What the hell, I thought. I might as well get it over with so that I could begin to enjoy my life abroad. Sweat engulfed my armpits. Oh shit, just step up for once in your life. I walked toward the confessional and tried to organize my thoughts to determine which of my screw-ups were most significant. Despite overthinking my confession strategy all the way from New York to Rome, I still hadn’t decided if I should go in worst-to-not-so-bad order, or start with an alphabetized list.
I ended up in the line for a face-to-face confession but worried if that would be too close. The priest might be able to catch me in a lie if my eye twitched. Not that I would do that…but just to be safe, I moved to another confessional line where the Italian elder in front of me proceeded to glare.
“Sorry I ended up in the wrong place,” I mumbled, looking down. “I need a partitioned confessional. Sorry, I forgot my glasses. God bless.” If you tell white lies while inside the church, did that count as a true sin, or a means of survival?
In choosing this option, the priest would know I wasn’t tough enough to go face-to-face, but it was worth not having to make eye contact with him.
I stood in the wimp’s line for nearly an hour where I contemplated getting the hell out of the blessed fossil of a church. For the love of God, would someone stop her from leaving?
As I peeled out of line, a wobbly old man opened up another confessional and invited me in. Oh, for shit’s sake. It would probably be a sin to deny a priest’s beckon. I walked forward.
“Inglés, do you speak Inglés?”
He nodded.
“Hello, sir, and thank you for opening this up for me. You really didn’t need to, I swear I would have come back. I just needed to get a gelato. It is so hot in here. Don’t you think it’s hot? I mean, I could go get gelato for both of us. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll be right back.”
“Gelato is not necessary, my child. Let’s continue,” he said and nodded at me in that condescending way that only a priest can conjure. Oh, would you just shut up, you moron, and confess. “Okay, well if you insist, I guess I’ll save the gelato for later.”
“All right then, why don’t you step in here next to me. Face-to-face confessions are more productive and intimate.”
Mind? Of course I minded, you bloody old geezer! Isn’t intimacy in inappropriate places what got priests into trouble in the first place? Sinning is not supposed to be about intimacy, unless you have committed various forms of adultery, which okay, I guess in the right situations it could be intimate. Shut up, you idiot, and get in there! Feeling pressured, I walked into the confessional and sat right across from the priest.
“Whenever you are ready, you can begin.”
“Well, hum, you know, I’m not totally comfortable in here. It’s, well, you know, disturbingly quiet, and I really wouldn’t want the neighboring confessor to hear what I have to say, because, truth be told, Father, I’m a wreck. I just turned thirty, and I’ve been sinning a lot more than I ever thought was possible. Oh shit, do you have any idea what I mean? Hopefully you hear this all the time. Well, not the cursing. Sorry about that. I meant the sinning part.” Profanities are a sin, you bozo. Most people are not stupid enough to actually commit more sins while confessing. Can’t you do anything right?
“Why don’t we start with the basics? How about we discuss the last time you went to church? Just breathe, you can rest assured nothing will surprise me. I’m a very old man.”
Breathe? Breathing, for Christ’s sake! Why was it that everybody kept telling me to breathe, as if that would end all the troubles in life, and just cause everything to “poof” and disappear? Like breathing was anything different than what we do every goddamn day. I mean, we do it to stay alive, so it was condescending, in some ways, telling someone to breathe. Wasn’t that a given, and our God-given right as humans?
“Well, church attendance probably isn’t the best place to start considering my record, but okay,” I began, overcoming my reservations in the interest of getting this over faster. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have not been to church in a couple of months.” Please, stop with the lies. “Okay, several months. I try to go every year at Christmas, not last year, but the one before that. Is that bad? I mean, well never mind, of course it’s bad, because as Catholics, we’re supposed to go to church every week, but I’m not sure how that is possible. I am single, alone, divorced, and trying to support myself. Plus, I’m a whore whose been kicked out of my own family. But why get caught up on these technicalities? Trust me, there are much worse things for me to confess, I promise. Wow, this is really nerve-wracking. I tend to babble when I’m nervous, and sometimes I even throw up, but I’ll try to keep both to a minimum. Has anyone else ever done that? Hurled in here? That would be embarrassing and probably hard to clean off these old floors. Sorry, I’ll stop talking now. Is there a restroom nearby, in case the urge to purge becomes too much to handle?”
