Usually I only say that to get out of social situations, but I'm trying to cut down on that, because I fear judgment from on high.
I'll explain. In the Catholic church, each newborn baby is baptized in holy water, which I believe is actually comprised of the tears of all the martyrs and saints and Jesus, all crying together over our sins (That's canon, son - look it up). As little Catholics grow older, the guilt of every minor wrongdoing and the fear of being judged weigh heavily on them. Just like the cross did. On Jesus.
Now, I was a good kid and had a pretty okay childhood, so my obligatory guilt had very few outlets. The worst thing that ever happened to me was the occasional illness or hurt, but as the years passed I began to notice that they were not ordinary maladies. Instead of spraining an ankle or having my tonsils out like the other kids, I would fall ill with something like pleurisy, or jungle fever (That's a real thing - look it up). The only explanation had to be that God was just waiting to smite until I had amassed a lot of little sins. Whenever I reached my quota of white lies and skipping school, he jolted me with some bizarre sickness. Boom, restless leg syndrome, sinna!
You'd probably like some real examples, I suppose.
When I was very small and still keeping my parents up all night like some thankless hussy, I had surgery on my tear duct. I couldn't shed tears, you see. Even as an infant, I was just very stoic and hard. Now I only cry tears of saltwater taffy. It's delicious, but very sticky. It also means I can't watch 101 Dalmatians anymore - that's just a mess.
I underwent my second surgery when I was eleven, this time on my foot. While running around the house, I stepped on a toothpick that just happened to be sticking straight up out of the braided living room rug. It sank half an inch into my heel, and it was then that I realized I would never survive war. Also that I probably shouldn't have drawn makeup on my sister's Barbie in pen.
Not too long after that, I had thirteen teeth removed because my mouth was too small to fit them all. After my wisdom teeth were taken out, I had few enough teeth to legally qualify as a creepy hobo. Serves me right for passing notes in class, right?
Freshman year of high school, a friend and I were waiting in the movie theater bathroom to sneak into Batman. During a rousing game of hide-and-seek in the stalls (which was more fun than it sounds), I started feeling sharp pains in my chest. I dismissed them as heart burn, which I had never had before. Watching the Scarecrow for two hours didn't make things any better; neither did a night's sleep. The next day I was carted off to the doctor, where I was diagnosed with pleurisy, an infection of the lungs. I spent a few weeks flat on my back, unable to speak or breathe without feeling like my ribs were being ripped away from my lungs. After that, I never went movie-hopping again. The cost was too high.
When I was sixteen, I went on my first real date ever. On the way home, a truck ran a red light into my car and I broke my neck. Which was probably a bad omen for that relationship.
In college, I took a Tylenol one night, but somehow it got stuck in my throat. I was convinced that it was burning a hole in my esophagus, so after hacking and trying unsuccessfully to force myself to vomit the pill up, I spent the night in the Wellness Center, swallowing lumps of bread and Ginger Ale in an attempt to dislodge the phantom pill. The nurse and I watched MASH until the wee hours, when we were certain that the Tylenol had at least dissolved. It was a magical night, and I never took the Lord's name in vain again.
I also tend to get a lot of eye infections. But that's not really that weird. It's probably just a catch-all punishment, right? Like, every time I cut in line, I get pink eye? I'm pretty sure that's how it works.
After I started teaching kindergarten, I spent ten months sick with a continuous cold. But really, that was on me. I should have known better. Ever since I moved and escaped the general aura of germs that hung over the kids, I've only been sick once. COINCIDENCE?
Of course it's not a coincidence. That was a really dumb, overly dramatic thing to say, and I'm sorry.
Today I only have sniffles and aches. Ran a red light a few weeks ago and didn't get a ticket, nothing too serious. After work, The Boy brought me a whole roasted chicken and whipped up a hot, salty, herby, chicken-and-ricy bowl of Magic Soup from scratch. I slurped up two huge bowls, stuffing myself.
Just like that roast chicken.
I hope that when I die, someone makes me into people-noodle soup and feeds me to a sick chicken.
I don't know how to transition from that, so I just won't.
TELL US ALL ABOUT YOUR WEIRD ILLNESSES, FRIEND! And mono doesn't count. Everyone's had that. Except me, naturally. That's why I never shoplift. God will give me mono. Then I'll have to write a country song about it. I'll have to buy a dog who also has mono, because the lyrics demand it and I can't lie in a country song or I'll get rickets.
And that's how Catholicism works.
Image by Bogrim, via deviantart.
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