This morning found me void of my usual defences. My
wonderful coastal boyfriend had taken our big black dog to the vet. I
hadn’t done my usual two hours of Ashtanga yoga, since I am shedding the
internal lining of my uterus and I don’t want to subject myself to a nose bleed
by inverting my pelvis. And finally, I had spent more than five strenuous
moments sifting through my sparse closet in attempts to determine which
hand-me-down outfit was more likely to get me hired. When the doorbell
rang, I had decided on a mini-skirt, but had not yet gotten around to putting
on underwear. Thus, I arrived at the door with no big black dog, no yoga,
no internal lining of my uterus, and no underwear. I was
ill-equipped.
The visitors were two balding middle-aged men wearing ill-fitting casual dress-pants, button-up shirts, and light fall jackets. It’s almost certain that there was underwear beneath their unflattering pants. The heavyset man in the front looked like the younger of the two. The hair around his bald spot was just starting to go grey and his face was full and jolly. The man in the back was paler, and thinner and more stooped over.
“Good morning,” said the man closest to the door.
“Good morning,” I replied. They must be looking for Rob, I thought. He is important in these parts, whereas pretty much nobody around here knows about me. Then again, they might be starting a new business. Do they need business partners? I have nothing to invest, but I do own one short skirt. I could go door-to-door.
“We’re just walking around, visiting. Talking to folks,” explained the older man in the back.
“Oh, I see,” I said. Then the two men pulled out their books. Leather bibles that zipped and unzipped to reveal slick, flimsy pages with columns of writing. “Oh, I see,” I said again. Our exchange was not going to be lucrative.
“We know people are very busy these days,” said the younger man in front. Too busy for Jesus. The man in the back stepped closer.
“I’m not busy,” I said flatly. “I don’t work.”
Both men flipped to the book of Revelation. The younger man continued his spiel: “Do you know the Bible at all?” he asked.
“I’ve read the Bible,” I answered.
These men didn’t know, but in the past I have made exceedingly thorough attempts to become a Christian. At sixteen, I used to go on long bike rides, sacrificing a healthy body weight just to find Jesus. At nineteen, I was baptized in the United Church. I began a major in New Testament Studies. Then I quit school and moved to a Catholic community for people with intellectual disabilities, in the hopes that Jesus would reveal himself as I cleaned toilets and changed diapers. While I was living in the community, I attended Catholic mass twice a week for two years. All this time I kept listening for “Jesus whispers,” the soft voice inside my heart, proclaiming “Erica, you are my beloved daughter. With you, I am well pleased." Inside my heart, there has never been any sound but the slow, steady swishing of blood. It turns out that Jesus isn’t that pleased with me. It turns out that Jesus loves me much less than he loves everyone else. Jesus should have whispered this fact to the men at my doorstep. They are wasting their time. Today is a very bad day for a Revelation.
“So you know about the apocalypse then?” asked the white-haired men at the back.
Swish, swish, went the blood inside my heart. Drip, drip, went the blood from my uterine wall into the menstrual cup between my legs. A cool breeze flew up my skirt. I knew all about the apocalypse. I could not wait for the apocalypse. I began to cry.
“I don’t want to hear this right now,” I said. And just like that, I became one of those repugnant human beings who close the door on the Jesus people.
The End.
The visitors were two balding middle-aged men wearing ill-fitting casual dress-pants, button-up shirts, and light fall jackets. It’s almost certain that there was underwear beneath their unflattering pants. The heavyset man in the front looked like the younger of the two. The hair around his bald spot was just starting to go grey and his face was full and jolly. The man in the back was paler, and thinner and more stooped over.
“Good morning,” said the man closest to the door.
“Good morning,” I replied. They must be looking for Rob, I thought. He is important in these parts, whereas pretty much nobody around here knows about me. Then again, they might be starting a new business. Do they need business partners? I have nothing to invest, but I do own one short skirt. I could go door-to-door.
“We’re just walking around, visiting. Talking to folks,” explained the older man in the back.
“Oh, I see,” I said. Then the two men pulled out their books. Leather bibles that zipped and unzipped to reveal slick, flimsy pages with columns of writing. “Oh, I see,” I said again. Our exchange was not going to be lucrative.
“We know people are very busy these days,” said the younger man in front. Too busy for Jesus. The man in the back stepped closer.
“I’m not busy,” I said flatly. “I don’t work.”
Both men flipped to the book of Revelation. The younger man continued his spiel: “Do you know the Bible at all?” he asked.
“I’ve read the Bible,” I answered.
These men didn’t know, but in the past I have made exceedingly thorough attempts to become a Christian. At sixteen, I used to go on long bike rides, sacrificing a healthy body weight just to find Jesus. At nineteen, I was baptized in the United Church. I began a major in New Testament Studies. Then I quit school and moved to a Catholic community for people with intellectual disabilities, in the hopes that Jesus would reveal himself as I cleaned toilets and changed diapers. While I was living in the community, I attended Catholic mass twice a week for two years. All this time I kept listening for “Jesus whispers,” the soft voice inside my heart, proclaiming “Erica, you are my beloved daughter. With you, I am well pleased." Inside my heart, there has never been any sound but the slow, steady swishing of blood. It turns out that Jesus isn’t that pleased with me. It turns out that Jesus loves me much less than he loves everyone else. Jesus should have whispered this fact to the men at my doorstep. They are wasting their time. Today is a very bad day for a Revelation.
“So you know about the apocalypse then?” asked the white-haired men at the back.
Swish, swish, went the blood inside my heart. Drip, drip, went the blood from my uterine wall into the menstrual cup between my legs. A cool breeze flew up my skirt. I knew all about the apocalypse. I could not wait for the apocalypse. I began to cry.
“I don’t want to hear this right now,” I said. And just like that, I became one of those repugnant human beings who close the door on the Jesus people.
The End.
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:(
ReplyDeleteOn Sunday I had my period. I went to my Mum's for Sunday Roast as usual, met with my Mum and sister. I was complaining I was up at stupid o'clock and my sister asked why I couldn't sleep and I said jokingly it was probably because of my practice of nadi shodhana, nerve cleansing. (I'd heard 2nd series ruins your sleep) She thought I'd said that the Indians had discovered nerves endings and started looking on the net to prove me wrong. I said, no, I said I'd said it was probably because of nerve cleansing. But she carried on trying to defy me, she was pissed and started to upset me. I left the dinner table, left my Mum's house without telling them why. Hate periods.