It is just past three in the morning and I am a few steps away from taking a final preoccupation to bed.
Do guilty pleasures phase out of our lives, finally become acceptable, OR ultimately dismissed as silly?
Or from years of Catholic brow-beating and shaming, does the Pleasure amass even more guilt? Is it more embarrassing, as you likely lied to yourself about such an inevitability? The wells of both guilt and embarrassment are surely bottomless
Does admitting that you enjoy and even sing along to “Seasons in the Sun” become easier or more difficult with time?
“But the hills that we climbed were just seasons out of time.” Is it even more difficult to admit that you know the lyrics by heart?
Three in the morning! My beloved is certainly pacing and counting cats, in the the most overlooked co-dependent talents. He finds it best to suppress any desire to nag, bother, or seem needy.
Shalom, shalom. Forgive my whisper. Let me quickly tiptoe to the bedroom.
Damn. I did it again! He will once again be cross about my dawdling into the wee hours.