The Odd Broad

That's me in the spotlight, losing my religion

(Odd Broad Disclaimer: This marathon post took me six hours to write.  Therefore it may take you six hours to read.  Also, it discusses two things my mother always warned me to avoid talking about in public- religion and politics.  I usually hesitate talking about God because I don't want to ostracize anyone, therefore this post may fall under the category of "too much info."  But there you have it.  You have been lovingly warned...read at your own risk!  But do read, if you like, because as I said it took me six hours!  xoxo)

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Part One: Serial dreamer

I have been certain of so very few things.  The rest has been a collective free fall of faith.  (Of this, I am certain.) 

When I was a very little girl I was certain I wanted to be a writer.  I practiced all the time, at my roll top desk; holding my old timey fountain pen, my brow furrowed as I dipped the tip into the little bottle that held the ink.  I wrote letters to Louisa May Alcott and stuck them under my pillow, hoping for some supernatural advice on how to get published.  She never did write back.

When I was twelve I knew very strongly I wanted to go to New York to be a working actress.  Basically everything I did up until the time I was seventeen was a push to make this happen.  My focus was laser sharp, and I knew what I wanted.  I'd give anything to have the discipline I had back then coupled with what I know now.  There is a certain comfort to knowing who you are, and what you want, and where you are going.

I was always certain I never wanted to be apart from Hubby, even when we were nineteen.  I was so sure that I could never tire of him, that my feelings for him came from a well so bottomless it would never dry up.  It was eternally hopeful, this belief, as hopeful as any of my innermost dreams have been.

My love for Hubby continues to bloom and expand with each passing year.  But I have all but abandoned my creative dreams; have neglected them, forgotten to nurture them, have left New York.  Yet still I'll wake up at 3 am in a panic that I'll never sing again.  It's too late, too much time has elapsed, and it's this time lapse especially that makes the loss all the more scary.  So many times I forget I'm thirty-one, and what that specifically means in terms of my creative dreams.  I never played Anne Frank, or Juliet, or Ophelia, and now I never will...

It's not a regret I feel daily, or monthly, even; but it's there all the same, hiding out in a deep pocket of my heart that I usually don't allow myself to reach into.

Dreams are a blessing.  Dreams are a curse.  In all honesty, my opinion changes with the weather.  (Set the scene: Am I pms-ing?)

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Part One and a half: Secret Dreams

I have other, newer dreams, of course.  I think about becoming (or not becoming) a mother just about every day, and have been meditating on it for some time now.  Years, even.  People who know me well are usually shocked to hear this.  My own sister didn't even realize, but there you have it.  It's not that my heart isn't willing, or longing, it's the HOW I'm concerned with.  As in, how will it work when there are so many factors currently standing in the way?

I was on my lunch break the other day and saw the following words written on a sign in front of a church:

"Faith is taking the first step even when you can't see the whole staircase." - Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. 

Tears stung my eyes when I saw those words.  Of course I don't know how it will work.  I never know how anything is going to work, after all, do I?  And don't I still always believe things will turn out fine?  Don't I always know this somehow, deep down?  Isn't it one of the very few things I am certain of?

Like it says on the little placard Nanny bought me (but that Auntie Kim actually picked out), the one that plays "The Wind Beneath my Wings":

When you come to the edge of all the light you know, and you are about to step off into the darkness, faith is believing one of two things will happen...there will be something solid to stand on...or you will learn to fly.

I often say the only choice I've committed to in this life is Hubby.  I am bound to him, and unknowingly tethered one half of my heart to him all those years ago.  Loving Hubby has been a natural free fall, one that I'd always make.

The only other thing I know, in my heart of hearts, concerns my very personal relationship with God.  I've been pondering this an awful lot this week.  Specifically because I've been questioning my Catholic faith.

