I make my confession - make yours!
I confess that in the car on the way to have pizza Sunday
afternoon, I sang Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” at the top of my lungs with
my two boys. I confess that for the first time in my life – I have now heard
somebody else butcher the words to “Living on a Prayer” worse than I do; two
somebodies, actually. It was nice. “Take my hand and we’re going somewhere… did
you say underwear?”
I confess that I have a serious aversion to folksy wisdom.
I confess that I love to watch Tim Tebow win pro football
games. I confess that, although I enjoy watching him play immensely, I'm not
sure I can handle another week of his fans posting on their Facebook about how
God made the Broncos win because he wants to vindicate Tim Tebow’s overt shows
of religiosity. Somebody just suggested that he had 316 yards passing on
purpose because it represents John 3:16… people, please… Maybe he only ran for
65 yards because God wants him to read Matthew 6:5?
I confess that it bothers me when people confuse the words “jive”
and “jibe.” Jibe means to be in harmony or accord. Jive is a kind of a dance
move, or a way of BS-ing someone (made famous by the immortal Bee Gees, i.e. Jive-talking). If two ideas are opposed
to one another they do not “jibe,” as opposed to “jive,” which would mean they
don’t know how to dance.
I confess to taking far too much delight in other people’s
weakness, as though there is some corresponding benefit for myself in their having
issues. This, I know, makes me weaker than they – weaker than the weak… that’s
me.
I confess that I feel a serious organizing binge coming on.
I feel as though all of my spaces are cluttered – my closet, my office, my home
office, my car, the desktop on my computer, even my clothes (which I sadly keep
on one shelf in the closet. It’s nasty.) I confess that organizing my space
makes me feel better about my life. The inverse is also true.
I confess that I don’t feel very comfortable in my own clothes
right now. I confess to feeling hopeless about the idea that this can change
anytime soon.
I confess that I believe that there is this point in life
when continuing to conform to fashion trends just feels like I’m trying too
hard to stay hip or relevant. I confess that in order to see this point, for
me, I must now look in the rearview mirror. Still I went into urban outfitters
for the first time in my life last week to try and find some jeans that make me
look like I'm not trying too hard. I confess to trying one pair on – with both
of my boys in the dressing room with me – and thinking there is no way possible
that a person’s legs can be this skinny. Apparently the designers of these
jeans had a different body shape in mind when they designed this particular
pair of britches… for instance, someone w/broom handles for calves. I confess
that my oldest said, “Yeah, those are pretty tight, dad.” He’s eight... I
confess to wanting to hurt an eight year old last week. “You think, really?” I
said, my words covered in sarcasm & shame. I’m pretty sure I looked like
Olivia Newton John in the final scene of Grease… I hear Dockers makes a nice
pair of pleated denim pants…
4 comments:
I don't know if I can confess here. But I laugh at so much of what you confess. I appreciate your vulnerability, but dude you are funny. I am cringing at the pants episode at UO, and wonder if I have shared any folksy wisdom with you. And if it annoyed you. :)
I confess to having lost most of my interest in listening to music on the radio. I used to live for new songs to hear. Now I could care less. Most of my exposure to new music now comes by way of YouTube, and precious little of that. After a while, all the music begins to sound like something that you've heard before. And for the very apparent reason that I'm far removed from that age, I just can't identify with the concerns of angst-ridden teenagers. Heaven help me, most of my interest in music now centers on chant, belly-dance music (ask me about that sometime), or hard rock from the eighties (not so much hair-band as stuff like Metallica, and there is a difference, at least in my mind).
I was a sight to see in those skinny jeans... what a loser :-)
I confess that my son is wearing a sarong this morning, because I forgot to dry the diapers before leaving for work. I confess that he has worn a garage towel more than once.
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