Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: STRESSED - Begins January 18 / Ends January 25 (01/18/18)
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TITLE: Let's Be Honest | Previous Challenge Entry
By Terry R A Eissfeldt
01/24/18 -
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Yes, I’m talking about that P…P…P… That woman in the middle of the Holy Bible!
She’s been intimidating wives and mothers from her marble sepulchuer for too long. Seriously, what woman can even begin to check off the boxes to match Her Rubyness?
At just the thought of her my blood pressure begins to rise, my breath shortens, and little beads of sweat form at my unkempt washed-three-days-ago hairline.
Most of the church year I’m safe from her but every Sunday between Easter and Mother’s Day I’m on edge. If the pastor asks us to turn our Bibles to Proverbs the first thing I do is swallow. Then if his tongue curls and presses the back of his teeth, readying the ‘th’ sound, I scrunch my eyes closed (I’m faking a sneeze at this point).
If the ‘th’ turns into three or thirteen or thirty I carry on with said fake sneeze and all is well. I take a deep breath, smile, and look around at all the other women in church who have gone through their own version of de-stressing.
But if the ‘th’ turns into thirty-one a full on anxiety attack is hanging in the balance like some crazy stunt person on a tight rope over Niagra Falls. My fate depends on the verse required. If the verse is one to nine I sit quietly allowing air slowly back into my lungs and fake suppressing the fake sneeze. When able I sit up and give my full attention to the message.
(Honestly, when is the last time you heard a message from Proverbs thirty-one that resided in the first nine verses? I bet you’re running to your Bible right now to see what they say.)
Where was I? Oh yeah, suspended on a tight rope over Niagra Falls.
If the pastor says any one, or a combination of, the remaining twenty-one verses I politely, and with as much dignity as possible, excuse my self to the ladies room. (One, because I may throw up and two, because I want to beat the rush and grab a cubicle as quickly as possible.)
Once inside I fake constipation for as long as decent (depends on how many other women are waiting) and then, avoiding eye contact with the other women who are avoiding eye contact with me, I wash my hands, slather on some lotion, maybe brush my hair (if I can find a brush in my purse) and fix my make-up (again only if I can find some in my purse). Then I make my way to the kitchen to see if there’s anything that needs my help. Usually there’s nothing.
The trek back to the sanctuary can only be compared to a great, and often doomed, expedition. Like Franklin lost in the Arctic, or Amelia Earhart flying over the Pacific, I hover in the foyer until an usher comes to offer his assistance. At this point I have no other choice but to take my seat and endure unto the end.
But why? Why must that worthy woman cause such mental anxiety? I can’t compete with her. I’m not even in the same league. Or millennia. Or century. Or continent. Or income bracket.
Hmmm, maybe those are clues? Maybe I don’t need to ‘select wool and flax’ in order to work with eager hands. Maybe I get to do the work that comes naturally to me. Stuff I like.
And instead of ‘getting up while its still dark’ to get ready for the day, I can stay up into the dark the night before. (After this woman it’s Morning People on my list of tension creators)
Instead of someone to avoid, because I will never be her, maybe I need to rethink the whole chapter. Maybe she’s suppose to morph into my twenty-first century life? (After all, if I had servants they could do all this stuff for me)
Whew! What a concept.
But even writing about this has stressed me out. I think I’ll go finish the cheesecake and maybe the last of the Christmas candy.
Why, you ask? Because stressed spelled backwards is desserts.
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I'm not a morning person either. I don't start to function until about 10 AM. I've always wondered what the picture of the man would look like.