Small Confessions Are A Start

The religious definition of confession results in penance. Religious confession is either based on true belief in the absolution of committed sin or it is a ritual. I was raised in the Roman Catholic faith and confession was mandated before receiving a Sacrament and any other time sin or a moral wrong made it a necessity. I know people that leave the confessional, retreat to a church pew, follow through with their penance and feel a sense of purity when it has all been said and done.  It was never that way for me. I feel far more absolved after a walk in the woods or on the beach, where I feel closest to my God. I am sure this is in part because of the experience of my first confession prior to making my First Communion. 

I remember sitting anxiously on a cold gym floor with all of my classmates waiting to practice. The Nun reiterated for the umpteenth time what a sin entailed.  She explained that the priest would not know who we were and stressed honesty. I entered when it was my turn and told him that I had not drank all my milk at lunch.  I thought I had done a wonderful job until the Nun called my name, reminded me of the commandments, and had me return to the confessional. I sat there a long time before confessing that I had made a mean face at my sister when she broke the leg off my Barbie doll. I confidently left the confessional, convinced I had done it right.  I saw the Priest exit and go over to the Nun.  Suddenly they were both staring at me.  She called to me and told me that I had not practiced properly.  She made me go back into the confessional with instructions to make up a sin so the Priest would know that I understood.  I didn’t have to make anything up.  I confessed that the Nun had committed a sin because she told me to lie and I knew lying was bad.  I continued confessing that I was mad too. I was mad because I had been lied to because I had been told confession was a private talk with God and that no one knew who was doing the talking. I said that wasn’t true because the Priest and the Nun both knew it was me the first two times.  Funny thing is, I don’t recall what my penance was but I do recall that I there was some talk as to whether I was ready to make my First Communion that year.

Within the pages of Wizzley, I have decided to engage in confession.  Confession based on the definition the general public most commonly associates with the word .  I am going to disclose some information that I wouldn’t typically admit because it is embarrassing or something I wouldn’t normally disclose for one reason or another.  Seriously? Yes, I am really going to do it, I am going to give it a try by starting small and then I will gauge if confessing a few things truly makes me feel better.

Like WiseFool, I don’t particularly like the term LOL but I use it.  It is a lazy way of stating you find, understand or share the humor without having to spend a few extra moments personally expressing your reaction.

Lets move on to confessions of a more personal nature. I will never cut my hair short again. The one time I did, everyone exclaimed I looked just like my uncle! I love my uncle dearly and he looks fine to me but I don’t want to look like him.  He’s a man for crying out loud!

I bought expensive night cream for wrinkles. Well, it was sort of expensive. I figured I should get a jump on it.  In actuality, it was a waste of twenty dollars. I used it once and my face slid all over the pillow throughout the night. I’d rather age naturally than forfeit a restful night of sleep for the remainder of my life.

I sometimes see no point in shaving my legs in the winter which leads me to the fact that  I don’t always wear matching socks.

I love hemp lotions, oils and creams but sometimes I put too much on. My skin absorbs it. Probably foolish and unnecessary but I’ve occasionally pondered if it would affect a drug or toxin screen if I were ever in an accident and one was administered. I wouldn’t want my insurance rates to escalate because of my body butter.

I weighed myself recently. I was not happy with the three numbers that illuminated on the digital scale.  I journeyed to the store that day. I meandered down the aisle I remember my grandmother used to browse in.  I stood in front of the control top underwear for a long time, occasionally looking around me to make sure no one I knew was watching. I took down a pair and tried to stretch the elastic. I was reminded of the exercise bands I’ve seen on television.  I quickly hung them back up. I did not buy any. I decided quite quickly that  I cannot endure the thought of getting dressed in the morning and having it be similar to an exercise workout.

In my field of work, it is said that a person should not have favorites. I do though. He is the quirkiest person I have ever met, but I see him as a “survivor”. I admire his honesty, his simple way of looking at life and I love his incredible smile. He asks for little, says what he means, and  though he doesn’t articulate it, he communicates his appreciation of every little thing with a chuckle.  Yes indeed, I have a favorite.

I honestly thought I had invented something great when I put potato chips on top of my cheeseburger between the bun. I guess I just stumbled upon something others have been doing for years, according to my daughter.

We had a beautiful forest green carpet in our living room. I had to have it changed for my own sanity. Right out of the blue I developed an obsession about lint. The sight of even a single shred of it on that carpet required immediate action on my part. I vacuumed constantly. I was to blame for the sharp increase in our electric bill.

The last thing I am willing to confess at this time involves my bedroom. The norm the last few years has been to take a couple of days off from work for the sole purpose of cleaning and organizing it.  I have not done that yet this year. I have advised everyone close to me that regardless of the circumstances, no one is to enter that room. My husband is well aware of the fact that if he has any medical emergency while in that room, he will be dragged by the ankles, down the stairs to the immaculate area of my house. He knows that I expect the same courtesy if the situation is reversed and I am the one requiring medical assistance. I would be mortified to gain consciousness and realize strangers were seeing my bedroom in its current state.

I have proofread and I am considering whether or not I should publish this. The majority of it is frivolous and many may find it boring.  Then again, if one reads between the lines, and over-analyzes the way I typically do, then it does say quite a bit.  It speaks of societal norms, self-awareness or reflection, and how the process of aging affects some of our thoughts and actions.  There is also the chance it will spark some comments. I am sure everyone has a small confession or two they could share!