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Part Two: Are you there God?  It's me, Odd

Now, I've been talked to about God ever since I can remember.  My father's mother taught me all my prayers and would tell me about the Baby Jesus.  I prayed to the Baby Jesus for a long time, even, before I realized he grew up to be a man.  He was easier to relate to as a baby, I suppose, when I was very young.  In her bedroom, Grandma had a picture of Baby Jesus with a halo around his head; an angelic, beautiful little cherub, and it was Him I would pray to when I was terrified in the middle of the night.

Every Sunday we got dressed and headed over to the little white church for Sunday Mass.  My parents had both been raised Catholic, but didn't go to church as adults until my older sister was born.  It was then they decided they'd need some type of celestial reinforcement. 

Going to Sunday mass meant an abrupt interruption of watching Hanna-Barbera to head upstairs and get changed out of my pajamas.  We went every Sunday, not just on Holidays, and usually we were very well behaved.  My father says it's rare that my sister and I acted up, although I distinctly remember being separated, or receiving a pinch to my arm followed by a warning glare.  The mass was long; 45 minutes, and the pews smelt funny.  I'd pass the time by singing verses in my head of "I'm Henry the eighth, I am, Henry the eight I am, I am..."  Ma told me when she was a little girl she'd think of funny things in church.  "Like what?" I'd ask, "What did you used to think of?"  She told me she used to stare at the backs of the people's heads in front of her and picture silly things, like the men would have two pigtails and stuff.  From then on, I'd think of this, too, and would be forced to stifle many an irresistible giggle. 

There were a number of priests that came and went.  The soft spoken Father Sweeney, Father Power, who made everybody sing and handed out wooden crosses to the high school students, but only the males.  (I found this irritating, naturally, and it merely reinforced my already growing disenchantment with the patriarchal system.  My dad eventually asked Fr. Power for one of those cross necklaces and gave it to Sissy, who was in high school at the time.  Go Dad!) 

The prayers, those words softly mumbled under my breath over the years, became embedded in my psyche, and it would be years later that I'd realize I didn't need the missal to recite them, that I could recite them in my sleep.  Years before they would stop being disconnected words and became a message that I'd never heard before, despite all that monotoned repetition.  I knew them all, even that long Apostle's Creed.  One day Father Kiley omitted one small but irksome word that had always bothered me greatly: "For us MEN and for our salvation," and he changed it to, "For us AND for our salvation..."

This edit certainly wasn't lost on me, and I inwardly cheered Father Kiley for this small but respectful nod to my gender.

I was raised to be feminist, socially liberal, and lived in a lovely glass bubble until I left home at seventeen.  The people who didn't believe in equality for everyone were hateful caricatures on The Jerry Springer Show, larger than life villains who could be easily spotted.  Or so I believed. 

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Part Three: The Racist Girl Scout

I was a Brownie in elementary school but I didn't earn many badges.  I might have been in second or third grade, and was on the way to a Brownie field trip.  I was riding through Lowell in the back seat of a fellow Brownie member's car, when her older sister, just a girl herself, made a racist remark about a black man crossing the street.  I think she may have said something to the effect of, "Look at that black bastard."  I stopped breathing for a second and my eyes grew wide.  I had never witnessed anyone making a racial slur before, and the little bigot immediately got a scolding from her mother.  I told my parents as soon as I got home, but I didn't need them to tell me it was wrong and idiotic to refer to someone as a black bastard.  I already knew it was.  I judged that Brownie, and I judged her family. 

It wouldn't be until I was a senior in high school when I'd hear someone make another racial slur.  A good friend, in fact.  The remark was unexpected, caught me off guard, was casually spoken and shook me to the core.  Was she for real?  I will never forget that day, probably, because it was the first time I realized that anyone could be racist, and it wasn't as easy to spot hatefulness as I had thought.  ie: It wasn't just the wackos on Ricky Lake. 

It was all so gray.  Although, it became very easy to spot the openly homophobic kids at my high school, and I hated them, longed to be away from them, pitied them, even, for their backward ignorance.

