The Outside Lane

I was 17 years old when Heathers hit theaters.  Because my parents were sticklers for ratings, I was not allowed to see it.  It would be two more years before I could put the cinematic thrust behind my asking, “What’s your damage?” and my crush on Christian Slater had already started percolating with Name of the Rose (you can see his butt!  Christian Slater’s was the first adult male butt I ever saw) .

My recollection is of watching this with a friend and of being first horrified, and then laughing because I was so horrified, then measuring my reactions against my friend’s and thinking I needed to suck it up and get with the program, and then running out to buy a red scrunchie.  By the third viewing, I was snarking along with Heather Chandler, and working to hone my sensibilities into something less whitebread and more apple-with-hidden-razor sharpness.

Truth is, I was never entirely comfortable with the movie, but I could enjoy it, laugh at it, and quote it without compunction.  I was a Veronica, haplessly following the crowd of Heathers lovers into the attempted murders of my conscience, linguistic creativity, and fashion.  Not that I needed much coaxing, as I had a mean streak a mile wide, just waiting for proper venue.  I may not have ever been as popular as a Heather, but I could have eaten all three of them for lunch out of just sheer meanness.  (Fortunately, I had the whole religious conversion, and that pretty much made the evil-girl-as-entertainment a thing of the past.)

However many decades later, Mean Girls arrived.  This was a post-Columbine Heathers I could get fully behind.  All of the ugly nature of high school without the teen angst having a body count.  Somewhere between the two, I saw Jawbreaker, a movie that so horrified me I couldn’t even look at Rose McGowan for years.  (There was a scene with Rose and her then lover Marilyn Manson that made me want to bleach my brain.)

Last night I watched Jennifer’s Body.  As I was watching, my heart sinking lower and lower against my stomach, I realized that somewhere between Heathers, Jawbreaker, and Mean Girls, I had become a parent.  I wasn’t watching the film through the eyes of a woman who might have been a Heather, or a Veronica, or a Violet, or a Regina, or a Cady, or a Jennifer, or a Needy.  I was watching the film through the eyes of a woman who might have been one of their mothers.

Suddenly, and I mean suddenly, it hit me.  “I love my dead, gay son!” Wasn’t funny.  It wasn’t funny that a parent had lost a child in a senseless act of violence, that was entertainment for the murderer, or that the child had been framed into a position that would have been painful to him and his family, for his family to have to grapple with the untruth that their son had committed suicide because they hadn’t known or accepted their child for what he was in life.  Do you have any idea how it would destroy me to think that my son had killed himself because I didn’t accept him?  I could not live thinking I had contributed to my child’s death.

It wasn’t funny that Regina George broke hundreds of hearts with one massive photocopy distribution. 

Nothing about Jennifer’s Body, but the sometime-zinging dialog, was funny.  I didn’t laugh once.  Maybe I would have five years ago, but last night, I just sat there with one eye on my son’s bedroom door.  The movie wasn’t bad.  It was decently acted, and well-written, but…

One scene in particular took away my breath for a moment.  As mourners gather for Colin Gray’s funeral, one of Jennifer’s recent victims, a sweet seeming Goth boy, his friends act out dramatically and Colin’s mother reacts.*  From the script: 

 GOTH BOY
                    Colin wouldn’t have liked this.
                                  MRS. GRAY
                         (losing it)
                    Oh, you think so, Powder? Yeah,
                    you’re right! I’m pretty sure my
                    son wouldn’t have liked being
                    eaten by a fucking CANNIBAL and
                    buried before his eighteenth
                    birthday! Wow, you must have known
                    him so well!
                                    MR. GRAY
                    Jill…
          The goth boy looks terrified. But Mrs. Gray’s not done
          ranting yet.
                                   MRS. GRAY
                    By the time they found Colin in
                    that godforsaken house, he looked
                    like lasagna with teeth. I’d know–
                    I had to identify the remains. My
                    boy’s not in the realm of the
                    undead. He’s not flying around in
                    the firmament with magical wings
                    of flame. He’s in an overpriced
                    rosewood box that’s headed six
                    feet downtown.
          She kicks the coffin to illustrate.
         
