Something’s Gotta Give (Up): A Lenten Dilemma
Lent, the 40-day period leading up to Easter, begins next week on the 22nd, and like many Christians, I am trying to decide what to give up this year. Some of the most common things people give up for Lent are meat, alcohol, dairy, or soda, but y’all: none of those things can be considered a sacrifice for me because for one reason or another, I have pretty much had to give them up already. I’m not crazy about meat, can’t have much soda or booze until my acid reflux improves, and have recently discovered I am lactose intolerant. And Lent is not the time you can take the easy way out. So, what’s a girl to do? Or in this case, do without?
I was thumbing through an issue of Garden and Gun (which I believe to be gospel) a couple of weeks ago and saw that another reader had a similar quandary, and had written to the magazine to inquire as to what she might forgo for the Lenten season. I was a bit taken aback to see that the author responded by advising giving up “saying no to your spouse” for Lent. He advocated that in doing so, you would be amazed at the sense of peace and agreement that would fall over your home. Agreement? Well, by definition if you are not saying no to anything, you are agreeing, so I cannot argue with that line of reasoning, but peace? If I said yes to everything Clint suggested for one day, much less forty, I can’t even fathom the chaos that would reign down over us! (And I mean that in the most loving way, darling). This is a man who insists that since it tastes like fruit and is often shaped like fruit, gummy candy should be considered a serving—you guessed it—of fruit. We would be using power tools to make dinner, and our family room would be decorated with the remnants of composite pictures, awards, and memorabilia from the old Kappa Alpha Order fraternity house, which are languishing in our attic now but awaiting Clint to give them their moments in the sun again. There is a high probability we would own a monkey. This is not a doable option.
With that resource having failed me, I turned to the internet and did a Google search. I found all kinds of suggestions, from the silly to the absolutely absurd. Common suggestions were giving up gossiping (who, me?), social media (but then, how could I keep up with you good people? Perish the thought), or coffee (mine is already decaffeinated which I don’t even think counts). Then there were ideas to abstain from wearing makeup, heat styling your hair, or taking hot showers. Yes, you read those correctly. Now, I understand we are seeking self-denial and sacrifice, but my going without hair and makeup for over a month would be punishment for the world around me in a way that is cruel and unusual, and not in the good Christian spirit of the days leading up to Easter. And after a day of walking around looking like the walking dead, I should just throw myself into a cold shower to wash away my blues? Oh, good grief.
I also saw popular choices were chocolate, profanity, and—I swear without using swear words I’m not making this one up—men. I can’t have chocolate due to my already mentioned dietary restrictions, I enjoy a good colorful word here and there but do agree I could stand to drop it from my vernacular, and while the last idea is quite tempting, there is only one man in my life and I am just not quite sure how he would react to my giving him up for Lent, or where I would stash him away for forty days until April 6 when I could allow him back into my life (although Sundays are not included in Lent so I suppose he could visit once a week…maybe).
In past years, I have given up some of my favorites such as Diet Coke, which, if you know me at all, you know was a toughie. I can’t have it at the present moment except as a rare treat, but it is my beverage of choice and one of my most favorite things on the planet. At one point during that furlough, my very supportive husband begged me to cave and drink it before Lent was over, because apparently, doing without the caffeine or just the delicious thirst quenching satisfaction Diet Coke used to provide made me somewhat irritable. That made be difficult for you to imagine, but I am told it was true. Another Lent, I fasted from gossip magazines; this was back in the era before we got all our celebrity news from online resources and also during Britney Spears’s complete umbrella-wielding, head-shaving meltdown, so I consider that one quite a feat. I was thrilled to once again get my greedy little hands on a copy of US Weekly and all the alleged news barely fit to print.
