Today’s my mom’s 65th birthday. When I look at her, I’m filled with immense gratitude. Thank you, Universe. Thank you, God. Thank you for restoring her health when things seemed bleak. Thank you for all the fights, the arguments, the hugs, and her blunt, cold, and often harsh advice.

But, as I look at her, I can’t help but realize she’s not the tall, curvy, big haired beauty she once was. She’ll always be beautiful to me, but that young, strong, vivacious woman is now a frail senior citizen. Where did the time go? Why did the time go? How can I stop it?

Soon after the shock of said epiphany passes, I come to another realization. If my loud, over the top mother is now a senior citizen, what does that make me?

If you don’t know me, you will say you see a slightly overweight, often sad middle aged woman with dogs. And you wouldn’t be wrong. Staying svelte now requires more time and a lot more effort than I have. In the United States, the life expectancy of women is 80.1 years so at 42 you are correct to categorize me as such. The dogs? They keep me sane. And the often sad part? Well, yeah…that’s me, too. But to understand my sadness, you have to understand that time is to blame.

Time. My biggest adversary. I fucking hate time. I’m never on time. Time is never on my side. Time flies. Time is of the essence. Wasted time. Time. Time. Fucking time.

And as I sit here, tears in my eyes, I wish time would have mercy on me. I wish it was for once, the right time. I wish I could reverse it, or maybe just make it stand still.

I’m scared. I’m scared I won’t visit all the places I want to see. Do all the things I want to do. Make my loved ones proud. Scared I’ll never own the Victorian house with the fenced backyard. Scared to lose the ones I love.

Above all? I’m scared time will run out and I’ll never get to hold him again.

At  38 years old, I’m no stranger to love. Not sure we’ve always been friends, but we know each other well. I’ve loved and lost. I’ve dated some nice men and some abominable creatures also. Some have been more memorable than others but all have taught me a lesson and helped me learn more about myself.

I had my first crush when I was 6 years old and in the first grade. His name was Tony and he lived a few houses up the street from me on Lafayette Street. My mom wouldn’t let us play outside alone but sometimes, when we sat out on the front porch with her, I’d ask her to let me walk to the yellow fire hydrant and back. She’d allow me and I’d do so with hopes of catching a glimpse of Tony and his two older brothers playing in their fenced front yard. My 6 year old heart thought I loved him. He, on the other hand, didn’t know I existed. Thirty two years later, we’re friends on Facebook. I can’t help but giggle inside when he leaves complimentary comments on my pictures. Thank you, Tony, you make my 6 year old self happy.

As my best friend can surely attest, I’ve thought I loved my fair share of men. The funny Greek kid who was my first kiss on my 15th birthday. My high school love with the funny glasses and Color Me Badd goatee. His cousin, who was my rebound and dedicated Toni Braxton’s “Unbreak My Heart”  to me when I broke up with him. The older guy from work. The sexy dancer from the Bronx who asked for a malta at the Greek diner. The judgemental investment banker. The salsa singer. The lawyer. The republican guy from the old neighborhood with a license to carry. The younger guy. At some point or another, I thought I loved each and every one of them…but did I? Like, how do you know you really love someone? Do you get an email alert? Do you hear bells or dings when they’re around? How do you trust your feelings? Dopamine effect? Lust? How do you know it’s real?

The man in my life asked me why I love him a few nights ago. I was asleep when he called but I don’t mind waking up to take his late night calls. I love hearing his voice before bed. How could I answer this question? There is no simple answer. I’ve asked myself this question thousands of times, especially when I’m upset with him. But, how can I convey how I feel in words? How can I make him understand the intense reality of my feelings and devotion? Love for me is not a thing of words which is why I resist the urge to tell him I love him every time we hang up. Love to me is a thing of constant action and I try my best to be consistent with mine. I told him I love him because I love his story. I’m not sure he understood what I meant, though. I won’t pretend to be the authority on love; I am just as confused and mystified by it like the rest of you. I don’t have all the answers, but I have my answers. Why do I love him? How do I know I love him? Here’s why:

I’m Proud of Him: Whether he kicked ass in a meeting, played a great round of golf, or put together an awesome outfit, I’m proud. I want to brag to everyone about him. If I could, I’d tell you all how amazing, smart, strong, and handsome he is – about twenty times a day. I love his story, I’m proud of his unbridled drive, determination, and courage. I admire him; I admire him for not allowing his station at birth keep him from achieving his goals. I am proud of his audacity of hope (thanks, Barry). I’m proud of his kindness and fairness, his need to respect everyone, regardless of their circumstance.

