The L-word

No, not that word. This word: Lent.

'What should I give up for Lent?' I wonder.

Went to Ash Wednesday Mass today: "Remember thou are dust and to dust thou shalt return" the priest intoned as he brushed my hair aside and smudged ashes on my forehead.

I felt them there, all day. Like they were burned into me.

So what should I give up? Liquor, Liqueur or ... lick her?

The thing is, you're supposed to give up something you desire (yes: check), but it's not supposed to be something sinful you are giving up. You see: you're just not supposed to be doing sinful things, ever.

And when I say 'you,' of course I mean 'I.'

So, giving up the booze? Well, that's fait accompli, anyway: I finished off the vodka ... after I finished off the St. Germaine, after I finished off the Scotch after I ...

Well, you get the picture.

... just before Lent.

No temptation, no sin.

You all must think I'm a lush, but really, I only drink a very little. This body of mine can only take a very little before I can't feel my cheeks and then everything goes all sepia-toned.

Um ... did that last statement convince you?

I don't get drunk-drunk (as I continue to dig my own grave here, why not go on?), I just get 'slightly'-drunk, so that's okay, right?

Anyway, I won't be getting drunk during Lent. No alcohol left, and I don't have this month's rent, due tomorrow (well, today), so no money to buy more. Nor food. Nor gas, but I can walk to work, anyway.

It's okay: Dad sent a check, and it should clear RSN.

And how many months has Dad bailed me out? And how many more will he have to?

One option to ease that burden.

So I could give up another L-word for Lent, instead of Liquor and Liqueur, and that is: Life.

But the thing here is, boy, `phfina, haven't you given up on life already. You can't give up on something you already gave up on.

The prayer goes: "God, don't let me die until I'm dead."

That prayer has 'me' written all over it. "God, ..."

I can't even finish it without crying. Trying again: "God, please, tonight."

Every night I pray that, and every morning I wake, disappointed. Once again, God said 'no.' And I can't even ask 'why?' I mean, seriously: "God, in your infinite wisdom, why me?" That's a non sequitur and a half.

Giving up on life. Ha.

You know I read the newspapers sometimes. Those book reviews. One was by a Balkans girl born in 1985 that is now an international best seller, writing about the 'Tiger's Wife' ... writing about herself, that she remembers from being 12 years old. And she put that into a book and is now the toast of the town. And there was another one, that now I can't even remember, I just know that they all, all those book reviews, point at me and say: 'Aha, aha! Look at them, doing something with their lives. Really reaching people. And look at you in your pity party.'

I don't envy them their success. No, I'm glad for them. It's just another nail in my coffin though, seeing people do things with their lives, and me ...

I look at college 'kids' (oh, `phfina, you're so old!) and feel ...

... I feel betrayed, ... by their youth. I'm young, but I'm old, old, old, because I have no future, except continuing to be a burden on society, ... and on my family. But the college kids, they are young, but when they look out of their eyes, they look forward, with hope, and optimism and determination, and ...

And life.

I'm afraid to go back to college to teach, ... not that I'm going to, but do you remember that movie with Anton Yelchin? Where he shows up, first day of public school, and one of his classmates tells him where the teacher's lounge is? I would have the opposite problem. I show up at the teacher's lounge, and they would say, 'oh, are you lost, little freshman? You'll be late for your class, where's your schedule?'

I look like a little girl, and that's what I'm taken as sometimes, so everything I say is 'aw, that's so cute, isn't she precious?'

Empty. Meaningless. Worthless, because who listens to a 12-year-old.

Not that I look 12, all that much, anymore. But my id ... it's like the look on their face is 'this is obviously a fake.'

Fuck.

Maybe you should give up the L-word 'language,' `phfina, eh?

I mean, I could blend right back into college, except for the fact that they have hope and a future, and I don't.

The other, obvious, thing I should give up is that L-word: l.e.s.b.i.a.n.

I should just give that up, you know. I mean, I was thinking of the convent, you know. Really. When I was younger.

Much younger.

And then it all went to shit.

Mary shows up. My dad leaves. I turn out to be ... same-gender directed.

And then ...

