Walking Dumpster Fire

Ok, I am not so naive that I think Jesus would want to date me. I realize he would look at my rap sheet and instantly go, “Oh Me H. Me! HARD PASS!” Or would he? Might my sketchy past (read: present) entice him? Make him think he can “turn this one around”?

Whether Jesus would want to be with me or not, I have decided I could never be with Jesus. 

1. It would be all about Jesus, ALL THE TIME.

I enjoy walking into a room and having all eyes land on me. There, I said it. I can be a bit of an attention whore, but I don’t want anyone to know it. I want eyes on me but don’t want to talk to anyone. I want everyone to acknowledge that I look amazing but not actually tell me (or tell me quickly and then run away). I am vain about my looks but horribly awkward when it comes to any actual small talk. 

So when Jesus and I inevitably go to a party or a swanky restaurant (does Jesus have money, or am I paying for everything? How much is Frankincense worth?), all eyes would be on him cause, you know, he is Jesus Christ. I would become invisible, and even worse, people would come up to us and want to talk to God’s one and only son. Constantly. They would ask him for favors, have questions, and request a miracle be performed on their nephew, who has excruciating ear infections, while I stand there muttering how hungry I am. 

And the constant limelight on Jesus wouldn’t bother me (that much) if I knew what to say or do. Do I stand and smile and politely nod? (I physically cannot do this if I am hungry.) Do I offer some feeble suggestions so my Almighty man-friend can catch a break? “Your nephew will grow out of it. Tell his parents to let him cry it out or have them get earplugs” Or do I roll my eyes at everyone in my way of eating, and when they try to actually converse with me about world peace and famine (two things I know nothing about), I end up telling an awkward Simpsons joke, “Tra-trampoline!” Everyone ends up looking confused and whispers that Jesus is now officially slummin’. 

2. Christmas is now ruined.

I grew up in a Baptist household. Not the super crazy Baptist kind–we could still dance and drink coffee-but the kind where our identity is always based on what other people think of us, our intentions are founded solely on guilt, and where Jesus is the reason for the season. Sure, Santa existed in our home, but it was more that our stockings were filled with candy and stuffed animals. Santa was the side character to Jesus. 

Now that I am a full-ass adult, I am all about Santa and presents at Christmas. The more, the merrier! This is what Christmas is about! Giving and receiving and receiving and receiving! SO MANY GIFTS!

So with Jesus on my arm at Christmas (donning matching button-up pajamas, of course), the gifts would go to him, right? It is technically his birthday. Do the rest of us get to participate in receiving gifts? I have never been to a birthday party where the guests get a bunch of presents. Would we get party favors after he blows out the candles on his cake? A plastic bag full of cheap candy, stickers, and a lame slap-on bracelet that says Happy Birthday. Is this what Christmas has turned into?

And what does one get Jesus for his birthday? Different colors of Teva sandals? Modern carpentry tools (a saw?). An ornament that says Baby’s First Christmas with a picture of him in a manger? 

Here is a man who can have anything he wants but doesn’t want anything. It is truly a concept I can’t wrap my head around. This is when our first argument would start. I would tell him that he could ask for a boat, and someone would buy it for him (us). He would hug me, telling me that life is about more than possessions, and say we should give all his gifts to the local homeless shelter. I would find this insulting and hurl one of his new hideous maroon Teva’s at him. My Mom would intervene and yell at me for throwing a sandal at Jesus. I would scream that she always chooses “the man’s side” and then hastily leave, still wearing my pajamas, and head for the only watering hole open on Christmas. I would order an old-fashioned and cry to the bartender while blubbering about how no one understands Christmas’s true meaning until Jesus is home for the holidays. 

At this point, Jesus realizes he probably made a mistake in dating me. Still, Jesus doesn’t make mistakes, so he perseveres. He does, however, hire a PR firm for me, just in case things get “sticky” in public. 

3. He would always be right.

I like to be right. When people ask, “Would you rather be right or happy?” My response is, “Being right makes me fucking happy.” Now, I may not always be right (never read this as any future partners of mine, please), but I will thoroughly “convince” my partner I am. 