Why was it that everything “Catholic” was a struggle? Is this really what Jesus Christ had in mind when he suffered and died on the cross for our salvation?
“Remember, dear, just breathe,” the geezer said. “Are you ready to continue? There is no need to worry, you can skip to the big stuff if you prefer.”
I nervously panned the coffin-like confessional, squashed next to a priest who may or may not be perverted and have a tendency to fiddle with innocent little boys. Who knew what to believe these days? I knew I was supposed to be breathing away my problems, but decided to screw breathing—I just needed to confess and get a gelato.
“Well, I alluded to the whorish behavior, but I guess I should be more specific. I inadvertently engaged in an adulterous affair. It bears mentioning that I did not know it was adultery at the time, because he was supposed to be getting divorced. Maybe that means it doesn’t count. But then I did come to learn that he wasn’t divorced. But it was too late. I was already porking him, and in love with him. But the adulterous intent was not there initially. One could argue that maybe it didn’t count, right?”
“You might be missing the higher issue.”
“Really?”
“Were you married when this entanglement transpired?”
“No, of course not, absolutely not. I was already divorced by that time. Long since divorced. Did you mean the whole sex before marriage thing? We did do that. Does that still really apply nowadays? Because it just seems like…well, it’s not socially acceptable to withhold sex until marriage. Believe me, I tried for a really long time, and then it was looking like I was coming dangerously close to dying a very young spinster.”
“Oh, so you were once married and then divorced? Was your marriage annulled?”
Here we go. Talk about digging myself into a ditch, or more realistically, my own tomb. What could I have been thinking, coming here?
“Well, no, not technically…” I rationalized. “I just couldn’t handle the added pressure at the time. The guilt over my affair had stifled me. Ending my marriage over it made things even worse. So an annulment seemed more than I would’ve been able to handle…” I trailed off before resuming my babble with renewed gusto. “I guess, in that instance, it was most definitely adultery because I was married to Sheldon, even though he left me for dead out in Colorado.” Oh, would you listen to yourself? You’re disgusting. “Holy shit, I’m disgusting. I’ve had two affairs. And you know what? I cuss all the time and I never go to church, I lied before, I don’t even go at Christmas. And you wanna know what else? I hate my ex-husband and my parents for driving me to do all of this. And I know that I am not supposed to hate anybody, but I do. My parents, you know what they do? What their version of unconditional love is? It’s excommunication. That’s what it is! They kept kicking me out of their house whenever I did something they didn’t approve of. And when I became too old to get thrown out of their home, they kicked me out of the family instead. I can understand being angry or disappointed, but are you really supposed to dislike your children to such a degree that you excomm
unicate them? Is that even possible? Oh, fuck. Look who I’m asking—you people invented the sport!”
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to have to ask you to keep your voice down; this is a place of worship,” the priest said kindly but firmly. “I am here to help you reach redemption, but you need to control yourself. Would you like a tissue?”
A tissue? These people are always trying to cover up something, whether it was sobbing sinners or altar-boy molestation—who was kidding who?
“Sorry, but I just needed to say it. I hate my parents, and I hate this church, and I hate myself. I make myself sick; that’s how much I hate myself.” Don’t worry, dear, we echo the sentiment. “Don’t look so worried, I’m not going to puke, I’m too angry,” I said. “But you know who I don’t hate? Justin. Oh shit. What have I done? He is a wonderful man who miraculously seems to love me despite all of my screw-ups. He only temporarily stopped loving me that one time, but then he rebounded and wanted to marry me. And I left him,” I shouted through the tears. Pull yourself together, you pussy. You’re at church.
