(Broken) Lenten Promises

Forbiddenness, Hot Priests & a Solution for Pedophilia (finally!)

Happy belated Easter to all my fellow sinners!

My Lent went bad, for anyone keeping track. I was overly ambitious and instead of just giving up one thing, I told myself that I was going to live in a metaphorical convent for 40 days and 40 nights, forsaking alcohol, vanity, sex and dating, and consequently completely setting myself up for failure. 

If you look at my stats from the past month and a bit, you’d think Lent meant to pick some combination of vices and then do them as much as possible. 

One night in March, I was drinking with my friend Dave who posited that my vow against vice followed by my total indulgence into them was me subconsciously creating a Forbiddenness: a taboo around some things I already like doing in order to make them all the more titillating; all the more exciting. 

Then he diagnosed me with Oppositional Defiance Disorder (which is apparently called Oppositional Defiant Disorder, but that sounds less correct to me, and my refusal to call it what it is is proof of its presence).

Finally, he put a shot of tequila in front of me and said “Olivia… come on… I know you don’t actually think Jesus existed.” 

I laughed and admitted that sometimes I question how much of me is doing this whole Catholic thing for attention. 

He said, “I’m glad you said it and not me,” and we took the shot.

…

Ash Wednesday was the first mass I had attended in a while, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that it landing on February 14th while I was feeling like an Old Shoe to my not-boyfriend was what drove me there.

Going to mass when you hate yourself, haven’t been in a while, and are feeling desperate always hits like a ton of bricks. It’s basically what all cults are premised on: promising reprieve in exchange for sacrifice to the Vulnerable, the Desperate, the Lonely. I was all three when I entered St James’ Cathedral on February 14th, hopeful that the sacrifice of Lent would be my solution. And it felt like it - I was transfixed by the ceremony, the choir, the ashes on my forehead; the reminder of my imminent mortality. I cried probably thrice during the litany of penitence, having my sins vaguely predicted and pre-forgiven in the passed out pamphlets.

As I emerged from the mass with a black smudge on my forehead (a tempting photo op I’m proud to have resisted) I made a promise to God that I would give up alcohol, sex and dating, and vanity; that I’d go to church every Sunday. 

I truly thought I’d be a good girl, but in 40 days and 40 nights, I got botox and highlights, had sex with two different guys, and made out with one other.

I drank alcohol a total of seven or eight times (to which my friend Anna said “okay… so basically for two months you just drank like a normal person”).

I missed weeks two, three, and six of mass and walked out midway through five because I had binge eaten prior to mass and didn’t have room for eucharist. 

I was so uncomfortably full that I considered purging in the church bathroom before departing since I have the type of roommate who would confront me if I did it at home, but didn’t do it because “I don’t do that anymore” and also because it felt like too many levels of sacreligious to puke in the bathroom before leaving mass early so I could go home and have sex with a guy who doesn’t love me.

I felt bad about leaving, but honestly, sitting in church wasn’t doing much good anyway. Check this out: The priest that night was hot. Like, alarmingly hot. He was young - couldn’t have been more than early thirties - blue-eyed with a shock of brown hair. I didn’t know Priests could be that attractive. 

Like, literally. You know the way servers at Jack Astors’ have to be a certain level of attractive? I thought Priests had to be a certain level of ugly. But he wasn’t ugly at all, he was so cute that I wasn’t even listening to him speak. I was just staring at him with lust, fixing my hair and reapplying my tinted lip balm to prepare for my ascension up the aisle for communion. I decided against communion in the end, not just because I didn’t want to make my first impression this bloated, but because of how backwards and unproductive my entire mindset being there was.

I watched for a bit before leaving. In downtown Toronto, mass is a good people-watching opportunity. The congregation is diverse as hell and consequently so is the response to every ritual. It’s fascinating. As it seems, some people receive their communion by getting on their knees, tilting their head back, and having the priest place it on their tongues (!!!!!!!!!!!)

Slutty!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t call them whores in my head and even feel a little jealous that they were hitting on my New Boyfriend right in front of me. And with that, I had officially reached the legal limit for impure thoughts whilst in church and exited the basilica, more or less kicking myself out for internal awfulness.

I didn’t puke but I did walk around for a bit to settle my stomach and reflect on my Hot Priest, mostly in a way where I wondered if I could create some sort of art out of my attraction to him that didn’t retread or rip off season two of Fleabag. In the end, I decided to squander the attraction. 

“He’s probably a pedophile,” I decided.