Whether they realized it or not, my parents had reared me to be an idealistic little dreamer, and my heart was ripe for the breaking. 

My heart broke into a million bits the day the letter came from NYU saying they'd rejected me.  Even still, I knew The Boston Conservatory was where I was meant to be.  It was the environment I'd always dreamed of: tolerant, flamboyant, constantly creative; it was heaven.  Heaven with jazz hands. 

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Part Four: Miss Understood

When I first met my college roommate (now one of my oldest, dearest friends), she balked when I told her I was Catholic: "You are?  So your family hates gay people and stuff?"

She could have stuck her pointy finger up my nose and I couldn't have been any more shocked.  "No, of course not!"

It turned out her friend from high school was gay, and his strict Catholic mother didn't approve.  This was a real wake up call for me, the first time I realized my telling people I was Catholic came with a specific list of ugly implications.  (As I said before, I had been in a groovy little bubble up until then.)  The custom fit, tailor made, cut and paste Catholic blanket my parents had wrapped around me didn't involve anti-gay sentiment of any kind.  No siree, Barbara.

I was a Catholic, after all, but that certainly didn't mean I believed in every little thing the church told me to!  On the contrary, I disagreed with most of it!  Didn't a lot of us?

It wasn't like I was unaware of what the church did and didn't officially approve of; and it wasn't as if those things didn't infuriate me, and it wasn't like my parents and I didn't have open discussions about them, it was just...our parish priests never spoke of these issues.  EVER.  The most controversial I ever remember one of them getting was one Sunday when he spoke out about the issue of being pro-life.  Suddenly there were a lot of people clearing their throats, and I could feel a tension growing in the pews, hanging uncomfortably in the air.  Not that Father Kiley was spitting at the pulpit or anything; I distinctly remember his description of pre-marital sex as the act of "loving someone a little too much, a little too soon."  Hardly a scathing sermon.  We never got scathing sermons, it seemed.  This was the first, and it wasn't even very scathing.  It was more of a plea, to consider other options.

I guess what I'm getting at here is the church had its beliefs, and my family had ours.  The truth is, I had ZERO idea that when I said "I'm Catholic" it would mean I hated gays, was in support of pedophile priests, didn't believe in birth control or safe sex, didn't support a woman's right to choose, and didn't believe women were equal to men.  I didn't realize this, of course, because that wasn't what I believed in!  And as I said, none of it was ever mentioned in that little white church of mine, save for the occasional pro-life talk, which seemed to make the parishioners rather uncomfortable anyways.

Then again, I was raised in Massachusetts, and I'm not sure how the other churches were during the 1980's and early 90's.  I was also raised by fair-minded parents.  And somehow I knew, have always known, in my heart of hearts, that God himself wouldn't, couldn't be nearly as intolerant as the church would have me believe.  Man was intolerant, not God.  Mad had hidden agendas, not God.  It wasn't God's fault His message has been twisted and misinterpreted a thousand time over!  And not just by my own religion, but by a good many of them!  I never believed God had anything to do with a lot of the church's uglier man-made doctrines.  In my idealized little teenaged heart, man's missteps had very little to do with what I felt God believed.  I suppose I assumed this sentiment would translate.

It may seem naive, but there you are.

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Part Five: Getting personal

Somehow, some way, my parents brought Sissy and I up in the Catholic church and we were able to take all of the good and none of the bad out of it.  My father-in-law once summed this up as "eating the meat and spitting out the bones."  I couldn't have put it better myself, because that's exactly what we were doing.  Sissy and I both emerged with a deep love and respect for God, and Mary, the mother of God, and we have personalized our religious beliefs in a way that makes sense to us.

I don't talk about it much, I realize, because it's kind of a touchy subject.  But I'd be lying if I didn't say that I have placed every important decision in my adult life in the hands of God.  (Not the church's hands, mind you; God's hands.)

