Therapy

In regards to the last post about my heartbreak over Cute Mass Guy- which, frankly, I am still not over- my roommate offered the suggestion that perhaps it was a chastity ring causing all this trouble in our non-relationship. To which I say, if there is one way to ensure your "chastity" remains intact forever, it is to adorn your left ring finger with some solid gold bling. Moving on.

My job is strange. Some days I produce a radio show done entirely in Spanish, a language in which I'm not entirely confident I can even say 'hello'. Other days I spend an entire morning carefully removing incorrect address labels from already-stamped envelopes so that new, (hopfeully) correct labels can be applied. Today- well, today I said the word 'jackass' on a internationally broadcast radio show. I was quoting Martin Luther, but still. My job is strange.

Every once in a while I check out Post Secret, but honestly, I get bored quickly. My life is not that dramatic. I just know that if I were ever to submit one, it would be like "Sometimes I drive with both feet on the pedals because I'm too lazy to move my right foot between the gas and the brakes". Sorry, Dad.

Last night, I was helping with the 7th-graders at Religious Ed since their regular teacher couldn't make it last-minute. Since I was going off the fly, we did some trivia and I told them about Our Lady of Guadalupe, whose feast day is this weekend.

Two observations: First, half of the class didn't know what three gifts the wise men brought to baby Jesus. And I don't mean they faltered momentarily over the pronunciation of frankincense (like I just faltered not-so-momentarily over its spelling). I mean they stared at me with dead eyes and a gaping mouth. Sad. Secondly, the only kid who had even heard of Our Lady of Guadalupe was the single Mexican boy. Oh how I love when people fulfill their stereotypes.

I was reminded of this over Thanksgiving when my brother's Canadian girlfriend told me she was on a curling team in high school. You. were. NOT. I think she was a smidge alarmed at my glee, but I can't help it. It just tickles me down to my very toes when I see two cops eating donuts in a coffeeshop. Makes me want to go shoe shopping and dance in formation with 40 other white people. Just for the sake of the stereotype, of course.

Heartbreak

There is a man in my life that I call Cute Mass Guy. I call him this because I don't know his real name. Because we've never actually met. (This is the part where you shake your head and say "Oh, Karen...")

I noticed Cute Mass Guy one of the first times I went to mass at St. Mary's in Greenville. Week after week he was there at the same mass as me. There aren't many singles at church, so he stuck out. For the past year and a half, he has almost always been at the 11 o clock mass when I'm there, and he is ALWAYS alone. Every. Single. Time. (Take note of this; it will be important later) He usually sits within one or two pews of me; a couple times we've sat in the same pew.

I've mentioned CMG to my friends, because, what else would we have to talk about? Really. But none of them have ever actually seen him with their own eyes.

WELL. Yesterday was the Feast of the Immaculate Conception (happy Catholic birthday to me!) and I hit mass last night with a few of my closest. Just as I was sitting down, I noticed CMG take a seat directly in front of us, at which point I started freaking out and waving my hands to Stacey and V sitting next to me, trying to indicate with wild hand motions that THIS! WAS! CUTE MASS GUY! RIGHT IN FRONT OF US! Luckily they are both well-versed in the Crazy that is Karen and immediately understood.

So I sat through Mass, happily staring at CMG's broad shoulders, and feeling pleased that I'd finally proved he was a real person and not a figment of my imagination. And then something terrible happened.

We got up for communion, CMG turned around, and I saw it. A WEDDING RING.

WHAT? WHAT?!?!?!?! A feeling of adulterous horror settled into the pit of my stomach as I craned my neck to see if maybe it was just a class ring worn on the very WRONG finger, but unless his alma mater is in the habit of issuing plain gold bands to their graduates, I'm out of luck.

Oh Cute Mass Guy, where is your wife? Yeah, yeah, maybe she's not Catholic, but neither is my mom, and I promise you that she's been to church with my dad at least ONCE in 2009. Also, HOW did I miss that tell-tale sign? Since graduating college, I like to think I have perfected the art of ring-spotting: that is, the ability to identify a wedding band on any man between the ages of 18 and 35 within a 50-foot radius. How could my ring radar fail me in such a crucial endeavor?

Sigh. I need to go to the mall, drown my sorrows in an Auntie Anne's pretzel and hone my skills. Clearly. If you need me, you know where to find me.