Church is a perfect time to contemplate the universe. Or map out next week’s grocery list. Depending upon what kind of week you’re having. Today at church I planned out the menu for Samson’s after-baptism fiesta. It was that kind of week.
Yes, it was that boring.
It was my sacred week to attend Relief Society (read that: the alternative Sunday format that keeps me mildly sane while serving in Primary). Unfortunately it was a fifth Sunday, which means a combined Relief Society/High Priests Group/Elders Quorum shindig. Out in these here parts where women aren’t worthy to open with prayer that almost always means a lesson of sorts taught only by men and also (coincidentally?) almost always means boring. (Where is the tablecloth, anyway?)
But today was special. Today we got a 50-minute lecture on porn.
Just shoot me. It’s worse than the obligatory annual “hurricane talk” we had in Florida. My head was rolling around, drool was running down my blouse, and I had sparks shooting out my ears.
I was moderately amused by the suggestion from one class member that “scripture addiction” was a valid concern. And I was equally intrigued by the response from our imported “addiction expert” that, in very fact, Jack Christensen [a decently well-known LDS speaker, institute director, etc.] actually had publicly confessed to suffering from this particular malady. But mostly I disagreed with just about ever word that passed through the lips of our esteemed specialist.
But what do I know. The “expert” was addicted to oxycontin. My only known addictions are to: chocolate and one other thing I can’t discuss in mixed company.
The curse of pornography is that because some people can’t confine their sexual urges to the realm of living, breathing people with whom they physically share space in the same room, the rest of us have to hear about it over and over and over, ad infinitum, until we keel over with severe abdominal distress.
When the party plan was complete, I tried to sleep it off in the pew, but it hurt my neck, so I started texting Jessica in California. She scolded me for texting during church. Who knew she could figure out what time it was in Utah?
Finally I resorted to playing solitaire on my Treo. And I did it just to alter my mood. According to the expert that means I’m addicted.
I need a 12-step program.