There.  I said it.  I don't make a move without Him.  When I have been at my most pathetic, at the lowest of my low, terrified and alone, I have literally said, "God, I place this situation in Your hands.  I'm done trying to fix things on my own.  Take this situation, this mess, and do with it whatever You feel is best." 

I will tell you that at these times there has been a tangible force, a strength other than my own, that has swept in and saved the day.  Every time.  All I have to do is ask.

Most of the time I forget to ask, of course, until things go pear shaped.  And then I'll remember, like waking up from a dream, and everything becomes clear.  I usually opt to do things the hard way, when I know the easy way is to place my choices, my very life, into a power higher than myself.  And that pretty much sums up my beliefs.  The God I love certainly doesn't hate gay people, He created gay people for crying out loud, and He wants them to be happy, and accepted, and safe; He wants them to be able to get married.  The God I believe in doesn't condemn; and from a place deep inside me I know, I just know, I know this to be true.

This is what works for me.  I don't attend Mass, but I wouldn't call myself a non spiritual person, and I don't believe it makes me love God any less.  I've attended other churches: Non-denominational, Episcopalian, Baptist, United Church of Christ, but honestly I don't get the same connection I feel as when I enter a Catholic church.  With all the mess, and the lies, and the infuriating, outdated, often hateful beliefs that emerge from the Vatican, I can still find comfort kneeling in those pews.  No other church regards Mary, the mother of God, in the way I've become accustomed to.  I love so many things about Catholicism- the ritual, the mysticism, and yet...

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Part Six: The Next Generation

Hubby and I talk about what religion we'll bring up our child, when we have children.  He was raised non-denominational Christian, but is not religious.  He's always told me we could raise our child Catholic, if that's what I wanted.  And up until now, theoretically that's what I wanted.

Because in theory, it always seemed like a good plan.  After all, my parents did it, and even though we didn't agree with a large percentage of the church's outdated doctrines, my sister and I still emerged with a deep love and respect for God.  It works for us.  We didn't turn out to be conservative radicals.  Couldn't it work again?

It dawned on me that it's an awful lot to hope for.  Wouldn't it be lovely if I could just find a religion that lined up perfectly with my own strong beliefs?  Do I really want to have to keep spitting out the bones?  I'm a vegetarian now, after all!

More importantly, would I want my child to have to do this?  What if she is a girl?  How will I tell her she can never become a priest, because she is female?  How could I explain to her that this is simply the way it is, because it's always been done this way?  What will be her response, when someone at school asks if she hates gay people?

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Part Seven: In Defense

Hubby and I were married in the Catholic church.  We didn't take communion, since Hubby isn't Catholic and the priest suggested it may alienate my new family if half of us took communion and the rest didn't. 

The priest never asked, "Who gives this woman away?"  Now, I had been gearing up to tell him those words would not be welcome at our wedding, but it turns out I didn't have to.  He wasn't planning on saying it, anyways. 

Oh. 

Hubby and I both asked we not be announced as "Mr. and Mrs. (insert Hubby's full name)," and the priest merely shrugged and complied. 

I've attended many a wedding, and have also seen a few non-religious wedding ceremonies (one that was even officiated outside by a radio dj) and one common thread is that the woman has always been "given away" to her husband.  (Gag me with an effing pitchfork.)  But not at my wedding, and come to think of it, not at my sister's wedding, either. 

The church did right by me that day, and I was glad.  For all the shit I've taken over the years for being Catholic - and believe me there is no other religion, I don't believe, which the majority at large feels they have a free pass to bash, even to a Catholic's face, (especially to a Catholic's face?) - I loved everything about my wedding.

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Part Eight: The Beef

However.  I feel very strongly in support of gay marriage.  As an American, I am ashamed and sickened that this hateful lack of civil rights still exists for the gay community.  But that's another post.  (Another long, angry post.)  Do I want to attend a church that would ban gay marriage?  Not to be so naive as to say the Catholic church is the only church who opposes this, because I know that isn't true.  But this may just be the deal breaker.