I Respect Him:  For women, this is tricky.  Sometimes, you can love a man but not respect him. This is a recipe for disaster. If you don’t respect him, you will emasculate and not value him, his efforts, judgment, or opinions. I respect him as a man and would never make him feel any less than that. Call me old fashioned or naïve (sorry, Gloria Steinem) but he wears the figurative pants and I’m perfectly fine with this.

I Trust Him: I trust he has my best interest at heart. I trust he protects me and would come to my rescue if I was ever in peril. I trust he would not purposely put me in a situation in which I would be harmed, hurt, or embarrassed. My trust for him has nothing to do with fidelity; I do not trust his penis (he’s a complete different entity).

I Believe In Him: This doesn’t mean I believe everything that comes out of his mouth. People lie, everyone lies at some point or another. What I mean is, I believe in his dreams. I believe he can and will achieve everything he sets his sights on. If I were a betting woman, I would put my money on him. He will always win. Always.

Companionship: I genuinely enjoy his company. Whether we’re delayed and people watching at an airport, waiting for a tow truck, or having a meal, it’s always better when I’m with him. I love that I don’t have to compromise my idea of a good time for him. I love that when I compromise, it doesn’t feel like I’m losing. I love the variety, versatility, and ease of our conversations and general state of being. I love that we can be relentless, unapologetic fatties without fear of judgement. I love that I finally found someone who understands and accepts the complexity of who I am.

Happiness: His happiness is my greatest reward. Again, Gloria Steinem would smack me in the face if she read this but, I love to take care of him. I love him because he respects my need to do so. In doing so, I feel fulfilled and happy as a woman. I can’t call these actions a sacrifice because it doesn’t feel that way to me. I just know that when I do nice things for him, I do them because I want to make him happy and I do not expect anything in return. This is entirely a new concept for me; he (or my love for him) makes me selfless.

I Want To Protect Him: I worry about him. I pray every day is a good day for him. I worry about what he eats and doesn’t eat. I worry about him driving in bad weather and his health. When I don’t hear from him, I worry. Not because I think he’s sticking his penis somewhere (insert chuckle) but rather because what if something happened to him? I want to protect him from people that can cause him any kind of hurt or disappointment. I just realized I sound like my mom. Anyway…

Desire: He’s my favorite and best lover. I’ll spare you the steamy details and simply say that anatomically, we both joke we were custom made for one another (and I want to tattoo his name on my…)

…and those are my reasons. Obviously, there are more, the small beautiful details about him that make my heart want to burst with joy but I’ll save those for another blog post. I don’t know what the future holds, but I wish to feel this for him, forever. I’ve never felt this before for anyone and when I look at him, hair messy, laying on my couch, laughing, I can honestly say I understand why it never worked out with anyone else – and at that very moment, my atheist self believes there is a God.

I love you, babe…way past forever, in this lifetime and the next, and the next, and next…

Ah, the joys of social media. I love it and hate it both the same. Facebook bores me. And while I’m fully aware that I can adjust my settings and only see what I want on my timeline, who really has time for that? It hurts my heart when I fall out of like with a friend or acquaintance after I become aware of his/hers political views, religious overzealousness, constant gym posts, or annoying statuses. Some of your kids aren’t that cute, I’m sorry. And constantly bragging about your relationship only leaves it open for critique and a good ol’ chuckle when you finally break up. I’m a hater? Hardly. Am I a mean girl? Sometimes.  Do I pretend to be the perfect social media contributor? Hell no! If you follow me, you know I keep my political and religious posts to a minimum (almost nonexistent). This is not because I don’t have an opinion, but rather because it’s private and personal. However, as one of my followers/ friends, I’m sure you’re annoyed with my constant Latino pride posts, cat pictures (admit it, Marshie is super cute), food pictures (you know you want to try the shit I cook), and annoying selfies. Yes, yes, yes…the selfies!

The “selfies” is what prompted this piece. You see, while Facebook and I are going through a rough patch in our relationship, Instagram and I are going full steam ahead. We’re in love. It’s pretty serious – for now. My predilection for Instagram is simple: pictures and 15 second videos. No long winded posts about your fitness routine, no shared articles, and no attention whoring “check ins” at the local hospital that worry all of your “friends” yet you’re elusive to why you’re there and ignore all the concerned comments. So, about a week ago (insert Bobby Shurmda voice), my guy (I don’t know what to call him, like, we’re too old for boyfriend/girlfriend, not to mention that it feels like he’s so much more than that, but I digress), were sitting on a plane. We had just spent a few, fantastic days away in a tropical destination. In the nearly 5 days away, we didn’t get into one fight or disagreement. Not sure if this is a testament to how good we are together, but, truth be told, it was effortless – at least for me. So here we are, buckled in our seats, and fussing with our phones. Since he doesn’t have Instagram (thank God), I was showing him some funny memes I thought he would appreciate. One thing led to another and alas, we’re on my page. He sees my selfies and immediately, he’s annoyed. Now, I fancy myself a classy, somewhat wholesome woman. I would never post an overtly sexual or crass picture of myself on any of the socials. Hell, I’m careful to not post pictures with an alcoholic beverage in my hand – just in case I’m First Lady someday, y’all. So, clearly, I was genuinely surprised at his disapproval. He claimed the pictures were racy and suggestive and he didn’t understand why I thought it was okay to post them. He suggested that perhaps there is something wrong with me and that I need to ask myself the whys. He implied I was “attention whoring”.  Alrighty then…flight takes off and we’re quiet for the next 5 hours. Upon landing, he once again said, “I really don’t like those pictures.”  Roger, that.