With one quick grab for a hankie, I blew my nose, made a sign of the cross, excused myself from the confessional, and ran out of the church. I cried like my mother with dry heaves so violent that I vomited all over the steps of the Vatican. I had arrived.
***
One would think that after all the physical and mental purging, I would be ready to enjoy my trip and grab some gelato. Instead, I sat paralyzed on the steps of the Vatican.
Sitting on the godly stoop, I caught the eye of a little old man who stared at me, and then made the sign of the cross at me. What the fuck? Clearly, neither the grand stature of the church, nor your embarrassing confession, has done anything to curtail your gutter mouth.
Complete and total strangers could tell I needed redemption just by looking at me. The man continued to stare and make the sign of the cross. Who was this goon?
“No speaky Italiano!” I screamed at him.
He made another sign of the cross and flicked his head as if to direct me back into the church.
I ran back inside, pushing down the aisle through the throngs of pilgrims, tourists, and Romans, ending up in one of the pews at the front of the church. A larger-than-life-sized statue of the Virgin Mary and Jesus Christ stood before me. The fake Christ’s eyes leered down at me. Talk about stone-faced.
My body bobbled so much I hit my head on the pew, which at least stopped my aggressive dry heaves. The last time I cried this hard was at my wedding.
Sucking back my urge to keep crying, I stared up to Heaven, folded my sweaty hands together, and began to speak out loud. “My life is beyond my own control. My misguided steps and indiscretions are countless. I have torched every job and romantic relationship in my life, and the only time I seem to be able to cry is in a goddam church. I don’t know what the hell that is all about, but it’s certainly ill-timed. Sorry. I can’t seem to stop cursing either. No matter how hard I try, the screw-ups just keep coming. It’s my own fault. I hate my life and everybody in it, and as much as I want to get things together, I can’t seem to figure out what keeps getting in my way…” Perhaps it’s your cheap, tawdry, ways. I tried to stop myself, but couldn’t. “I know that I’m a good person, but I keep fucking things up. Sorry, I mean screwing up. Everything I have tried to avoid in my life, I’ve ended up doing in spades, including my divorce and a landslide of adulterous affairs. I need an answer and I need one quick, because I have run out of places to hide. For the love of God, can’t you help me? For Christ’s sake, can’t anybody up there help me? I need some mother-fucking help! Hello, God, are you listening to me? I need a sign that you hear me and are open to forgiving me! Hello?”
“Excuse me, miss, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. This is a place of worship and peace,” said the nun who appeared at my pew.
It was official. I had been officially kicked out of the church. Finally, I was successful at something. This should make my parents happy and maybe even make them love me again.
***
I stood at the exit gates of Vatican City, looking back at the most striking church I had ever seen—massive and wistful in its old age. I was not welcome.
Running with the speed of a cougar, I screeched through the gateway and continued hauling down the cobbled streets of Rome. I ran for miles it seemed, until I hit Trevi Fountain, thick with crowds of obnoxious tourists who clicked their cameras and clacked in stupid faux-Italian accents. The nakedness and offensive nature of the statues, all connected by water, glared at me.
Why was it that all Italian sculptures involved naked men? It wasn’t very holy. My Lonely Planet guidebook said that if you threw one coin in the fountain, it ensured that you would return to Rome. Two coins meant you would find romance, and three guaranteed you would marry or divorce. Having committed it all plus multiple counts of adultery, it was hard to determine where I fit into the equation.
Screw Lonely Planet. Just because we read their books didn’t mean we were destined for a lifelong sentence of loneliness. I tossed a coin in the fountain, and then another and another. As each landed with a dull plunk, I shed a tear. I couldn’t stop myself from crying or coin tossing until I took the entire contents of my travel purse and dumped it into the holy water. Then I bawled and heaved so loudly and with such force I fell over onto the marble landing of the fountain, with my sundress flying up over my head and my face inches from the pool filled with global currencies. Maybe it was time to start eating carbs again.