I told my mother I'm having doubts about Catholicism and initially she asked, "Hasn't God been good to you?"  Of course He has, but I didn't say I was doubting God, I said I was doubting the church!  I don't think one has anything to do with the other.  My whole life I have always spit out the bones.  But what about my children?

God has been so, so good to me, and I want to pass that love along.  It's what I know, it's what comforts me.  Mary the Blessed Mother has been a comfort to me.  The saints have been a comfort to me.  The repetition of the prayers has been a comfort to me. 

One of my dearest friends is Jamie, whom I've known and loved since I was seventeen, when we met in the basement of our dorm freshman year of college.  Jamie was raised Catholic, and is gay, and although it's a bit of a contradiction, he can still find some comfort in church.  I can, too.  Is it because it's all we know?  Dysfunctional though it my be, do we return to it because it's what we know?

It's complicated.  I don't think God or God's love is complicated, I think the rest of it is. 

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 The future

Sadly, I don't think the church is going to change any time soon, or within my lifetime, even.  Therefore, when I tell someone I am Catholic they may always assume I'm a radical religious zealot.  But if I'm not any of those things, is that their problem, or is it mine?

They most likely will never be able to delve into my heart and know what I know.  And I do know.  My beliefs concerning God are long held and unwavering and strong and deep and real.  And I don't feel safe talking about them with most people, especially "religious" people, because in my experience, talking about my strongest and deepest beliefs is an open invitation for me to get my heart trampled upon. 

The Catholic church is what I was born into, and the very thought of leaving fills me with a certain amount of anxiety and sadness.  I'm no quitter, and yet...can I keep on spitting out these bones?

Is the church concerned about losing people like me?  Will they ever be willing to bend, to evolve with the times?  I don't think so.  Not one bit.

Morally and ethically I want to do the right thing by God, myself, and my future children.  Maybe I'll never, ever find a spiritual cookie cutter to cram my personal beliefs into.  Maybe a lot of people don't.  Maybe for now, spitting out the bones will have to be enough.  The rest may have to be another free fall.  (And hopefully not a free fall into Hades.  I don't care much for barbecue.)

Back on the horse

My heart was pounding and I was petrified my hands were going to shake.  But I did it; I sang in public again for the first time in years.  It wasn't my worst performance, and it certainly wasn't my best, but I did it nonetheless. 

I love weddings.  Afterwards, as I sat next to Hubby and listened to his cousin recite her wedding vows, I gave his hand a sweaty little squeeze at the words, "In sickness, and in health..." 

I had certainly been testing the boundaries of the in sickness category as of late...mental sickness, to be exact. 

I experienced a brief but potent meltdown on Friday evening, you see, after I ran through the song with the church's ancient resident organ player.  She didn't know the song, she told me, but she would learn it before the wedding tomorrow.  I was also singing it at a much faster tempo than she seemed comfortable with, but she told me she would follow along.  I'd be singing from up on the alter, out in front, holding a wireless microphone.  (We'd forgotten to bring a microphone stand, hence my worry over shaky hands.)  It occurred to me that if I was fourteen years old I wouldn't have batted an eyelid at any of this information.  When had I turned into such a wimp?

Back in the car, I called my mother for comfort but found she had none available.  I had made my own bed and it was time for me to lie in it.  This is when I hung up the phone and cried heavy, sloppy tears, my chest heaving in rapid, panicky gasps.  I was going to make a fucking asshole out of myself!  Holding a microphone, up on the alter?  Like Ted Neely or Carl Anderson in Jesus Christ Superstar?  I couldn't do it!

Hubby continued driving, the very picture of calm.  He reached out his hand and patted my knee, gently telling me I was being ridiculous, but still allowing me the freedom to blubber away.  I was hot mess central: broken, pathetic, and very, very ugly.  Ten minutes and one phone call to Sissy later, I wiped the smudged mascara from my cheeks and entered the rehearsal dinner wearing a happy face.  What was the alternative?  I had to be an adult; Sissy said so.  She also told me to make like Mary Magdalene and just sing!