         
         
                                                          (CONTINUED)
         
                                                               82.
          CONTINUED: (4)
         
                                  MRS. GRAY (CONT’D)
                    So you can take your pain and
                    shove it up your asses, kids.
                    I got the monopoly on pain!
          The kids stare at her in awe. Needy watches as Mrs. Gray
          collapses into Mr. Gray’s arms.

Broke. My. Heart.

And when the demon possessing Jennifer’s Body meets its demise, the reaction of her unsuspecting mother, who only sees that she has narrowly missed the window of opportunity to save her daughter’s life, was harrowing to me.  She just needed a few seconds of time back! 

It was a horror movie in the truest sense of the word.  One that dealt (although shortly) with repercussions rather than just the adrenaline rush of the scare and tear.

I give Diablo Cody credit for dealing with the parents’ reactions beyond making their grief comic relief.  I do wish we’d seen more of the parents prior to all the destruction.  I can’t help but think if Jennifer’s mother had been a little more involved, she never would have ended up in that kidnap van.  Or if Needy’s mother were more concerned with her daughter, or if Chip’s mother had refused to let him walk alone at night, after two grisly murders, if those things had happened, there would be less heartache.  There would also be less movie.

Thing is, Jennifer’s Body could have been any child’s body.  Her victims, any children I know and love.  As a mother, a godparent, and ceremonial auntie, I could not enjoy watching.  Even imaginary people have imaginary parents, friends, and family, and I can’t stand having that Greek chorus wailing in the back of my mind.  Don’t even get me started on slasher films, or torture porn. 

It made me thank God for my restrictive parents, who wouldn’t even bend the rules to let me watch R-rated movies.  I hope my son is so grateful when I win the fight with his father over whether or not he has a curfew on prom night. 

* I have to admit to a monstrous thing I did as a teen.  When we were Seniors, a boy I knew peripherally was killed in a very bad car accident.  It was the sixth peer death I had experienced in my four years of high school.  This boy was very popular, and his funeral drew a massive crowd.  I did not know him well, did not particularly care for what I did know, and had turned him down for a date, so he wasn’t exactly fond of me.  But it was a half day out of clases, and knowing the girls he had been close to, I figured it might be a good show.   I went to the funeral out of morbid curiousity.

It was at this funeral, I should not even have attended, that I learned I had inappropriate laughter issues–it is a real thing, people.  (Whenever I am really afraid, nervous, or angry, I laugh.  Can’t help it.)  I did manage to keep my volume down, but as the teenaged girls in the front of the church began to sob, scream, and wail as dramatically as only teenaged girls or hired keeners can do, I started to laugh. 

I had the good sense to be ashamed of myself and to get out of there, and I did send the family a card afterward, sincerely expressing concern and apologizing, but I haven’t ever quite gotten over how incredibly rude and cruel that was.  It still makes me sick.

Yesterday, as I was doing laundry, I became disgusted with myself over the sheer excess of my wardrobe.  While I am a frugal shopper (I rarely pay over $20 for anything) I am a frequent shopper.  I like to shop, and I like to spend, and I am realizing that where I have just considered it a part of my girly charm, I am a grown woman now, and it’s about time I started acting like it.

Shopping is almost a dysfunction for me.  I say almost, because I can spend hours in a store without buying anything, but I do feel a near compulsive need to buy.  Some people eat.  I buy.

When I was growing up and my parents were having trouble, my mother would take me to the mall to avoid the house.  And because I was the delight of her eyes, she loved dressing me up and accessorizing me, making sure I was fashionable looking (if on a dime, and with no labels.)  Shopping was how we dealt with nerves, and how we dealt with depression, and how we dealt with being told not to spend more money.  Shopping was a salve, and though I can’t speak for her, I certainly felt like I was entitled to spend as a means of balancing what I wasn’t getting emotionally.  New shoes certainly got my father’s attention when nothing else would–got his attention so much, that he cancelled all the credit cards without telling my mother once.  That got her attention.  Then we went shopping with cash.  It was a vicious cycle, that one.  I still have the jewelry.

