When I first met my new GF a little over a month ago, she made a comment that hooked me and reeled me in, like a salmon being prepped for Wednesday night dinner.
"I was raised by Catholics, so yeah, I suffer from Catholic guilt."
::Perk:: Someone who understands the Power of Catholics? This was a first. A perk. A curse times two.
Catholic guilt would define our together weekends. AKA every weekend since we met.
A pack here you know; a pack there you see. Neither left to their own devices, but still both without their leaders.
Imagine the guilt. Times two.
Blame the Catholics for our suffering. They, after all, blame us for not suffering enough.
But then, suddenly, there was something concrete to seal us in our individual pools of guilt. Yes, this last time, 45 minutes before She arrived back home, you see, some three plus hours after leaving me, Ted bolted. Escaped. Ran. Fast, far, and who knows where. Away. Not knowing where She was or when She would be home.
She blamed herself, of course. I blamed myself, of course. The Catholics of course blamed us both.
The guilt ate away at our cores. For 20 some grueling hours before the power of FB (and countless Catholic prayers) brought him back to Her. Thank God.
What lessons did we learn? Plenty, I promise you. Regardless, the Catholics lay in wait. Ready and willing to pounce at the slightest provocation, the tiniest misstep, the littlest BeHappy moments that take us away from any responsibility whatsoever. And we have leftovers of all of the above to feed them.
Yes, the table is set, the timer on the oven counts off the minutes. And those Catholics gather around the table, placing their napkins on their laps. Waiting to be served.
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