As a result of being raised by TLC-giving, fugly sweater-wearing, church-going Catholic school teachers, I’ve always been an observer and avid fan of Ash Wednesday. Mostly because of the name, for obvious and shallow reasons.
During grammar school, I used this day to my advantage and proclaimed to my class that I was the Chosen Child of our school, and should thereby be worshipped throughout the remainder of Lent.
“Mortal fools, look yonder,” I’d yell, standing on top of my pedestal … err desk. I stood regally draped in my marker-stained plaid jumper and clenching a shepherd’s staff I borrowed from the church’s props box.
“Today is Ash Wednesday. My day. Bow in worship. Give alms so I may obtain an extra hot lunch meal and pray that I will befriend you, or else you shall burn in the fiery-est fires of Hell.”
When a snotty girl named Brianna, whose nose was literally always dripping with egg-like boogers, questioned my authority, I smited her by sticking my tongue out and yelling at her in my booming lady-god voice.
“DUH, because God told me so. Please leave me in peace and go back to picking your wedgies and smelling your hands.”
Needless to say, neither Brianna or I had anyone to sit with during lunch following that incident.
That was probably the last time I tried to get people to worship me and jump-start a pack of apostles who believed I could walk on water (I can’t, but my cannon ball is impeccable.)
Even as I matured, modesty and humility has never been my thing (which you might have previously noted if you read this column on a weekly basis, or even more than once. It takes an unhealthy self-obsession to write a column.) But I’m a firm believer that if you don’t worship yourself, nobody will. A healthy dose of meta-admiration never hurt anyone.
Not everyone agrees with me (although apparently God does. The Bible says something like, “Your body is a temple. You’re extremely attractive because I made you in my image. Sexy, I know right? Go forth and sow your seed with other bangin’ people … after you get married, of course.”)
Luckily, I had someone throughout my adolescence to remind me that although I was a valuable person, I was by no means the female reincarnation of Jesus. In fact, during our weekly dinners at a dumpy Chinese restaurant, my grandma constantly likened me to an egg roll, only taller, less shrimpy and unfortunately, louder.
I was lucky. Without her criticism, I’d probably have formed a cult by now or tried to marry myself. Think Dennis Rodman, except less disgusting.
With my grandma’s gentle critiques, I have grown into a more realistic person and celebrate Ash Wednesday and Lent in a more traditional way. While I realize this month is actually, for once, not about me, I excuse myself from refraining from eating meat on Fridays. And I don’t ever give up anything I couldn’t actually ever live without. Instead, I try to do something in order to become a better person.
This Lent, this column excluded, I will promise to never refer to a grammar school frenemy by their real first name without their consent (HEY BRIANNA!). I’m also working on that whole getting my life organized thing (it’s truly a problem—my class notebook usually looks like it was donated from Iraq.) And I’m making a sincere effort to culture myself (does going to a wine bar and befriending a cute boy with thick glasses and elitist musical taste count as refinement?)
While I realize my quest of spiritual growth might sound cliché, self-righteous and a bit Jesus-freaky, there is nothing wrong with a bit of self-betterment. After all, without any new improvements, what am I supposed to brag about?
If you think the church should excommunicate Ashley on her holy day, e-mail aaspencer@wisc.edu.