How does this work with Jesus? Has Jesus ever been wrong? I was under the impression that Jesus is omniscient. I mean, who has a last supper for themselves unless they know they will die? If I held a dinner party and told my friends, “Hey, this wine is metaphorically my blood, drink up,” that’s pretty much me saying, “Hey, I am going to get murdered.” (Also, if my friends are reading this and I throw a dinner party with my metaphorical blood as a prominent feature, please get me on the first plane to Argentina and never tell anyone where I am. Especially the Romans.)

So, really there is no gaslighting Jesus until he caves and says I am right. In our arguments, I could see Jesus being all super calm while his blue eyes (please read above about being Baptist, our Jesus is inaccurately super white) look sadly at me cause he knows what trick I am trying to pull. And then, his response would be, “Let’s discuss what this is really about, Carrie.”

Back to the watering hole I go. 

4. Here comes the judgment train.

From what I have read about Jesus, he never seemed to judge. (I will never know how he didn’t barf his brains out while healing those with leprosy.) But I would think some judgment would always emanate from him, intended or not. 

I can envision telling him I am going out for a girls’ night and him giving me “the eye.” The one that implies, “Don’t go out too late. Remember the last time you went out? You came home really drunk and said we should try a foursome with Peter and Paul, and when I told you absolutely not, and also reminded you that  they have been dead for centuries, you became incredibly irate then cried hysterically and then puked in the hamper”.

Our life would be a constant of doing good for others. Which is fun in the super great for the soul kinda way, but what if on a Saturday, I want to drink coffee, read a book, and then watch 10 hours of Sex and the City for the 37th time? And his idea of a good time is to feed those in need. Again! And when I refuse to give up my much-needed lazy Saturday while watching Mr. Big stand on Carrie’s stoop and pleading for her to take him back, my peripheral vision catches Jesus giving me another exhausted look. At that point, I stand up all cute with a sexy smile and ask, “WWSJD?” (What would Samantha Jones do.)

Jesus hires a second PR firm, and we start seeing a Christian couple’s counselor. 

5. I will never not want his father.

I have some unresolved Father issues. At this point in my life, I have decided to let them do their thing and run with it. Which brings me to God. Literally. 

If I dated Jesus, I would never stop going after his Dad. Isn’t God the epitome for girls with trust and Father issues? He is the ULTIMATE DAD. Intimidating, all-knowing, in fantastic shape, understanding but not a pushover, and I have been told he will never leave you. You are never alone if you have God. SOLD!

 And I would work so hard at getting God, and knowing that God would never give in (cause he isn’t the type to sleep with his son’s partner), would make me try that much harder. I would cook for God when he came over to visit. Carefully planning every part of the meal to his specifications. God is gluten-free? Easy. God can’t have dairy? Covered. God doesn’t do pork or shellfish? It’s on like Kosher Donkey Kong. 

Then there would be the endless and borderline obtrusive flirting. There would be the touching of God’s arm every time he made a joke and laughing in that seemingly effortless way like the Hollywood starlets of yore. There would be the poking fun at Jesus in a emasculating way, (“he still doesn’t know how to drive!”) to let God know that I need a man’s man. 

When God comes over, I would wear dresses like Donna Reed, accessorized with white pearl necklaces and high stilettos. Letting God know that he could be coming home to this every night. And when I pour God another glass of wine, I would tell him I bought the best Cuban cigars because he seems like a man who appreciates quality over quantity. The three of us would drink Brandy in the living room while he entertained us with stories about plagues and boasting about how he didn’t need six days to create our world. He could have done it in two, but six seemed more plausible, and he really wanted to get it right. I would nod in agreement with every word that came from his mouth. 

When God finally says goodnight to Jesus and me, I would give him a much too-long hug and tell him he is always welcome to stay as long as he wants, but I completely understand how busy he is with work (another cue that I am a woman who could provide for a man with such an unrelenting career as his).

After God leaves, I would immediately brush out my hair, put on sweatpants, grab a beer, and sit my ass down on the couch. Jesus would be fuming with embarrassment at my behavior and asking why I never cook or dress up for him as I do with God. I would accuse him of being insane and delusional (Gaslighting 101), and maybe if he worked as hard as his Dad does, I would do more of these things. This would send Jesus over the edge, and he would finally break up with me. 

I would immediately call God, say how heartsick I am, and ask if I could come over because “I don’t want to be alone right now.”