An Open Letter

sarcasm iws radio

Dear God,

How are you? That’s a stupid question, isn’t it? I’m sure you’re fine. Listen, I have something to discuss with you. I’m just going to cut to the chase-no point in beating around the bush. For being the one who Knows- It-All, your sarcasm skills are sorely lacking.  A crash course in how to tell the difference between genuine prayer and sarcasm speak might be something you want to consider for future moments when you hear your name being summoned from down here on Earth.  I’d think for the guy who is responsible for creating PRETTY MUCH EVERYTHING, you would recognize when I’m being sweet and when I’m being smart.

Apparently not.

Do you remember  Of course you remember that 4th of July evening in 2011 when my husband and I got into a fight over our division of labor in the kitchen.  I yelled at him in a fit of anger, “Dear God, I wish I were more like a man!”

You had to know that wasn’t a knees-to-the-floor prayer.  That was me behaving very badly.  I do that sometimes.  You know that, God.

Yet, you seemed to answer me that hot July night via request mode.

To be clear, I never wanted to be like a man. I never asked for this chin stubble-this nearly goatee.  I have certainly never wanted to flaunt a pale, sagging beer belly.   Yet, I’m plucking jawbone hairs on an hourly basis and waxing areas of my face that no woman should ever be required to apply a hot popsicle stick to.  I own more pairs of tweezers than pairs of socks. I should not know that the optimal place to tweeze my face is in my car, using the rearview mirror in the natural sunlight, in public parking lots facing south. But I do know that.  After all, practice-practice-practice makes perfect.

Want to talk about my gut? God! A woman isn’t even supposed to have a gut. I can’t even go through the checkout at the grocery store without sucking mine in and holding it down—my hand hiding my fuzzy chin and arm pointed straight down with my elbow locked down pinning the loaf of belly fat to the waistband of my jeans, like some sort of missile is about to break free and destroy all of mankind.

What’s next? Are you going to strip me of my ability to throw my dirty laundry in the hamper?

Perhaps I’m mistaking your humor for naivety and you’re actually trying to teach me a lesson—that old adage “Be careful what you wish for.”   In that case, I understand. I get it. I won’t do it again. I’ll try not to do it again.  I’ll try to be less bad next time I fight with my husband.

Can you at least please make these chin whiskers go away? I’d like to somewhat look like a female again. Please, God. Please.

I’ve had my fill of boy looks in my life.

Do you remember Of course you remember when I was seven and I had joined a Walk-a-Thon with my two older sisters and brother but I was too tired to finish? With tears of defeat in my eyes, I boarded the big double decker bus to take me home, sitting next to a very pretty teenage girl.   She asked me my name and I replied, “Amy”.  Giggling, she said, “Oh. I thought you were a little boy!  Don’t cry. Here, want a stick of gum?”  Avoiding eye contact, I took the gum and slumped further in my seat.  It was a long, disappointing ride home.

That night, I prayed to you to make me more like a girl.  More like my older sisters.

That was a genuine prayer.

It should go without saying-because you are God and all, that I’m totally not being serious here. JOSHING. JOKING. MESSING AROUND.  Just clarifying that you get it by crossing my t’s and dotting my i’s, you know? Better safe than sorry.  Especially with you, big guy.

Besides, I know you have way more important things to do than fuss over me.

But, really. If you can squeeze in the request? Whiskers?

Maybe?

I got to go now. Take care of yourself and tell my mom I said hi.  I love you.

Love Always,

Amy

 

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