My husband is an exceedingly kind person.  All the same, ten years ago it would have killed me to put on such a shamelessly vulnerable display in front of him.  These days it's a different story.  He loves me even at my very worst, when I am at my most atrocious, and for that I am truly grateful.  I trust him, more than I trust anybody in the world, and there's something very freeing about that. 

"I was being really pathetic and horrible," I tell my husband tonight, back at home on our red couch with Kittie.  "I was acting ugly and childish and hysterical, all for no reason." 

"Yeah," Hubby agreed, squeezing my hand, a smile flickering across his eyes, "But it's okay."

God I love that man.

PS: I capped off my singing performance by getting very, very, very drunk.  (Fast dancing drunk.  Telling my brother in law to shave off his beard because I hate it drunk.  Peeing without putting a liner down on the public toilet seat drunk.)  I then commenced to tell all of my in-laws how much I loved them, again and again, and apologized profusely to Hubby's parents for not providing them with grandchildren.  I also promised to get on this right away, in a year and a half or so.  (Thanks, chardonnay!)  Hiccup. 

All in all, the evening was quite a success.

In a pickle

Warning: The following anecdote could very well be considered "too much information."

I was a woman living on the edge, a gambler, a taker of risks.  I knew I needed to buy a box of tampons and yet some slothful part of me kept putting it off.  But not to worry, I was sure there had to be a few lurking around somewhere.  Actually, didn't I have an extra one in my purse from the vending machine at work?  It turned out I did.  And good thing, too- because it was Monday evening and I'd just gotten a visit from Aunt Flo.   

A word about tampons purchased for a quarter- they're not always of the highest quality.  In my experience, they can be prone to falling apart.  And wouldn't you know, this is precisely what happened when I unwrapped it.  Times were desperate, however, and I did my best to put that old plug back together.  I went to sleep, never guessing the adventure that would await me in the morning...

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7:57 am:  It's stuck.  What the?  Nary a string in sight.  And I'm already running late for work.  Shit! 

8:36am:  I call Sissy on my way to the T, hoping she'll ease my anxiety.  She is not laughing, and as it turns out is quite unable to hide her concern.  Oh dear.  Perhaps a vigorous jaunt to the train will help bring on a miracle?  (Or bring out a tampon?)

9:25 am:  In the bathroom stall at work.  In the spirit of true improvisation, I fervently attempt to remedy the situation.  No dice. 

Now, I've been in the employ of my company for less than two months, and yet on that Monday morning I find myself sidling into my new boss's office to utter a sentence I surely never thought I'd have to utter:

"My tampon is stuck."

There is really no dignified way to say it.  And with that, I am in a taxi on my way to Mass General Hospital.  Once inside, I am curiously surrounded by several people wearing facial masks.  (It is all very "SARS") 

10:38 am: The nurse who registers my information gives me a doubtful look.  "Are you sure it's still in there?"  (Of course it's in there!  Wouldn't I know if it wasn't in there?  I may be idiotic enough to get a tampon stuck inside of me, but so help me God I'm intelligent enough to know if it's still in there or not!  For reals!!) 

Alas, this is not the time for hysterics.  I remain calm.  "Oh ya, it's in there."

By this time Sissy and Lukey the Wonder Nephew have rushed to my aid.  We decide to have a nice little visit and make the most of the situation.

12:30 pm:  It occurs to me that I may be forced to see a male doctor.  Oh please, God, please don't let my doctor be the somber looking man who just walked by.  If you can work with me on this one, I will surely be grateful. 

A kind faced doctor opens the door and calls my name.  She is a lady.  Thank you, Baby Jesus!