I felt the leers of seedy tourists everywhere staring down and judging me. They’re not judging. They’re laughing at you.
Laying at the foot of the fountain with my tattered Strawberry Shortcake underwear exposed, I felt someone tap my shoulder and then assist me by pulling my dress down to an appropriate level.
“Are you okay?” asked an oddly familiar voice. “Jesus, Sam, is that you?” It was unmistakably the voice of my ex, Sheldon.
Holy God. I sat there stunned, unable to process his presence in this place. I looked at the nerdy tourists with their khaki shorts, knee-high white tube socks, and sneakers, and then back at Sheldon. Yep, he was definitely still there; I hadn’t imagined it. Then I saw that stupid old man from the Vatican. He made the sign of the cross at me again. What in God’s name was he doing here? Or, more to the point, what was Sheldon doing here? He hated traveling. And Rome was the city of romance, religion, and history; all things he deplored. And who was he here with? He never took me to Italy.
“Sam, let me help you up. You’ve got to be uncomfortable down there.”
Well, that was profound. I was sitting on the ground in children’s print undies that were ripped and slightly soiled, since I was traveling light and re-wearing underwear inside out to economize space. And now they were stained further by the ancient puddle slop of Trevi Fountain water.
Sheldon reached out his hand to me and for a minute my mind raced back to a scene from our wedding when he had extended his hand out to me, guiding me away from my family’s debauchery. Now, after all this time, here he stood framed between the ancient rocks of the fountain. I willed him to help me up off the ground and whisk me to safety, despite everything I had done to him.
I realized that I should say something but couldn’t conjure the appropriate words, so I just said, “Okay.” And then I stared at him with a solo tear trickling down my sunburned cheek. As I gathered my words, out of the corner of my eye I saw the stupid Vatican man again, who made another sign of the cross at me.
“What are you staring at, bozo?” I shrieked, as if the coin throwing and sundress peepshow wasn’t enough to draw attention.
“Sorry, Sheldon, I didn’t mean to scream in your ear. Who are you doing it here with? Sorry, I mean, what are you doing here? Fancy meeting you here at church. Well, close to a church. A big, honking church. Never mind, you get what I mean, right? Well, I’m not even sure I know what I mean, so how could I expect you to understand anything about me…�
�
“Sam, just breathe.”
Again with the bloody breathing.
“I think you might be in shock from the fall.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right, but sorry, it’s just weird.”
I still could not stop staring at Vatican man, who was bobbing in the background, trying to hijack my attention back toward my sins.
“Sam, I hate to leave you like this. But I’m running late for the conference,” Sheldon said. “I’m on a speaker symposium panel about event security in a time of crisis. But maybe we could meet up later in the week for lunch or something? It would be nice to catch up with you, if you’re up for it.”
I stared at him, and then prayed to God silently. You ought to be doing a lot more than praying. Get back to church and try to get confession right this time.
I prayed for the strength to say something appropriate. Tears welled up in my eyes as Vatican Man circled like a vulture and continued to make signs of the cross at me.
“Well gee, maybe,” I said.
“Whatever you feel comfortable with. I just thought with us both being here, in Rome of all places, we should take it as some sort of sign that maybe it’s time to talk.”
Gulp.
“Well, why don’t you just think on it?” he said. “It’s really good to see you. Here’s the number for the hotel where I’m staying. It would mean a lot if we were able to get together.”
Ha, I knew it. He did learn something from me after all—the Catholic guilt trip.
All I could do was nod in his general direction as I struggled to hold back tears. He looked at me with the innocence of a school boy, then turned abruptly and left me at the very spot where he had picked me up out of a puddle only a few minutes ago.
As I watched Sheldon peel away from the crowd, I could also see Vatican Man following him, until he turned in my direction and made an exaggerated sign of the cross. I blinked my eyes to flush away the tears. When I could see clearly again, both of them were gone.
The Dating Bender Page 22