Who doesn’t want a shot of humility in the early week?
One time I was at our seminary, which is a giant school (that looks like Hogwarts) full of good men decating their lives to holiness and the service of God.
I had just finished up with something in an office on one of the top floors, and the coworkers were old friends, and the conversation was good, so then I was in a really good mood and I was singing to myself. Note: I often do this, and often I don’t actually realize that I am singing. It’s not just a song in my head, though. I sing out loud. I just don’t realize it.
So, walking downstairs, singing-without-realizing-it, I decided to visit Jesus in the chapel. Why not, right? I love him, he loves me, he’s close by, it’s a good day.
Now, to enter the chapel in the seminary, you kind of end up walking through this back door right onto the side of the main altar. No big. It was a weekday, and mass was far from being scheduled. I walked in. For the record, I was singing, “The Next Episode” by Snoop Dogg. Loudly. (The edited version, though).
The chapel was dark. I turned the corner, walked down some steps.
There was a monstrance on the altar.
That would mean that Jesus should have people in the chapel with him.
But, in this particular chapel, there are large columns obscuring the view of the congregation.
I took a step. Onto the main altar.
ALL. OF. THE. SEMINARIANS.
IN A HOLY HOUR.
And me, singing “The Next Episode” by Snoop Dogg. On the side of the main altar. Loudly. (The edited version, though).
No way to recover. Ever.
When I was in college, I worked at a Costco passing out samples of food and drinks and hand lotion and stuff.
Also, for those of you who know me/ read this blog for any amount I time, you know that I have dietary restrictions. But, I didn’t know that then. For the record, my symptoms got worse and worse and I eventually was diagnosed a few years after I graduated from college. So, anyway. I have a lot of side effects from eating the glutens. One of them is that my face breaks out into puffy little red splotches. (Also for the record, they’re better now).
Now, even then, this didn’t really bother me all that much. I had (and have) other body insecurities (BECAUSE I AM A WOMAN, GOSH DARN IT), but my face was never really one.
College, right? It’s full of stressors and deadlines and GROUP PROJECTS which always suck (except for the one time I was in one that a different hombre took all the work, and that was the only time in my life when that happened, and I love him and thank him forever) so, add in that stress and the necessary consumption of extra gluten, and my face would sometimes break out some more.
At Costco it was approximately one nineteen year old Nell and thirty senior citizens working the demo tables, right?
One day one walked up to me.
“Hey,” she said, “your face is really clearing up.”
Just like that. In front of the world.
And I was super taken aback because it was kind of rude, you know? And I didn’t know what to say.
SO THE FIRST THING THAT CAME TO MIND WAS: “Oh! Yes! I have very oily skin. I look on the bright side, though, more lubrication means fewer wrinkles later in life.”
IT WAS THE FIRST THING I THOUGHT OF BECAUSE I WAS TRYING TO LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, ONLY I SAID IT TO A WOMAN IN HER EIGHTIES I’M A JERK.
I’M SO SORRY.
It was a mistake.
One time, in a class in college, this other classmate was like, “Lol, I went to Vegas over the weekend, lol, and got a new foot tat.”
And I said, “Oh man. What is that? An artichoke?”
AND IT WAS ACTUALLY A LOTUS, BUT IT’S PERMANETLY ON HER FOOT, AND THE FIRST THING SOMEONE SAID TO HER WAS, “NICE ARTICHOKE TAT.”
Lord have mercy.
I AM SO SORRY, GIRL FROM MY CLASS WHOSE NAME ESCAPES ME.
There are more where these came from but…I cannot. I cannot.