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.
