it putting me in the poor house.
Not that you can add kleptomania to my resume. But there might be a strict moral code in regards to hauling away boulders from the Home Depot parking lot medians. I thought they were there for the taking. I wanted a rock wall adjoining my kitchen with my dining room. The particular poundage of pebbles in question were perfect with their flat backings. I did let Home Depot personnel advise me on how to stack the stonework. Wiring, mortar, tools for removing flying mortar from my body after it set. Then I began to think things out. Contractor=my life savings+ my daughter’s birthday money. Or, do-it-yourself= a lot cheaper but a real pain in the back, then be dead and spread across my bed for a whole week. You can add cheapo to my resume, because simple arithmetic showed that there was only enough money in the kitty for a carton of milk. Nonetheless, I was willing to give up cow pasteurization for a new rock wall…. which led to the heist.
During those six trips of filling the trunk of my teensy Honda Del Sol sports car with felonious stones, you’d think I was training my triceps for a Ms. Universe contest. Not to mention being afraid that I would get caught dirty handed or my car tires would burst. Faced with the pastoral problem called conscience, Jiminy Cricket sure wasn’t around to be my guide. I only hoped that whoever caught me was carrying around a vat of holy water and had the divine power to anoint me during that confession. I ended up erecting the mountainous structure all by me little ol’ self, without wearing a ton of armor to prevent the large deadly minerals from falling and killing me in the process. Although I would have died with an accomplished smile on my face. I did leave enough chalky residue sprawled everywhere, and I’m not even a teacher.
It takes a very special rock stealer to admit that she was wrong. It made no sense to confess that story so soon, not when I was probably going on some other guilt trip. Which brings me to my next confessions. I have a closet filled with gourmet chocolates that I don’t really want to share. And my Cross Trainers has never been Cross Training.
(Posts can be seen in the weekend editions of The Parson’s Sun newspaper in Kansas)