Flogger Blogger Wednesday

Having been raised in a big Catholic family, I am basically a perpetual guilt machine. There are so many things about which I feel shame that it's a wonder I don't self-combust.

• Did I eat cookies for breakfast? Guilty. 
• Did I eat cookies for breakfast in front of my 1-year-old son? Sinner.
• Did I eat cookies for breakfast in front of my son and then offer him a cookie because I felt guilty about hogging them all? Purgatory.
• Did I eat cookies for breakfast in front of my son and then offer him a cookie because I felt guilty about hogging them all and did I then feel guilty that I gave him a cookie so I made him eat nutritious apple slices, which he hates, while I ate a chocolate truffle to calm my nerves? Jesus wept.

I once stuck a post-it note on my dashboard that read, simply, "Quilt"-- a reminder to stop by the dry cleaners after work to pick up bedding. At lunchtime, I drove to Popeye's for lunch (Repent) with a coworker, who noticed the little yellow note.

"Does that say 'guilt'?" he asked. 

"No," I replied, confused, "It says 'quilt.' As in, 'pick up a quilt from the dry cleaners.'" 

"Oh." He seemed disappointed, but quickly added, "Because it would be just like you to remind yourself to feel guilty for something."

To this day, whenever I go down the rabbit hole of shame, that same coworker will lean in and, with a stern look, say, "Remember the guilt. Remember. The. Guilt."

But my guilt list grows by the hour and the post-it notes are doing a number on my carbon footprint (Remorse), so I am dedicating Wednesday to public self-flagellation. Welcome to Flogger Blogger Wednesdays, because being an asshole is a lot more enjoyable when you know you aren't the only one.

Let me get the ball rolling by saying that I feel guilty for posting this so late in the day. It's barely Wednesday any more. But there are lots of words up there above this paragraph. So, although I feel like a total loser for leaving it at this, this is, in fact, where I'm leaving it. I need to eat dinner. My husband is staring at me over a bowl of cooling pasta. Pasta that he cooked while I typed. Because I'm a terrible cook.

I'm going to Hell.