My intentions upon posting said selfies were never to disrespect myself or him, nor was I looking for new dicks. The reason for the selfies? I like me. I’m proud of me.  Unlike Beyonce, I don’t wake up like this.  It takes constant effort and money to look this way. I’m proud of my efforts. I want to display them, be acknowledged for them, and praised. Compliments from women carry more weight and mean more than compliments from men. Why? Because women know that my eyelashes didn’t miraculously grow an inch over night. A woman knows that I either have amazing mascara, dope techniques at applying false lashes, or the time and money to spend on lash extensions. A man just sees pretty.  My teeth are nice and white? Yeah, that’s bimonthly whitening treatments. My eye brows are on fleek? Do you realize the effort put forth for that alone?  For starters, I had to resist the temptation to pluck, then I had to walk around with what looked like hairy caterpillars on my face until hair finally grew and filled in some spots…THEN, I had to drive myself to the Pakistani ladies in SoNo, pay for parking, wait my turn, and pay $12. I can go on and on with my beauty regimes, but I think you get the point. Yes, sometimes I may post a selfie that shows a little cleavage but what I’m really trying to show is that I finally got my winged liner perfect – after months of practice, You Tube videos, and testing many different products.

Concluding, women dress to impress other women. Unless you’re gay (or Kanye), you really don’t care if the hardware on my jacket doesn’t match my jewelry or care that I wore patent leather pumps in the daytime. Women, you notice and care. Men, your compliments are welcomed as long as they’re respectful.

As far as my guy is concerned, I apologized. The truth is, the attention of all the men in the world doesn’t mean anything to me if I do not have his. As long as he finds me beautiful and irresistible, I don’t really care what any of you think. The selfie lives, but I vow to keep them classy.  A few likes aren’t worth upsetting the man I love and respect. Side note: my best friend agreed with him. I’m starting to worry about those two… (rolling eyes).

Oh, and one of the sweetest things he said to me on our trip? “Babe, your eyebrows look good.” Thanks, babe, if only I had your lashes!

In the last few months, preparations for my 20 year high school reunion commenced. I was invited to join the Facebook group  in order to stay current with all the announcements. Waaahhh. Barf. No offense, guys. The truth is, I’ve dreaded this day for as long as I could remember. Not so much the actual reunion, but the day when I must finally come to terms with the fact that I am not 25 years old  – with plenty of time to make things happen. So, I apologize to you wonderful souls on the Stamford High School Class of 1995 committee for declining to join, ignoring your communiqués, and at this point, most likely foregoing the whole damn thing (unless you definitely secure Nas, in which case you can expect me there in full hoochie regalia because duh, Nasty Nas is still fine and I just want a picture for the ‘Gram).

All this reunion talk, though, has forced me to take accounting of the last 20 years. What have I done that’s impressive? What have I done that I’m proud of? What have I done, period? What experiences have impacted me either positively or negatively? What could I change, if I could? What have I learned? And most importantly, how am I going to spend the next 20 years?

I took to Facebook to poll my friends and family. I appreciate all the replies and most of them echo my sentiments. So, I decided I would write a letter to my 18 year old self. I still remember that girl fondly. Idealistic, naïve,  fearless, but determined to love and live. She was strong in her convictions, loving and kind. On graduation day, I wore black wedge jute espadrilles that laced around my ankles, obnoxious John Lennon-esque shades, and a huge scrunchie on my wrist.  As many of you can surely relate, I’d do anything to be in that girl’s shoes again.  So, this is for you, overly tanned-beeper toting-name plate wearing-freestyle listening girl:

Dear Sharon,

Congratulations! You managed to graduate high school without trying drugs or getting pregnant! I’m sure your father is relieved and happy, that was his greatest fear. Little does he know you’re still a virgin, you’ve only kissed two guys, and you’ve never actually seen a penis in person (babies don’t count). Good job! Since we’re talking about your father, let me say this: listen to his advice pertaining to your education. He may seem like he’s clueless and crazy by imposing his dreams on you – but in time, you will realize he was right. He recognizes your talents before you do.

