Confession Monday

I don’t go to church. I used to go to church almost 4 days a week; my grandfather was a minister and my grandmother was the dutiful minister’s wife, and I was the cute, if not rambunctious, minister’s granddaughter. Every weekend my young mother would drop me off to their home on Saturday afternoon and proceed to go out with her friends on Saturday night. I wouldn’t see her until dinner time on Sunday. I am happy she did that, now; but, when I was younger I hated it.

Every Sunday, my grandmother would wake me at an ungodly hour, braid my hair, feed me breakfast and then we would proceed to drive all over Edmonton to pick up the less fortunate members of the congregation, in my grandfathers station wagon, before the service at 9 am; and, this was just Sunday. I digress, I used to be a terror all week, talking back, biting other kids; and, then I would repent on Sunday, as I sat through hours of church. Make no mistake, I was also trouble at church, I once in the middle of a sermon got a smack from my grandmother, in front of everyone, and then I was expected to go back to listening, ah the glory of church. I felt that sitting there for hours on a Sunday morning was repentance enough; although I am sure I had no idea what "repent" actually stood for. I did, however, know that it meant I could be bad and then it would all just go away in the eyes of god.


Now I NEVER go to church, organized religion isn’t my thing. For various reasons, which are too many to list. However, I love the idea of getting a week of bad things off my chest. That isn’t to say that all last week I was bad, but you know I wasn’t that good. So I bring you Confession Mondays. I invite you to comment and leave a confession of your own. No one will know it is you, they will only know that mine is coming from me. I promise it will feel good.

Without further ado…my confession

On Friday night, I promised myself that I was going to take it easy on the party and work out this weekend. I didn’t. I got home at 8:30 am on Saturday morning, drunk as a fucking skunk (thank the lord my mother wasn’t home). I didn’t shower or leave the house until, well, until I leave the house today. Do I feel bad, kind of; but, now I feel better. Confessions are good.

That wasn’t so bad…now it’s your turn.