1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a new blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.
Reason #724: I’m ungrateful.
Youth is no excuse, but if I’m standing before St. Peter and he asks, that’s what I’m going with. I was young, and stupid hadn’t worn off, yet. (Sure, I’ve done many stupid things since then, but I’m working on other excuses for those moments. I’ve got time, right?)
I was 20 and feeling a bit inadequate. Not that I had reason.
My brother majored in defending the world. Me? Radio.
He chose West Point. I aimed just a touch lower.
On trips home, he wore perfectly tailored, status-elevating dress uniforms with buttons so shiny they could power small towns. I wore radio station T-shirts adorned with liquor store sponsorships.
He was Captain America, I was Mr. Microphone.
But this story isn’t about how I viewed my brother. It’s about how I viewed my parents. (Psychologists, amateur and otherwise, will see a third option.)
From my view, my parents were proud of my brother, and indifferent to me.
Not that I didn’t have evidence.
Upon his college acceptance, our house morphed into a shrine to all things West Point. Conversation became Army centric. Eventually, the postal service established a virtual home office in our living room to handle the onslaught of care packages from our house to The Academy.
Army-Navy day was immediately upgraded to prime holiday status, below only Christmas and any Imo’s Pizza delivery.
A return trip by my brother was akin to a Papal visit.
Lest you think I’m a total clod, I was proud, too. But, I was also looking forward to star treatment when I left home. And, when it didn’t come, I was disappointed.
There were no life-size portraits of me wearing headphones. No tape recorders hung on the wall with descriptive plaques.
In my mind, I was being slighted.
And, for some reason, the sweatshirt became my focus.
I could have chosen anything. My dad had seventeen Army hats, my mom five pairs of USMA sweatpants. But it was the sweatshirt disparity that I decided had to be resolved.
So, one day, I decided to make a stand.
“Why don’t you own a single sweatshirt that represents my college?”
The question was direct. The message implied.
Now, my parents could have answered with a single sentence. “I guess we’re too busy working double shifts to pay for your college.”
It would have been a show stopper.
But, they didn’t.
Instead, they handed me 60 bucks and charged me with finding the perfect sweatshirt to display their pride.
I promptly spent it on Imo’s pizza.
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Have a burning desire to tell me I'm not a horrible person? Drop it in the comments below.
Reason #724: I’m ungrateful.
Youth is no excuse, but if I’m standing before St. Peter and he asks, that’s what I’m going with. I was young, and stupid hadn’t worn off, yet. (Sure, I’ve done many stupid things since then, but I’m working on other excuses for those moments. I’ve got time, right?)
I was 20 and feeling a bit inadequate. Not that I had reason.
My brother majored in defending the world. Me? Radio.
He chose West Point. I aimed just a touch lower.
On trips home, he wore perfectly tailored, status-elevating dress uniforms with buttons so shiny they could power small towns. I wore radio station T-shirts adorned with liquor store sponsorships.
He was Captain America, I was Mr. Microphone.
But this story isn’t about how I viewed my brother. It’s about how I viewed my parents. (Psychologists, amateur and otherwise, will see a third option.)
From my view, my parents were proud of my brother, and indifferent to me.
Not that I didn’t have evidence.
Upon his college acceptance, our house morphed into a shrine to all things West Point. Conversation became Army centric. Eventually, the postal service established a virtual home office in our living room to handle the onslaught of care packages from our house to The Academy.
Army-Navy day was immediately upgraded to prime holiday status, below only Christmas and any Imo’s Pizza delivery.
A return trip by my brother was akin to a Papal visit.
Lest you think I’m a total clod, I was proud, too. But, I was also looking forward to star treatment when I left home. And, when it didn’t come, I was disappointed.
There were no life-size portraits of me wearing headphones. No tape recorders hung on the wall with descriptive plaques.
In my mind, I was being slighted.
And, for some reason, the sweatshirt became my focus.
I could have chosen anything. My dad had seventeen Army hats, my mom five pairs of USMA sweatpants. But it was the sweatshirt disparity that I decided had to be resolved.
So, one day, I decided to make a stand.
“Why don’t you own a single sweatshirt that represents my college?”
The question was direct. The message implied.
Now, my parents could have answered with a single sentence. “I guess we’re too busy working double shifts to pay for your college.”
It would have been a show stopper.
But, they didn’t.
Instead, they handed me 60 bucks and charged me with finding the perfect sweatshirt to display their pride.
I promptly spent it on Imo’s pizza.
-------------------
Have a burning desire to tell me I'm not a horrible person? Drop it in the comments below.
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