Be kind to your parents. You weren’t born with a handbook and you’re not always easy to deal with. They have done the best they could do with the tools they have. You aren’t perfect and neither are they. They’re human, they make mistakes, and they don’t always have all the answers. You may not always agree with them and they may not always understand you, but they love you. That love is irreplaceable. No one will ever love you that much, please don’t take it for granted.

Love your brother. He sucks now, I know. Why does he always hog up the phone? He drives you crazy when he borrows your Tommy Hilfiger rugby shirts, right? Relax, it’s just a shirt. One day, he will be one of your best friends and you will regret being shitty to him as kid. When you’re in your 30’s, his kindness, humility, and brilliant mind will inspire you. He’ll have your back when others don’t and fighting over those dumb shirts, dirty dishes, and oh, that leg of yours he has broken twice will be water under the bridge.

Material things do not equal happiness. I know LL said he wants a girl with a “Fendi bag and a bad attitude”, but bags, shoes, a closet full of clothes will never bring you the same amount of happiness that love and peace of mind will. Don’t go crazy acquiring stuff, too much junk will weigh you down. When shopping, ask yourself: do I want it or need it? Quality is always better than quantity. Save your money, even if it’s just $100 a month.  Put more in your 401k. Say no to too many credit cards and take care of that credit score.

Not everyone is your friend and has your best interest at heart (this includes family). Right now, your whole world revolves around your social life. You care so much what your friends think about you and you never want to disappoint them. Stop that. Some of these people aren’t your friends. Take notice to people that take more than they give and most importantly to who claps when you win.  If a person hurts you more than once, take charge, and stand up for yourself.  Outgrowing people is ok, don’t feel bad.

On the flip side, some friends are family and will always be there.  I know you love to believe in soul mates (we still do, by the way) but up until now, some of these people are the closest to being yours. Treasure your friendships and don’t let misunderstandings and pride keep you apart for too long. These friendships will get you through some dark times. You will share wonderful moments with these friends as well. Don’t doubt their love and loyalty.

Don’t worry so much about finding a husband. Getting married in your 20’s is like getting all dressed up, hair and makeup on point, and then not going to the party because you couldn’t find a ride. Go to the club! Go to the party! Go on vacations with the girls! Cherish those nights that start with dinner and end with breakfast. The woman you are at 25 is worlds apart from the woman you will be at 35. So have fun! Dance with all the guys that ask. Kiss as many frogs as you can. You will never completely appreciate a good man unless you date your fair share of assholes. Some of those painful experiences will make you better, stronger, and wiser…so don’t get mad, be grateful. Some decent ones will apologize years later but you won’t care. Experience is priceless and while I’m not telling you to be a hoe, you should probably be a little bit of a hoe. Why? Because you don’t want to be that chick with the hoe epiphany in your 40’s. Numbers and notches only matter to insecure men, what good is a barely used vagina with a rotten, selfish heart?  Keep an open mind but always think about your safety.  Keep an eye on your drink and use the good ol’ buddy system.  Trust your intuition, it will not lead you astray. Remember, just because some silly man doesn’t see how dope you are, it doesn’t make you any less dope. You aren’t going to be every man’s cup of tea but some day, you will be that one guy’s glass of Johnnie Walker Blue, neat.  If he can’t handle or afford a good scotch, he won’t be able to handle you anyway.

You’re going to fall in love in 8 years. All the men before him won’t matter (so don’t bother holding on to stupid stuffed animals, dried up roses, and those ridiculous Between You And Me Hallmark cards). You will hurt, grow, and be tested. The glut of love and passion will be like no other. And, while I’m tempted to advise you to avoid meeting him all together, you will share the most amazing moments with him – so amazing, you will recite them to your friends when you’re a senior citizen. He and his love are your truth but remember this, sweet girl, put yourself first. Your wants matter, too. BE BOLD! Show him who you are, what you believe, and what you stand for. Don’t dumb yourself down; let him see you. Stick to your convictions and you will save yourself a world of regret. He can’t love you if you don’t let him in. Don’t assume anything. Words without actions don’t mean anything. Be honest with yourself and with him. You are more than enough, give yourself more credit. And, when it hurts too much, walk away. Trust the Universe that whatever is meant to be will always be.

