This is a morning of confessions with the coffee. The coffee is hot and strong. The confessions? Maybe not so much. In fact, they probably don’t amount to a hill of beans to most people but, in the interest of openness and honesty, I feel that I must bare my soul. Ready?
I confess that every morning, I make my bed. An unmade bed is depressing and (only to me, you understand) looks sort of sloppy and ‘don’t care.’ I know it isn’t popular to make the bed after arising and, since I do, I should keep it a secret so as not to offend anybody, but, as I said, in the interest of openness…
Another confession is that, to me people who go to Wal Mart or anywhere else, for that matter, out of their own domain, in their pajamas are sort of like unmade beds— sloppy. Do they not care a whit for their own appearance or, maybe their sense of self-worth? But then, that’s just my opinion. You may have an entirely different and valid outlook.
Wrinkles and I are sworn enemies. Now, I can’t keep them off my face, no matter how hard I try, but I can keep them out of my clothes. I enjoy ironing. How’s that for a confession? Smoothing out a shirt or a blouse gives me a feeling of accomplishment. Life has its wrinkles and unsavory moments, but my clothing doesn’t have to.
Baking a cake from scratch is a form of therapy. When book sales are down, when writer’s block assails, out come the flour, sugar, and eggs and from these elementary building blocks rises a tasty, lovely creation of my own making. So, I confess that, in spite of warnings about calories and cholesterol, I bake.
People who talk on cell phones when dining out, shopping, walking, driving, or anything else where they should be aware of the here and now, really irk me. I think a tornado could be bearing down on them and they’d hang onto that cell phone conversation.
Another confession concerns crying children in church or in the grocery store. They are sending a message. They need attention. Some of them cry because they are hungry, some don’t feel well or are tired, some don’t like being confined in a grocery cart, but that cry deserves a parent’s attention. Some day, if I get brave enough, I may walk up to a Wal Mart mom and say, “Your baby is trying to tell you something.” Do you ever feel this way?
Now that I’ve confessed a few of my unpopular views and attitudes, I hope I haven’t lost any friends. If I have, here’s another confession: I’d much rather make new friends and keep old ones, than lose any at all. Friends are priceless and, hopefully, give me the benefit of the doubt, however imperfect and shocking I may be. Looking back at these confessions, I confess they sound more like personal gripes than confessions. Oh well, this is Friday!
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