It’s a learned behavior.  I learned that shopping feels good. 

Somewhere along the line, my consumption became conspicuous.  Who really needs five of the exact same tshirt?  (You have no idea how panicked I feel asking that question.  Because I do!  I need those!)  And somewhere along the line, my wardrobe started taking over the house.

I cannot even guess how much I have given away in the last two years.  I would estimate that I have given away somewhere around four-hundred pounds of clothing.  I would estimate that this was around 20% of my wardrobe.  And doing laundry yesterday, I was disgusted.

I’m a cold turkey girl.  When I think I have a problem, I take action.  If I think I need to start a diet, I start it right then.  Why wait?  If I think I am drinking too much coffee, I quit.  I wait until I feel good about it again, then resume.  Headaches and all.

So yesterday, I quit shopping.  I had one more purchase to make, for a home improvement project aimed at helping me contain my messes, but that was it.  I am not shopping for anything new for 6 months.

No new clothes or shoes for me.  No new accessories.  No new home decor goodies.  I will buy necessities, functional items that benefit the whole family, and hosiery, but otherwise?  Man, I have enough to keep me looking fetch for two years.

I’m going to have to find a new hobby.  Maybe I will take up counting the money I am saving, and swimming through it like Scrooge McDuck.

I spent four hours in my car today, driving to and then from a training seminar.  I am nursing a broken tailbone, so the drive plus the eight hours in an anti-ergonomic chair was misery.  My trainer was not aware of my busted  backside, and I think was not impressed with the way I kept squirming.  (Nor was she impressed when I got myself locked in the hallway during class, but I think I had already dug my grave.)

The Lobster and I were in a training class together once, based on the Who Moved My Cheese novels.  Yes, I realize they aren’t novels.  As part of our class, we were asked to select the character with which we identified.  I hadn’t exactly read the book.  I had skimmed the book.  I had read a synopsis of the book.  I was not familiar enough with the book to name, much less identify the characters, so I did what all goofballs do, and I just made something up when it got to me.

I said, “I identify with the cheese.”  It was the only character I knew, right?  “I am what everyone wants, and where everyone wants to be.”  And I said something else about how if someone moves what I want, or puts it out of my reach, I just adapt and change what I want.  That last bit was true.

To my credit, I said it with a straight face and great conviction.

Sadly, my comment derailed the training session.  Apparently it is very difficult to convince people that you can teach them to get what they want once you introduce the idea that they might already have it.  That trainer?  Not impressed. I should have done my homework and read the book, but that still wouldn’t have kept me from getting in trouble for turning my sun visor project into a tiara project.

Eh, who am I kidding.  I’d still have said I was the cheese.

Tonight I am exhausted.  I dislike being forced to sit while people read to me.  It makes me antsy, and antsy means cranky, and cranky means aggravating.  I was fighting that all day, working hard to make a good impression for my office.  You know, when I wasn’t rolling my chair over the belt of my raincoat and falling half out of it, or accidentally making my printer go off with nervous mouse clicking, or getting locked out of the classroom.

Hopefully tomorrow will be better.  I’ll drink less caffeine.

Back in September, I joined a gym.  The location was perfect, the setting was lovely, and as I signed my life away, I thought, “Gonna suck if I lose my job and can’t work out here anymore.”  Because I chose a gym that was across the street from my son’s daycare, and halfway between my house and office.  Five weeks later?

I didn’t lose my job, but circumstances involving someone’s unwanted crotch and my backside caused me to rethink my career path, and that led to my return to an industry I truly enjoy.  However, that meant I wouldn’t be working out at that gym any longer.

The nearest gym of my membership is 30 minutes from my house, densely populated, and kind of grimy looking.  If I’m going to drive 30 minutes to do something I don’t want to do, then by gosh, it better be pretty to look at.  (I can hear Ms. Monroe telling me not to waste an “at” at the end of a sentence.  She said we had a finite number of “ats” and that if we used them up incorrectly, we wouldn’t have one when we needed one.  Ms. Monroe was my 11th grade AP English teacher.  That’s about all I remember from 11th grade English.)