Take care of your body, it is truly your temple. Drink more water and take that multivitamin. You’re beautiful and young and you will only become more beautiful once you take ownership of it. Don’t wait until your 25^th birthday to start using moisturizer and eye wrinkle cream. Ask mom to put you on sooner, it’s never too early. Don’t over wax your eyebrows and take it easy on the white eye shadow. Oh, and please stop highlighting your hair. Those pictures circa 2002-2004 make me want to push you in a pool of deep conditioning treatment.

Travel more and read more.  Travel and books are the only two things you spend money on that actually make you richer.

Not everyone will understand your journey and that’s okay. Be true to yourself.

Be kind to everyone; when it becomes difficult to do so, think of the person as a 6 year old child. We all have that 1^st grader alive in us still.  At the end of the day, we all just want to color with the pointy crayons.

Time, circumstances, and people change. This is the beauty and crudeness of life.

Be present in the moment and don’t rush time. You don’t have to wait until summer for fun or Fridays for pizza. Don’t save your pretty dresses for special occasions. The time is now.

Don’t take yourself so seriously, even if others do. Laugh at yourself, dork.

Your spirituality is yours and yours alone. Don’t apologize or change it to accommodate others.

Don’t walk away from anything you’re passionate about.  Your happiness depends on this.

Always tell the ones you love how you feel.

All that glitters isn’t gold, sometimes the truth is best left untold. Reality bites, but nothing worthwhile comes without a fight. So, follow your heart, put your dukes up, and remember that as long as there is life, there is hope.

Hope. Never lose that.

I love us!

Sharon

And there you have it. They say youth is wasted on the young and I finally understand the statement.  Like many of you, I’ve made questionable choices and mistakes and I often wish I could turn back time. But, do-overs aren’t allowed so drowning ourselves in a sea of lament is counter- productive to living a full life. I’m determined to make the next 20 years exceptional but I understand making mistakes is inevitable. I am using this impending milestone to remind myself that I am the only one responsible for my own happiness. We are the only ones that can make our dreams come true and it’s never too late. We may no longer be carefree, spontaneous, and feel invincible but we are now wiser, stronger, and better. Limitations only exist in our heads and obstacles are only as big as we allow them to be. To quote the title of our award winning Stamford High Class of 1995 yearbook (and Nasty Nas)…”Who’s World Is This? The World Is Yours!”

Last night, my guy called during this week’s encore presentation of Love and Hip Hop: Hollywood.  It was half past ten and he was tired, on his way home from a long day on the grind. “What are you doing?”, he asked. “Oh, sitting on the couch, watching some television.”, I reply. “What are you watching?” Fuck.  Not sure if it’s due to his professional background, but he can always tell when I’m bluffing. Actually, much to my dismay and his good fortune, I can’t lie to him. With much hesitation, I reply: “you’re going to get mad.” “Why? What are you watching? Tell me”, he says, amused. “Love and Hip Hop”, I respond, pusillanimously.  I was right. He was annoyed. He went on a ten minute tirade on how he can’t understand how a woman that can argue the divergence between the terms Latino and Hispanic can actually (as he put it) waste her “beautiful mind” watching such garbage.  I tried in vain to defend my choice in entertainment but failed terribly. Let’s be honest, there’s no defending shows like Love and Hip Hop.  Not sure if he was joking but it felt like an argument. Thanks a lot, Mona Scott Young.

That “argument” got me thinking. Why do women like me watch reality TV? To my credit, these days, I only watch the Love and Hip Hop franchise (New York, Atlanta, and Hollywood). For now, I’ve kicked my Real Housewives of Every Fucking Random City-habit. I don’t watch the Kardashians or any of the Bravo shows anymore. No more Mob Wives (I couldn’t take another minute of Renee’s whining and fake tough girl steez) or Basketball Wives (Evelyn is too pretty to be such a mean girl).  And while I will admit, K.Michelle’s new show is tempting, I have chosen to forsake the ratchetness and watch “Finding Your Roots” on PBS instead.  So again, why do women like me watch reality tv? Here are my Top 3 Reasons:

Social interaction: In your mid to late thirties, whether single or married, parent or not, chances are you don’t hang out with your friends as much as you did in your 20’s. Hell, you probably don’t even have as many friends as you did in your 20’s. To me, watching reality shows feels like social interaction. I want to laugh and be distracted with the happenings of what’s going on in someone else’s life.  When the lives of these characters become too dramatic or begin to encroach on mine, I just turn the television off and go to bed – guilt free. I can’t do that with my real friends. In my head, Kim Zolciak and Teresa Guidice are two of my homegirls. Love them.