It takes only three tries.  She apologizes profusely throughout.  At one point she exclaims, "I see the string!"  A voice inside of me wants to scream: "For Christs's sake, PULL!!!!" 

12:45 pm:  It is out.

12:47 pm:  I ask for a pad.

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In closing, I ask you which is more ridiculous: the fact that I'm telling this grisly tale on the world wide web, or the fact that this has already happened to me once before?  xoxo

Ouchie

People aren't supposed to get sick on vacation.  It's just not done! 

I'm not supposed to dash to the bathroom, mid-Sunday-barbecue, to vomit into the toilet of my husband's best friend.  But vomit I did.  And with a vengeance.  I strained muscles I'd forgotten I had.

Before you wonder, the barfing was not alcohol induced, as my Mother-in-Law was also extremely sick today.

Not that my violent retching ended today's festivities.  On the contrary, I chose to respond to the nastiness with my typical, perverse sort of style: chipper, cheerful, albeit a bit paler and shakier than before.  Well, we hadn't seen any of these people in ages, I didn't want to spoil the fun. 

This was totally reminiscent of the time my friends and I got into a head-on collision a few weeks after graduating high school.  There I stood, the Benetton t-shirt I'd stolen from my sister now soaked in blood, telling the woman who'd gone the wrong way on the highway, "I'm ok!  (can someone hold me up, please?)  Really, I'm fine!"  When the ambulance finally arrived they said I was the happiest patient they'd ever had.  Lesson learned?  Please proceed with caution when I tell you I'm "ok," since my smile, though frequent, can often be suspect.  Everyone's can, I suppose, which is why I'm always on the lookout for this sort of thing.

So tonight, here I lay...listless, pajama clad, forehead pounding, shivering in the king sized hotel bed, having just finished the toast and tea Hubby ordered for me from Room Service. I've managed to make sure the bed is almost completely covered in crumbs. 

I'm not sure what's sadder: the fact that I threw up last night's $32 petite fillet, or that the hotel's lack of the Lifetime channel nearly brought tears to my eyes.  (It's Sunday night, I need my Army Wives, already!  Have you ever watched it, incidentally?  It's nice.  I'm hooked.)

Other than my moments of spontaneous barfery, LA is splendid.  I'll give you a more pleasant recap very soon, when I'm not feeling so...pukey.

Ok, time to finish my chamomile.

xoxo

Sarah and the Maxi Pads

Warning:  The following is too much information about lil' old me.  I have a habit of giving out too much information.  (What my Grandmother would refer to as diarrhea of the mouth.)  The following is an example.  Having said this, continue reading at your own risk.  You have been warned.

Have you ever just had an idea about something?  When I say idea, I'm speaking of a strongly held, perhaps unconscious belief that something is undeniably a certain way.  Maybe you've never even spoken of this belief to another living soul, but it's just something you know to be true?  And then have you ever one day realized that your strongly held belief is absolute insanity?  Insanity with a capital I, dipped in delusion and sprinkled with idiocy?

If your answer is yes, then read on my friend, this story is certain to make you feel better about your own life at the expense of mine.

In elementary school my group of best friends and I used to pray for our periods.  (Yes, I know, very "Are you there God?  It's me, Margaret," but really, we did.)  We actually prayed.  Little did I know that they'd all be getting theirs ASAP and I'd end up waiting until I was 14 years old.  I was somehow always underweight as a kid, and that's probably why my period was delayed.  Of course, looking back on it I am gloriously happy that I got to put off "the curse" for as long as I did. 

The night before I got my first period I remember experiencing a terrible, out of the blue belly ache.  The pain was so excruciating, I had no idea why God was punishing me so viciously.  Then the next morning I woke up and realized, hey, I had just gotten my period.  Hmm, what do you know.

I was in a big fight with my Mom and older sister that weekend.  Looking back on it, had the circumstances been different perhaps I could have saved myself a host of heartache.  But alas, this was not in the cards.  When I woke up that morning and discovered I was now officially a woman, my first thought was, "Ha!  Now won't the two of them feel ASHAMED when they find out months from now that I got my period and never told either one of them!  Ha!  They'll be sorry!"  And so on, in a generally bitter, maniacal sort of way.