Another big name chain gym is right across the street from my current office.  There are three more within 15 minutes of my house.  They appear to be clean and sparkly, and the one by my office is quite nice.  I changed memberships today.

I kind of hate the gym, but I also hate how tight my shoulders are feeling and how lethargic I’ve been.  I was feeling pretty super when I started working out last Fall, so I’m looking forward to getting back up on that horse of feeling healthy.

Thor’s Grents (that’s grandparents) are picking him up tomorrow night, and the Husband has a class tomorrow night.  You know what I’m doing after work?  I am going to go get on the treadmill.  Feels so wrong to be giddy about that.

My closest coworker is a fantastic girl, fifteen years my junior.  I have a lot of fun talking with her about music and fashion, and she seems to have a lot of fun laughing when I know all the words to Pet Shop Boys songs that play on our Muzak.

We were talking about the musicians we had dated, yesterday.  It was interesting to see how our stories of adorable commitement-phobes went (then last night, I saw the How I Met Your Mother with Robin and Simon and hid my expressions of oh my god, I did that from my husband), and made me think how silly it is when we are surprised to meet someone whose experience matches or mirrors our own.  After all, aren’t there a finite number of experiences a human being can have?

I’m an only child, and was an only grandchild on one side of the family, so I am strongly influenced by socialization to believe that I am a unique snowflake.  Marriage and motherhood have beaten a lot of that out of me.  Actually, I think the breast pump sucked a lot of my individuality out along with the milk I was expressing for my newborn.  It certainly drained me of my humility.  The dignity had already been stripped away when the workmen came in to fix the call button attached to my bed while I was in the pushing phase of said newborn’s delivery.

Come to that, I may never have had much dignity.  I’ve always been willing to throw myself under the bus for a laugh or to make a point.  It’s why I excelled at improv.

One of my favorite blogs to read is by Pamela Ribon, author and television comedy writer. Lately, Pamela has been posting the writings of her fifteen-year-old lovelorn self.  It is beautiful and horrifying, and an absolutely perfect trainwreck of creative, romantic teen angst. 

This morning, I shot her an email and admitted to my own hyperbolic, hysterical teen scribbles.  I told her to take heart, that I was pretty sure she had never quoted Simon LeBon as a poet.  I still cringe remembering a particular break-up note I wrote to a boy who wasn’t even dating me exclusively.  I left it on the windshield of his car like a freaking moron.  God, I was a moron.

I might still be a moron.  We’ll have to see what I think of me in another 20 years.  Right now, I am really enjoying my age and enjoying the company of my younger coworker.  I get the vicarious thrill of hearing about the fun things I remember, without having to deal with dating and school, and car trouble, and the general yuck that comes before 30.

Coco Chanel is credited with saying, “Elegance is refusal.”  For a long time, I used that as my diet mantra.  Elegance was refusing the calories, the carbs, the coca-colas, or whichever alliteratively delicious item I was self-denying.  Elegance was the idea of sashaying into some fantastic ballroom scene in a shimmering column, looking like Cate Blanchett.  A young Sean Connery usually figured in there somewhere.  He was wearing a tuxedo.  I would refuse his advances.  After all, I am a married woman, and elegant.

I am a big fan of the word no.  No has a power to it that yes only wishes it had.  Some of my favorite moments of personal history figure around a refusal.  Gracious.  Southern.  Why thank you, kindly, but I mustn’t.  (That’s a fantasy, too.  Most of my refusals have been made with a red face, either sputtering with rage, or tittering with the flattery of the offer.  In my fantasy world, my graceful-necked, long-limbed, balletic self simply inclines her fair head and declines her proposals with serene meekness.  I think the real me looks much more like the Depression Era dervish my grandmothers bred into me.)