Fashion and Trends: Have you seen the make up on the Kardashians?! Beat, honey! Sounds like bullshit but yes, I watch reality shows for the fashion and trends. The only people I see on a regular basis are the ladies at work. I don’t want to dress like them. I don’t think they want to dress like them. I don’t have the attention span for InStyle or Cosmopolitan. Women on reality shows, like celebrities, have become trendsetters. I want to see what’s hot in fashion and beauty, therefore, I watch reality tv.  The Kardashians singlehandedly revitalized the use of false eyelashes and spearheaded the annoying fake ass trend (I can’t WAIT until it’s finally over!).  Love and Hip Hop: Atlanta made the rest of the country aware of stiletto nails. The girls on the Real Housewives made the less fashion astute aware of Louboutins and Birkins.

Pop Culture: Admit it. You’re not as cool as you use to be. Sometimes, you have NO idea what the younger generations are talking about when they use terms like “turn up”, “thirst”, “tea”, and “shade”, etc. Well, I want to stay young as long as possible and understand the rappers and such.  I have a pretty decent dominance of both the English and Spanish language, I can’t say the same for slang. It doesn’t hurt to stay current, especially if you have teenage kids.

And there you have it, my top 3 reasons for wasting my beautiful mind watching reality TV.  My predilection (and yours) for these shows should in no way undermine your intelligence or other interests. I read often; books, articles on a variety of topics and random Wikipedia pages out of boredom and curiosity. My favorite book is the dictionary (ummm, I bet you don’t know what pusillanimously means, huh?). I watch CNN – a lot. I love Scandal, Power, and other scripted shows. I watch sports. I don’t rely exclusively on reality TV for entertainment. Reality TV provides an escape, a voyeuristic view into the lives of others without catching a case, and an opportunity to learn lessons from their experiences without having to pay the repercussions for the mistakes.  I don’t and won’t apologize for watching…at least not until men everywhere apologize for countless wasted hours watching sports.

Who’s excited for the next season of Real Housewives of Atlanta????

One of my earliest memories with God was when I was about 8 years old. It was Good Friday. My mom was yelling at me to get ready for church. I didn’t want to go but I reluctantly went to dress. I decided I wanted to wear a pretty, cotton lilac spring dress. It was wrinkled. My mother said, “you can’t wear that! It’s wrinkled!”. I asked her to iron it. She respond, “No! I can’t iron today! It’s Good Friday. God doesn’t want you to iron today, it’s labor. You’re not suppose to labor today! Find something else to wear.”  Determined to wear this dress, I grabbed both the ironing board and iron and proceeded to do it myself. I had seen my mom do it hundreds of times, it didn’t look too hard. I couldn’t understand why ironing was bad? I only wanted to look nice to go to His house. I burned my left thumb. It hurt terribly. The skin bubbled and oozed. I still have the scar. I cried for my mom. She didn’t console me, instead she rubbed ointment on my burned thumb and told me I deserved this for upsetting God. I was confused. I mean, I was just a kid, I didn’t like upsetting anyone, especially someone who supposedly loved me and was there to protect me.  I just didn’t understand.

I hated going to church. The whole experience sucked. My parents didn’t take me to church often but my paternal grandmother would. On Sunday mornings, she would wake me up and help me get dressed in a pretty dress. She would put ribbons in my hair, this was my favorite. We would walk the 2 miles from my parents’ home to the Spanish Catholic church downtown. I had no idea what was going on when we got there. I just sat next to my grandma, silently. I knew if I misbehaved, she’d tell my dad and I’d be in trouble. The priest would say a bunch of things I didn’t understand, but I listened anyway. Sit. Stand. Kneel. Sit. Stand. Kneel. The kneeling part was the worse. The kneeler was made out of hard wood and it would hurt my bare knees. I’d rest my butt on the pew to ease the pain but my grandma would get upset and instruct me to kneel properly. Church was fun when I saw my cousins sitting behind me. They looked just as bored and annoyed as me, it was fun to stick my tongue out at them or make a funny face – until I was told to stop. I loved when the congregants sang, there were always a couple people with terrible voices who sang the loudest. I would giggle, sometimes too loud and of course, I got in trouble.

My parents made me go to Catechism. It sucked. I had to go most Saturday mornings from 8am to noon. I missed out on Saturday morning cartoons and I had to wake up early.  The nuns were nice but there was always something gloomy about them. I was told I had to go home and learn prayers. I did. I’ve always been good at memorizing songs and poems, learning prayers was a piece of cake.  I did well in Catechism. Honestly, I just wanted to get it over with so I can have my First Communion and wear the pretty white mini bridal dress and have a party. At this point in my life, I had a general understanding of Christianity, but it still didn’t make any sense to me.