And then it gets weird, 'cause like, okay. There must be something wrong with me.

(Heh. That's a 'no dur' one)

'Cause like, okay, I mean, why is it that the wind blows and I'm like ...

I mean ...

I mean I see a girl, and all I want to do is fvck her. I mean, if she is beautiful, and what woman isn't, in her own way, as she hopes, and struggles, and preens and tries and ... hopes. And physical intimacy?

I seriously thought something was wrong with me, 'cause just a touch, just a touch of tenderness, and I'm like: ready. As in the switch is thrown and I'm going and you can come, too, and I will be more than happy to help you, for as long and as often as it takes.

'Frigid'? What's that? My whole body is an erogenous zone, and, and for the girl, ... if she thinks she was frigid, well ...

Well, I have the, erhm, patience and, um, perseverance, and the pent-up passion to ... help a girl who thought she couldn't ... well, you know.

So, me, going to a convent?

And nuns scare me. I mean, really. Look at them. I look at them a few times a week when I go to Mass. They are ...

... they are God's soldiers, and short and plump or long and lean, they have that iron-will determination to get you to Heaven, even despite yourself. If I went to a convent, they would straighten the hell out of me in two shakes.

So I could give up being 'a lesbian' I suppose, for all of, oh, two seconds, given the ... heightened, um, responsiveness and sensitivity of my body and my ever (over-)active imagination. I could give up my appointments with that 'young man' 'Master Bates.' I could.

40 days and 40 nights.

Hm.

BOOM! (sound effect of `phfina exploding)

Again, there's these codes, and my activities and preferences aren't exactly cricket ... or (hahaha) kosher.

So giving that up, not to get me to the nunnery, so married off to a strong stalwart of a man? Having babies and being a productive and contributing member of society, instead of a burden.

Could I be happy, being that? A good little wifey and mom?

I've seen that happen, and I've seen ... well, the girl very happy in her new role, her new life.

But she was already a happy person to begin with: kind, caring, loving. Just joyful.

But me ...

I suppose you have to be happy already to become happy.

Or something.

Wah-wah-wah, poor `phfina.

You know (and yes: I do know), the L-word I should really give up?

Laziness.

I should get off of my sad little wallowing ass and pick up my pen again, and write from my heart. And dare. And breathe. And live. And hope.

Brave words. Brave words, so determinedly said, brave girl. So, go ahead. The doors right there. Open it, and step through. I dare you. And so, so many are hoping and praying that you do. Stop lying. Stop lying in that bed, wallowing. Stop lying to yourself, shutting out the world, telling yourself it'll be okay if it all just goes away.

Yes, that's what I should do, huh?

Yeah.

40 days. Today was the first day.

You know, Mary dared. She did. She said 'yes,' in the face of entire loss: shame to her family and Joseph, and, if he were a righteous man by the standards of the time (that time being: today), she would be stoned to death.

I ... in Mass today I didn't see Mary, but I imagined the final battle. Do you know Michael was just a lowly archangel? And, I think, anyway, the reason God picked him to cast out Lucifer, the Light Bearer, an angel so great he was right next to God?

The reason?

Because all the other angels were like, 'I'm not worthy to the task God asks of me.' So they all stood around, looking toward God, and Michael raised his hand and said, ' ...' well, what could he say? I don't know, but maybe just stepping forward like that, a lowly archangel in the face of the Cherubim and Seraphim singled him out to do that task.

So I thought, for the final call, when Satan is finally defeated, the same quandary will arise. But this time, Mary's there, and she see this and roll her eyes and stamp her foot, and say, 'Oh, please!' and scold everybody with her thirty years of being a mother gives her and tell Satan, 'Okay, enough's enough, out you go,' and throw him out the door by his ear, and that will be that.

No huge pomp and ceremony. Just a mom, cleaning house, all of 14 years old when she held Jesus in her arms, or 44 years old when she let him go.

No big deal. But to God, nothing can be a big deal, because He's the biggest deal around.

No big deal, `phfina, just pick yourself up and go. By the ear and throw yourself and your scared little lazy ass out that door into the world. And live.

No big deal.

Well, we'll see.