I guess you could describe me as being "naive" sometimes.  I'm just going to come right out and say it:  For some reason, for as long as I can remember, I always thought maxi pads went on the outside of your underwear.  Now before you think I'm joking, please know that I am being 100% serious.  It's not like I was a stupid kid.  I was a brainy child, always in honors or advanced placement classes, eventually going on to become a member of the National Honors Society.  I just happened to believe that maxi pads were meant to be stuck to the outside of your underwear.  Like, tape side up, on the outside.  So the blood won't get all over your jeans.  Go figure!

So that morning, I did what any other red-blooded American girl would do.  I stuck the maxi pad to the outside of my underwear.  (Have I actually admitted this to another living non-family member?  Because I'm not sure...)  But that is what I did.  Because, after all, that is what you do!

The next day, as I got ready for school for the first time as a woman, my pants felt a little extra bulky.  To be certain, I felt like I was wearing a diaper.  I wondered if people would notice a "bulge."  Ever the resourceful youth, I decided to deflect from any bulginess by wearing tights underneath my pants.

As the week wore on, I slowly began to realize I was ruining every pair of underwear I owned.  I couldn't help thinking, Boy, this is a really inefficient way of dealing with something that is going to happen once a month for at least the next thirty or forty years!  You'd think by now someone would've thought of a way to take care of this problem without destroying your underwear!  Seriously!

I'm not even sure how I found out.  In the end I think I finally cracked and casually mentioned to my Mom that I had gotten my period.  Relieved to finally be able to talk about my situation, I expanded upon this information, telling her how I had ruined about seven pairs of underwear that week. 

"Mom, it's kind of silly, I'm wrecking all of my underwear!  These pads don't work!"

"Really?" she asked, starting to sound a little nervous, then adding, "Why?  How?"

"Well," I explained, "It's stupid, the pad barely catches any of the blood."

"Sarah, Sasa," my horrified Mother intoned, "What do you mean?  Are you sure you're putting it on right?"  She paused a second before adding, "You're sticking it inside of your underwear, right?"

Now I was beginning to become impatient.  What did she think I was, stupid?  "Ya, Mom, of course I put it on right, I'm not an idiot!  I stick the pad underneath.  You know, like, under."

No, she didn't, like, know.  Nobody, like, knew.  I was alone on this one.  And now the horrible truth had been exposed:  I had been sticking the pad, sticky side up, to the outside of my panties.  Why?  Honestly, why?  Looking back on it, I really can't say.  Logically, it makes no sense.  I thought the blood was meant to get all over my underwear, but not on my pants.  The pad was there on the outside to catch it from going onto my pants.  I have no other explanation, no defense.  This was simply what I believed to be true.  I thought this was the function of maxi pads.

It's not even like I was some terrible, friendless teenage misfit, either.  I guess I was just...clueless with a touch of stubborn?

When I told my Mom I was going to write a story on this subject, first she cracked up laughing because, well, my family always has that reaction whenever we speak of this matter.  But then she got a little serious and said, "You know, honey, are you sure you want to tell people about this?  Maybe don't tell them how old you were...what were you, like, 14, 15?  They might think...something is wrong with you."

I think it's safe to say that sometimes even I think there is something wrong with me.  Sometimes I get sort of nervous.  I mean, what if I hold other wacky beliefs that are just...grossly inaccurate?  Will there be many more bizarre surprises like this in my life?  God I hope not.  I hope when the stork delivers my first born I will have read up on all of the details so I'll know exactly what to expect.  And, do I have to tip the stork?  What, like, 20% or something?

The first time I learned how to use a tampon is another story.  Another long, gruesome story.  But I think I'll probably have to get my Sister's permission before I tell that one.