I was taught there is a man in the sky and his name is God. He is almighty and powerful. Nothing is impossible for Him. He’s the ultimate magician, miracle worker. He loves me. He protects me. He’s my father and the ultimate authority.  God loves us so much, He sent his only son to Earth to absolve us of our sins. At 8 years old, this idea was just stupid. Why would he send his only son? Surely He could’ve absolved us of our sins and taught us the lesson in a billion different ways that didn’t include his only son being crucified alive to a cross. Whatever, I didn’t question it too much and just accepted it. My dad would read me stories from the Bible. They were cool, interesting, some sad, but they were no different to me than the stories he’d read me from my princess books. He would tell me they were real, I never believed him and told him as much. My dad would tell me to just be a good girl because God is watching and to always have faith. Fine.  

As I got older, this whole God thing got annoying. I couldn’t do anything without fear of pissing him off and getting punished.  Don’t eat meat on Fridays during Lent. Don’t fight with your little brother. Don’t be selfish. Don’t be rude. Don’t say bad words. Don’t disrespect your parents. The list of “don’ts” grew as I did. Don’t have sex before marriage. Don’t even think about boys.  Don’t touch yourself. Don’t have an abortion. Gays are bad, God doesn’t like them. God doesn’t like divorce. Don’t steal in any way, shape, or form. Don’t speak badly of others.  What does this God guy like? He gave us free will but yet he’s up there constantly watching us, waiting for us to fuck up so he can judge and punish us. Is it a game to Him? If He loves me, why does He play with me?  Why does He constantly test my morality? It was ingrained in me that if I want a happy life and for my wishes to come true, I must excel in God’s eyes.  Got it.  So not only am I suppose to be awesome to my parents and teachers, but God, too? It was  too much pressure. I secretly disliked God.

Life gets complicated when you get older. When I was a kid, I’d pray for toys or McDonald’s. I didn’t always get what I prayed for and my mom would say, “God didn’t want you to have it.” I accepted this and went about my carefree childhood. But, things got more complex. In high school, I prayed (or hoped) for fun and lots of friends. It didn’t happen. I prayed for my crush to like me – it happened only after I literally worked my ass off and lost 60lbs. Still, very trivial in the grand scheme of things. In my early 20’s, my parents began to experience marital problems. They had been married for over 25 years and my mom wanted out. It’s still hard to discuss. I often consider it my  divorce because at the time, I was 23 years old and very much aware of every discussion, fight, and subsequent decision. I prayed very hard to God. I didn’t want all I ever knew to completely dissolve. I loved both my parents and the idea of losing this family unit ripped my insides out. To this day, I wish they had divorced when I was a child. As an adult, you are left to deal with so many raw emotions and thoughts and a trip to Disney or a new bike just doesn’t ease the pain and confusion.  As an adult, you know too much and while I agree divorcing was the right decision for them, I wish I hadn’t bared witness to the ugliness. Anyway, I prayed. I got down on my knees. I cried to Him. I begged. I pleaded. I made promises and I meant every single one of them.  He never listened. They divorced and my life sucked for a long while. Now, I’m sure some of you believers will say this was part of His plan. Bullshit. Wasn’t I taught that God hates divorce and that whatever God unites, may no man separate? My parents got married in the church, you know. Why would He go against Himself? If He loves me because I’m His child, why would He allow this to happen, something that caused me so much pain? When I shared this with believers, I got this: “Maybe you didn’t ask with faith. Maybe God is mad at you for something you’re doing. You need to get right with Him.” What the fuck was I doing wrong? Smoking cigarettes? Consuming alcohol? Occasionally having sex with a hot guy from work? I wasn’t hurting anyone, I didn’t see how living the life of a normal 23 year old was so worthy of such severe punishment. Nevertheless, I didn’t give up on God.  I accepted that maybe I didn’t ask with all of my faith.

Life continued to happen.  Bad things happened. I prayed. He didn’t listen. Looking back on the bad things that happened, they still don’t make sense and they didn’t teach me anything so please, save yourself the “well, maybe it was a lesson” speech. No. Fuck that. My mom being near death with some weird illness didn’t teach me shit other than how to research things on the internet. I could’ve learned that without going through the trauma of seeing my mom suffer. More bad things happened.  Particularly, I fell madly, deeply in love with a man who wasn’t ready to give me what I wanted and needed. He hurt me, albeit unintentionally. I turned to God. This time, I was determined to put all my faith in. Again, I got down on my knees and asked with patience, love, and faith. I cried to Him. I begged. Pleaded. Implored. I made promises. I negotiated.  I went to church on Tuesdays and Sundays. I lit candles. I prayed the rosary. I went to confession. I took communion. I turned to His Virgin Mother since He wasn’t listening. I did novenas. I did acts of charity. He didn’t listen. My heart still ached worse than it ever had ever in life. When I spoke to believers, they told me that maybe God didn’t want me to be with this guy. So I started praying with the same fervor as before, only this time I asked Him to heal my heart and to take this man out of my mind and heart. He STILL didn’t listen. When I told believers, they told me that maybe I’m NOT suppose to forget him. Which the fuck is it? I don’t want to feel pain and I’m going to God to help me because He loves me and I’m His child and yet He refuses to give me any kind of help? Was he busy?  I’m here, humbly ready to accept His will and yet, He doesn’t want to budge. What’s with the mixed signals? What’s with the hidden, convoluted messages? I’m dumb, God! Spell it out for me!