Shani Davis is my new favorite Olympian because he said no to Oprah.  No one says no to Oprah.  I have another fantasy (I have a lot of fantasies–I tell myself bedtime stories) that for whichever reason, Oprah calls me to be on her program, and I politely refuse.  Because I have no desire to live so public a life, to expose my family to the spotlight of fame, and, of course, because I am elegant. 

I started thinking about this as I tucked into my Breakfast Jack this morning.  I hadn’t eaten since 7pm last night, fasting for blood work.   It was nearing 10am, and I was hungry and abused, and right next to a Jack in the Box.  I haven’t had a Breakfast Jack since college, and since I could eat that as I drove in to the office, I indulged.

“Elegance,” my inner critic sniffed, “would be to refuse that trashy food.  In fact, you could stand to skip several meals.”  My inner critic was serious.  “Elegance is thin.  Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, Kate Moss said so.”

“Not sure how she would know,” my stuffed mouth countered.  “Girlfriend probably hasn’t tasted anything other than cigarettes since 1992.  Anyway, elegance isn’t about refusing food for the sake of it.  Elegance is also about refusing to conform to ideals imposed upon you by them.  Elegance is about eating when you are hungry, stopping when you are full, and refusing to let anyone make you feel bad about the fact that you are short, and that the phrase sturdy as a little French horse resonated with you even as a child.

“Elegance is refusing to be diminished by fashion designers, magazine editors, mean girls, or frat boys.  I recognize that vanity is a vice as surely as gluttony, and to starve myself to match an impossible ideal is as ridiculous as it would be to stuff myself.  Elegance is refusing to overeat, but refusing to eat in order to have an appearance of elegance?  Well, that’s just stupid.  Hashbrown?”

That gave my inner critic pause.

What I am still learning, when it comes to food and eating habits, is that eating is good.  Overeating is bad.  Undereating is bad.  Either of those things make me feel as sick as eating bad food.  But eating is good, and the elegance in my diet is this:  Refusing to over- or undereat.

By the way, the 3/4s of that Breakfast Jack that it took to fill me up?  Delicious!

I am working in a new position in an old field, so while I am new to this particular chair, I am old hat at the job.  Every new chair comes with adjustments, though, and I am making mine.  Today, a customer came in with incomplete and completely confuzzled information.  No big deal.  It’s something I could have sorted faster, had I been in this chair longer, and I thanked her for her patience with my tortoise-like speed.  As she left, she looked over her shoulder and snarked, “I hope you learn your job.”

“Thanks!” I called back.  Because what do you say to that? 

People.

Working with the public makes me a better customer, I think.  I don’t mean I’m a pushover customer.  If you bring me my steak cooked well done when I asked for medium, I’m going to send it back.  I won’t be a yotch about it, but I also won’t eat what I don’t want.  If I have to wait behind a slow poke, I’m not going to be cranky with the cashier.  I’m not even going to be cranky with Pokey because everyone knows there are days I need patience from other people.

Cruelty to service industry workers is a pet peeve of mine.  Just because someone gets paid to cater to your needs, does not give you the right to go Lord and Master over them.  I have refused to go out on second dates based on how a guy treated waitstaff.

In other news, I have a renewed fascination with the Jolly Rancher.  I love this candy.  I love how when you suck it down to a thin slab, you can curl it up with your tongue.  And also, tasty!

The Lobster and I share an interesting history which includes having spent time within the same semi-cult* and having been pursued by the same semi-cult poster boy during our time therein.  My disillusion with the group and eventual distancing of self was a long, slow process, involving a couple of break-ups before I finally divorced myself of them.  The Lobster was kicked out for having rejected and exposed the then married poster boy’s inappropriate advances, and for maintaining contact with me.  I’m so subversive! 

We talk a lot about our time at The Ministry (TM for short).  We talk about how we became engaged with it, and the subtle process of indoctrination.  We talk about how we started to see what was around us, how we questioned what was being done and what we were being asked to do, and why we stayed so long.  We talk about friends and family who were grievously hurt by TM, and our own war wounds.  And we talk about getting free.  That is a process in and of itself.

