Mary Panza at LarkTavern

Sounds simple. Some people make an entire career out of committing sins and then confessing them on TV or the internet. It has become an art form or even a rite of passage for the Jersey Shore generation. Doing penance is usually thrust upon you by a judge or jury. If you have committed a lesser (venial) sin you just have to wait for the karma train to run over your face. If you are smart, you realize that you probably had it coming. Amend my life. That one is the nightmare.

I wrote about my friend Rocco some time back. It seems I finally realized why Rocco is single at 46. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t dig into your life and gets weird when you try to dig into his. I own that I derailed the free meal, flirting, and cock tease express that was me and Rocco. I thought I was different. We had a friendship and I thought I was the one that could bring him around. I am an arrogant, proud asshole. This is my sin. This is my confession. I needed to take my mind off of my grief and I took on someone I had no business taking on. I thought I was different. I’m Mary Fucking Panza. Not so much.

I take this on as my sin because while my vagina is (and has been) closed for business doesn’t mean I don’t think about it. I am at my heaviest weight. No lie. I weighed less just before I gave birth. My face is changing and I don’t recognize myself anymore. I say this not for you to compliment me or tell me I have some fucking after school special, Mary Margaret body morph disorder. I have mirrors in my house. I know what I am talking about. Save the saving me from myself bullshit. That is not what this is about. I am New York State licensed massage therapist. Cutting to the chase, I will not give you a happy ending. Never have. Never will. Onward. I did an outreach for an organization about a month ago. The maintenance crew asked us if they could get courtesy chair massage. No problem. Then this big (defensive end big) guy says in a non-creepy way, “I am going to wait for the brunette. She looks like she knows her stuff.” Whatever, another crazy ass loving chubby chaser, I think. I am working on him and we start to talk. My friend and associate are next to me and he is telling us that he is working this job and is glad to have it. He was a P.E. teacher and coach in the town where my associate is from and got laid off. He was not embarrassed about being a janitor. It was his word, not mine. He was forthcoming in a genuine way. This mountain of a man told me more about himself in 10 minutes than Rocco has in 12 years. He wanted to coach again. He loved dogs. He liked eating ribs. Did I like to eat ribs? Sure, I said. Home, alone, in sweat pants with floss standing by. He got a big kick out of that. Then he dropped the bomb. May I call you sometime? What I said next I regret. I said no. I didn’t give him an explanation. I just
said no. I had Rocco. He had a real job. Not a maintenance job. I’m the girl so fucking proud of my blue collar roots. Me, never judges anyone by what they do. There it is. I judged this really nice mountain of a man because I thought I was too good. That is truly a mind morph disorder. Pride and arrogance: deadly sins.

I am not saying that this was the love if my life or some happily ever after, Disney, chubby princess story. I am saying that I passed on knowing a nice person because he does a job that I found unsavory. It is the action of someone I wouldn’t like. You have my confession. My penance is that I am stuck with my conscience and despite popular belief, I have one. Rocco avoids me and I am left to deal with myself. I treated someone as though they were somehow beneath me. I may never have the chance to say sorry in person. If, by some miracle of technology you see this big guy; I am really sorry I acted like a douche bag. You definitely deserve better.

Amend my life? I’m working on it.