I started telling people I was agnostic. I started to lose faith. I started to question if God exists and at this point, I didn’t care.

Then, what is quite possibly the most heinous crime to humanity happened:  Sandy Hook.  I was at work and heard it on the radio, then saw it on the internet.  Emails came in from HR, advising employees they were free to leave work if they were in any way affected (my office is approx 30 miles from Newtown, CT). I’ve never cried when national tragedies have occurred. I didn’t shed a single tear during the September 11^th attacks, not on that day or the days that followed. Yet, during coverage of Sandy Hook, I cried like I had lost my own child in this massacre. What made me even sadder was when I heard stories from  parents of survivors and they said  things like: “We were blessed that day. God was looking after us. He had His mighty shield before us.” Really?  What’s up with this elitist, arrogant attitude? Are you telling me God was too busy to protect the 27 victims of this senseless crime? Why were YOUR kids so special? What sins did those innocent children commit that brought such repercussions? What lesson are we to learn from this? Gun reform didn’t happen so you can throw that out the window, those kids aren’t martyrs.  Why? I need answers!! The brain HE gave me demands answers and I simply WILL NOT accept: “it’s His will”.

I am now an atheist.

I am comfortable with my beliefs, I didn’t get here overnight and without much thought and consideration. Being an atheist isn’t easy.  My parents pray for my forgiveness every single day. Religious people judge me. I make people uncomfortable so I keep my convictions to myself. They feel sorry for me. They think my life isn’t full or happy because God isn’t a part of it. Giving condolences is always hard, a simple “I’m sorry for your loss” feels so cold, even if that’s all I really have to say. Saying “God bless you”, “Thank God”, or “God forbid” are things you say daily and without thought, yet I am mindful when I say them. I don’t want to be a hypocrite.  When I need comfort and assurance that things will be okay, I don’t have anyone to guarantee me of those things, unlike you God believing people. I have to be brave of what awaits me in life and I always leave room in my heart for good things.  Some days, I really do wish I believed in God.  But I can’t fake the funk, I have to be honest with myself. I refuse to believe there is a bearded, white, fairy, hippie guy in the sky that keeps tabs on every single person that has ever lived. I refuse to believe he has a score sheet. I refuse to believe He will punish me if I do anything that offends Him. How can He overlook my requests but not my indiscretions? I refuse to believe that if I make a petition to Him, He’ll answer it. For the record, He’s yet to answer any of my prayers.  I do, however, believe in hard work and luck. I believe if I work hard at something, I will get it. I have faith in me, my abilities, my intelligence, my passion, my desires, and my strength. I have faith in humanity and trust in those I care about. I believe in being a good person, not because I want to please something supervising me but rather because it feels good to do good. I believe life isn’t fair and I can’t take it personally.  Good people aren’t always rewarded and bad people aren’t always punished. I am not morally bankrupt and I do not lack values. I am a decent woman who can be judgemental, vulgar at times, and sometimes selfish. Occasionally, I lie, sometimes I steal, but I don’t need anyone to forgive me.  I forgive me. I am humble enough to recognize my flaws and I work at being a better person every single day. I do not need a handbook or threats of punishment to steer me in the “right” direction. I am thankful for the good things that happen in my life. I am thankful for my family, my health, the roof over my head and the food in my belly.  I am lucky and I know I have more than others. Is God responsible? I don’t know. I do know I work very hard to keep the things I am thankful for. Gay people are cool. I hate that there are so many conflicts and wars in the world and often religions are at the root of them. Religion is a choice and I don’t choose it. If I am ever lucky enough to be a mother, I will not scare my children with God. I will teach them love. I will let them decide for themselves if they want or need God.

My religion is love. Love for me. Love for fellow man. Love for animals. Love for everything, even if it doesn’t serve me any purpose. 

Out of love, I went to church yesterday. The man I love’s father was rushed into emergency surgery. I got on my knees and prayed to God for the first time in four years. I lit a candle, too. His surgery was a success.

Coincidence? I hope not. I really want to improve His batting average.