Outside friends of mine have watched my process, usually with one question, “How did you get roped into believing all that to begin with?!”  It’s a fair question.  Frankly, I think once you are willing to believe in creation stories, mystic plagues, virgin births, and resurrections, you’ve shown that you’re willing to believe almost anything.  If you’re willing to bet your eternal soul on a little guy in a 2000 year old manger, then why is it such a stretch that you would be willing to bet 10% of your income on a charismatic dude you can see?  (This is why my husband does the finances.  I’m still quite attached to the little guy in the manger, you see.  I like to think I’m less influenced by charisma.)

The Lobster and I were talking about TM today, in light of some recent postings from a mutual acquaintance.  An outsider posed a question (not to us) asking why our mutual acquaintance’s truth wasn’t published information if it were actually true.  The answer to that is exhausting, but maybe summed up best by the words, “gag order”.

One adherent to TM posted a seemingly balanced statement regarding the situation, suggesting that the leadership of TM were not to blame for any issues.  After all, people wouldn’t follow them if they were so bad.

And that’s just it.  It’s a house of cards.  If people allow themselves to acknowledge the fact that TM’s leadership is a screwed up mess, then they have to allow for the possibility that The Leader is a screwed up mess.  If The Leader is a screwed up mess, then they may have been throwing their
money away and making fun of Tom Cruise for no good reason.  Haha!  He
believes in space clams!  Oh crap…I guess I do, too.  We can’t handle
the truth.

I can’t laugh at Tom Cruise.  Tom Cruise hits way too close to home.  I see a lot of my own formerly zealous self in him.  I was sold out completely to TM, and was couch jumping proud of it.  You have no idea how humbling and humiliating it is to admit that.  It’s heartbreaking really.

I’m sure I’ll write more about this off and on, it’s just weighing on my mind today.

*Using the Cult Checklist here is my definition of “semi-cult”

1. A movement that separates itself from society, either geographically or socially; [The ministry compound is geographically removed from easy access, and is now fenced and patrolled.  I am not sure how access is granted these days, but I hear it isn't easy.  Getting out is fine.  They don't mind you leaving.] [The Lobster adds:  ARMED GUARDS. REAL GUNS. MY EX-HUSBAND HAS PERSONALLY BEEN TASERED BY THE SECURITY STAFF. I HAVE PERSONALLY CALLED SECURITY ON GUESTS WITH CAMERAS WHO SEEM THEY MIGHT BE REPORTERS IN HIDING. NO PHOTOS INSIDE THE BUILDING! BAH!]
2. Adherents who become increasingly dependent on the movement for their view on reality; [Adherents to this ministry are told repeatedly that their blessing, which could be anything from that solid gold Lexus to their child's health, is directly attached to their loyalty to giving money to the ministry.  This is done under the guise of "sowing seed (finances) into good ground".  The only good ground is a ministry obviously and visibly "blessed" by God.  When the definition of being obviously and visibly blessed is given, it is in conjunction with the fruits of their own ministry, or a handful of select partner ministries.  Thus, Adherents believe that giving money outside of this small circle is throwing it away, and that they must continue to grow within this small circle until their blessing/miracle comes to fruition.  They are told constantly that leaving the ministry is a mistake, that it is running outside of God's will, and that speaking against it is directly punishable by God himself.] [The Lobster adds:  INVESTMENT. IF YOU WALK AWAY AND DROP YOUR FAITH ALL OF THAT MONEY IN YOUR "HEAVENLY BANK ACCOUNT" WILL BE LOST. DO YOU REMEMBER THOSE ACCOUNT BOOKS TM,jr. USED TO SELL SO YOU COULD
   RECORD YOUR HEAVENLY BANK ACCOUNT SORTA LIKE YOUR EARTHLY ONE? HE S.O.L.D. BOOKS TO KEEP TRACK OF THE MONEY Y.O.U. WERE GIVING H.I.M. ]
   
