Oh, No Meat Fridays, how I have missed thee. Another year, another forgotten Lenten promise. Frankly, the exact date of my betrayal, my omissive gluttony, that first bite out of a ham sandwich followed by several days worth of Catholic guilt is something of a sport in the Murphey clan. Sean has even taken out a pool on when I will stray (having already claimed week 3 and 5 for himself).
Unlike New Year’s Resolution, Lenten appeals carry greater weight for me. I mean if you happen to screw up, you may be visited with plague and lightning, fire and brimstone, Rosie O’Donnell and another season of the Bachelor — Heaven preserve us. Father Time, the patron saint of New Year’ Resolutions is far less coercive. He acts as more of a symbol anyway, one who has been screwin’ with me for years, ever since I learned about movie ratings and the penalties for underage drinking. Continue reading