You big sillies. He did NOT. I’m wacky and all, but I don’t mess with the big man. Ehhh, fine, I do occasionally, but I make sure He knows I’m kidding. I won’t be the chick who’s so clever she winds up in purgatory, sitting on a rock and staring side-eyed at Lenny Bruce and Richard Pryor, complaining how hot it is and asking where Chris Farley hid the snacks.
I digress. God is a part of the story, but then again, He’s not.
I got sick the winter of 2011, and put on a few pounds. I’m not one of those lucky women who gain weight evenly or maybe just in their booties, where it makes them more desirable. No, my genetics caused what I can only call the Six Month Up the Duff Effect. Hold on to that visual.
Aaaand ease into late August. I was about to turn 39, and urgently wanted to join one of my church’s supportive youth groups at its annual camp retreats upstate. I’d been laid off about a month before, and though I missed nothing about my job, I thought God might send some guidance my way if I were in a more naturalistic environment. I was also yearning for fellowship, and wished to find some post-recuperation peace and direction before I tackled another long winter in the city. A few weeks later, I was on my way to Camp Iroquois Springs in Rock Hill. So was Hurricane Irene.