Hey! Saint Peter!
I know many of you aren’t religious, but as I pad reluctantly through the gloomy, inexorable corridor towards death (I’m 54 after all) I sometimes dread facing up to my slack attitude and indiscretions of the last five decades.
I can picture it now... Saint Peter watching me slinking up to him as he stands there at the golden arch; a mullet wearing, tattooed bouncer at the gates of heaven.
“Ermagerd! It’s that PINKY!” he’d snigger to the angels standing astride him. “Can’t wait to hear what bullshite this little tart’s got up her sleeve.”
“Morning Pinky!” he'd remark cheerily, stealing sideways mocking glances at the archangel Gabriel and the others. “Shall we get started then love?”
I’d stand, my feet shuffling and my right eyelid quivering with nerves.
“So, Pinky. Please explain your annoying penchant for feigning helplessness whenever the toner at the photocopier needs replacing?”
I’d stammer, “Bbbbut… the office ladies are so good at it. I didn’t want to deprive them of their jobs. They like doing that stuff...”
There’d be sniggers amongst the angels.
“Please clarify, Pinky, why, when you are in a bad mood in the morning you persist in doing squealies as you pull out of your driveway?” St Pedro would continue mercilessly.
I'd be quaking in my ugg boots as I shakily replied, “I just hated it when my electric garage roller door always made me late because I have to get out of my fudging car and push it up manually because my husband won’t put WD40 on it because he thinks it might drip on his stupid matte-finish car.”
Saint Peter would shake his head in disappointment, pause, and say, “There’s no need to blame others, Pinky. Please enlighten me as to why you haven’t cleaned your windows even once in the thirteen years you’ve lived in your house?”
I'd lower my face in shame and my bottom lip would tremble.
“What about illuminating us all to the fact as to why you wore your bra for three days in a row without washing it?” The angels would guffaw and poke each other, sniffing under their arms in contempt.
“I don’t sweat!” I’d scream. “For the love of GOD! I don’t sweat!”
“Okay, we can understand you don’t sweat. But can you please provide explanations about why you persist in wasting time writing tipsy Twitter hashtags late at night that aren’t even slightly funny, annoying friends on Facebook with photographs of your irritating Chihuahua accompanied by tedious, unamusing captions, writing lacklustre short stories and entering competitions much to the chagrin of the organisers and continuing to bore the public with stupid, inane blog posts about your unfortunate children and the like?”
I would shrink like a … shrinking violet, a tear would roll down my cheek.
“But what about the time I fostered all those children?”
“You never did that, Pinky,” he’d frown.
“I walked around Australia to raise money for a charity!” I’d triumph.
“No, you didn’t.” Saint Peter would sigh.
"I was sponsored for shaving my head and being doused in an ice bucket!" I'd entreat.
"Not in this life honey dolls." The chorus of angels would double up in mirth.
“But I did raise one thousand dollars for the children’s hospital once,” I’d whimper.
“That’s not good enough!” he’d roar. “You should have done more with your life you silly woman!”
And that’s when I wake up.
I think I need to do more with my life. It's almost gone and I've done so little.
What do you think? Would you like to do more? Or do you think sometimes the whole "Look what I'm doing for other people" thing is a bit more like 'Look at what I'm doing.'
“But I did raise one thousand dollars for the children’s hospital once,” I’d whimper.
“That’s not good enough!” he’d roar. “You should have done more with your life you silly woman!”
And that’s when I wake up.
I think I need to do more with my life. It's almost gone and I've done so little.
What do you think? Would you like to do more? Or do you think sometimes the whole "Look what I'm doing for other people" thing is a bit more like 'Look at what I'm doing.'
