Loosely translated: “Sometimes, / When I look deep in your pants, / I swear I can see your soul.”
Ha ha! Just kidding. But remember that terrible song “Sometimes” by that medium-terrible band, James? James: because what the world needs now is more Irishmen singing. He didn’t actually say “pants,” but it would have been a better song if he had. Hey, and look, it’s a bunch of guys wearing dresses! I suppose this is all my fault, too. Not the bananas, though.
In the past week, there has been a lot of soul-searching. Unfortunately, it’s mostly been people searching each other’s souls and — you’ll never guess! — finding them wanting.
I, of course, am not guilty of this. No, I certainly haven’t spent the last several days wrapped in a semi-hysterical nimbus of self-righteousness. I haven’t been following my husband around and making him reassure me, over and over and over again, that I’m a perfectly good wife most of the time. My prayer life hasn’t consisted mostly of, “Did you hear that guy?!?”
Well, just to show that I can be old-fashioned, too, let’s go back in time and revisit and old game — and do a little soul-searching of our own souls for a change. Not such a scenic route, is it? I think there’s a whole series of books out on it by now, and I remember that Ironic Catholic had a contest at one point. It’s so much fun: Six Word Autobiographies.
Here are the ones I came up with a few years ago:
Last I checked, I deserve less.
Still a bum, just much busier.
I’ve secretly always wanted a dog.
Seven unmedicated births, fine; telephones, terrifying.
Married to Bach, trysting with Brahms.
and my favorite:
Help! Help, help, help! Oh, thanks.
Okay, so what are yours? Your life in six words. Go!