3. Important decisions in the lives of the adherents are made by others; [The pastors of the church have attempted to exercise some extreme control over certain congregants.  I would say allegedly, but I've been one of those congregants and I have witnessed it first hand, so suck it.  However, only certain congregants are targeted, so not all ahderents are affected.] [The Lobster adds:  I MARRIED A 19 YEAR OLD BOY WITH TOURETTES BECAUSE I WAS TOLD IT WAS SATAN WHO PUT THE IDEA IN MY HEAD THAT I DIDN'T WANT TO DO THIS.  2ND IN CHARGE PASTOR OF THE WHOLE CHURCH TOLD ME I COULDN'T CANCEL THE WEDDING LEST I DISOBEY GOD BECAUSE THE HEAD PASTOR HAD PROPHECIED THAT HE & I WOULD
   MARRY. SUCK IT.] [And I add to The Lobster here, that #2 used emotional blackmail regarding her child to coerce her.]
   
4. Making sharp distinctions between us and them, divine and Satanic, good and evil, etc. that are not open for discussion; [The Prophet of this ministry has said outright that speaking against him is speaking against God's very anointing, and that God will punish you for speaking against His Prophet.  He has given examples of how he believes people who spoke against him were punished by God.] [The Lobster adds:  IF YOU SPEAK OUT YOU ARE "GOAT"; YOUR EMPLOYEE HANDBOOK INCLUDES A PAGE YOU MUST SIGN UPON HIRE STATING YOU UNDERSTAND YOU CAN BE FIRED FOR "STRIFE" (I.E., DISAGREEING WITH LEADERSHIP IN ANY WAY, SHAPE, OR FORM)--YOUR DIVINE PASTORS ARE REMOVED
   FROM YOU ONE STEP FURTHER BY SECRET SERVICE KEEPERS CALLED ARMOR BEARERS.]
   
5. Leaders who claim divine authority for their deeds and for their orders to their followers; [Yep.  This one is covered, since The Prophet has a direct link to God, and says that his major decisions and the movements of the ministry are directed by God through The Prophet.]
6. Leaders and movements who are unequivocally focused on achieving a certain goal. [This doesn't hold true for this ministry.  Unless you count getting rich as a goal, which I don't.] [The Lobster Snarks:  WORLD DOMINATION AND CREATING A NEW JERUSALEM ISN'T A GOAL?]
   

Given the above, not quite a cult, but definitely heading in the right direction.

I love watching the Olympics.  It makes me happy to see people perform at their peaks, obviously enjoying themselves and the thrill of winning.  I feel badly for those who underperform, and for those who lose, but I love seeing a Lindsey Vonn roll around on the snow in sheer joy after a great run.

When I was in elementary school, I was into figure skating.  I had one routine, performed to Rick Springfield’s song, “Jesse’s Girl.”  It was a lot of flailing arms and spinning.  I can only imagine that I was the sadly skinny, buck-toothed version of Abigail Breslin in Little Miss Sunshine on ice.  I’m sure it was quite the show, but not for the reasons I intended.

You see, I am completely uncoordinated.  Like most dyscalculiacs, I have a very hard time with choreographed movements.  I can’t even do the Hustle.  Remember when Line Dancing was the big thing?  No, I can’t even Cotton Eyed Joe.  If it requires me to move my left arm separately from my right foot, just prepare to laugh.

I don’t mind being uncoordinated, but it goes a long way toward explaining my fascination with women and men who have this body intelligence which allows them to understand how to make their muscles work together to do these amazing things that confound me to the point that I can hardly do a single motion.  This football season, I was entranced by the New Orleans Saints.  Watching the way Drew Brees threw the ball (threw isn’t the right word–he shot the ball with precision and intensity, making it look effortless), and how his receivers could run, jump, catch, and keep running with it.  I will sit and watch dunking contests, just agog at what it takes to accomplish that.  Skiing?  Speed skating?  Figure skating?  Snow boarding?  All of those feats amaze me.  How do people make their bodies do those things, and do them so well?!

As the dance teacher, who very gently kicked me out of her dance class because I was such a hot mess said, I have other talents.  I like to think that one of my talents is fully appreciating the amazing abilities of others.

Rock on, Olympians.  I’m rooting for all of you.