I’m considering giving up any unnecessary Amazon purchases, so if you own stock, watch out for a drop during this confusing time. Another idea is to pick a day of the week and avoid Facebook and Instagram for that day (I gave up Twitter all on my own a couple of years ago, no Lenten commitment necessary), but I haven’t really settled on anything firm yet as my choice for what to give up this year. So, if you have an brilliant ideas that don’t involve me putting my cosmetic bag into deep storage or sending Clint to live with a foster family for six weeks, I would welcome your suggestions. Regardless of what you personally decide to give up, I hope it’s something that is challenging and rewarding, and that makes Easter seem even more special for you when it does arrive (just don’t give up on reading my blog…that’s never necessary!).
A Note to My July Self
It was twenty seven degrees here in Charlotte one morning last week when I walked my dogs. Per my usual, I bundled up with all the layers I could find (which now, in my old/cold age includes thermal underwear and some Hot Hands handwarmers stuffed into both pockets) and braced myself for the elements. I pulled my hat down as low as I could, my scarf as high as possible, and pulled on the new gloves I bought that are allegedly for people who like to do winter outdoorsy things in icy cold weather. None of it helped. I froze…and by that, I mean, almost literally. My face was so numb upon my return home that I could barely talk, and if you have known me for any stretch of time at all, you know that I am not a woman who typically has any difficulty talking. I was not made for these conditions.
My standard winter walk gear anytime the temperature dips below fifty degrees. The hand warmers are a new, and dare I say ingenious, move.
I admit that I am a spoiled Southerner who is not used to the cold. That is why I have only and will only ever live in the warm, balmy South. Frankly, I find fifty degrees to be frigid, unrelentingly cold now (once upon a time, I was not this cold-natured, but my digestive issues have frankly caused me to lose a lot of my—ahem—insulation) and I spend the majority of my days shivering, chattering, and trying to find ways to get warm. Beyond never moving anywhere that experiences brutal cold, I will also never own a car without seat warmers ever again. I may never turn mine off now that I have discovered how truly wonderful they feel. They not only knock the chill off, they also work wonders for aches and pains. They have become my mobile security blanket. How soothing! Seat warmers or miracle workers, you tell me. Either way, mine are on high and here to stay.
Jack Frost doesn’t stand a chance against Stage 3 seat heat.
The threat has now passed, but the local weather forecasts had said at one point that we could possibly get snow later this week. I found myself actually dreading it—the sure sign your youth has passed and you are officially adulting (and a sign that you may have slipped and fallen on some ice and realized that snow is not all it is cracked up to be). Instead of being excited about snow days, sledding, or building a snow man, I thought about how cold it would be, dealing with icy puppy paws, and the mess it always makes. Hard pass for me, thanks. Saturday Night Live had it right when they poked fun at Southerners dealing with the white stuff and called snow “the devil’s dandruff.”
January is already over, and summer will be here before we know it. I want this to serve as a note for myself, to be read in the hottest month of the year, to cool my little overheated self down when I feel like I am sweltering and would give anything for the cold. I want to remind my July self to just enjoy her sweaty upper lip and the colony of gnats no doubt perched on her eyelashes, because she is—at long last—finally warm! She has thawed, miracle of miracles! I am sure that by July it will hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk (if anyone can afford eggs by that point in time), and Mother Nature will take care of warming my car seats for me, no fancy technology required.
When the coat, gloves, scarf, and hat have been put away and I am sweating through my t-shirt, I want to remember the mornings that walking in the shade felt like punishment and I searched out patches of sunshine to walk in, just for the warmth. Maybe most importantly, I want to remind myself that, even when the humidity has reached 199%, I swore with my frostbitten fingers raised to the gray January sky that I would not complain about the summer heat when it finally came. I will do my best to embrace it. Or jump in the pool and complain underwater where no one can hear.
Stay warm, wherever you are, and stay patient. My neighbor posted a picture of her jonquils that have just opened up and are in bloom, so spring is coming. In the meantime, I’ll be over here bundled and shivering and waiting for a heatwave to come and thaw my frozen carcass out. And when it does come, so help me, if you hear me whining about it being hot, feel free to bean me with my leftover Hot Hands until I stop.