World goes on, as do my secrets

Features column

Photo by Vicki Harris

Photo by Vicki Harris

If you are reading this, then the world did not end as so many had expected it to on Friday.

Thank goodness. My secrets are safe.

I realized a few weeks ago that our family Christmas party was scheduled on the same day the world was supposed to end — on Friday. Well, at least most of us would be together, I thought as I jotted little reminders to myself down in my calendar. Buy gifts. Corn chips. Make dip. World ends.

Should I be anxious ... nervous ... afraid? I pondered for a moment, even tapped my pen on the desk. Hmmmmm. Silence. Nahhh. Nothing. And then it hit me.

What if something does start to happen there, at our party, when we’re all together? I’ve read about and seen in movies where people who suddenly think they’re about to die start confessing things they can’t keep to themselves any longer, apologizing profusely and ridding themselves of any secrets they’ve kept bottled up, making one last grasp at leaving this world with a clear conscious, hopefully in time to spare themselves eternal damnation. It never hurts to be prepared.

There are some apologies I probably should issue, I decided. They primarily stem from my childhood, mind you, and some are at least 35 years old, if not older. Not knowing if there is a statute of limitations on mischievous and occasionally really horrible things you did as a child, I guessed I should come clean ... just in case. Therefore, I was fully prepared to release my inner secrets if the Mayans prediction really did come true Friday ... at our family Christmas party.

Just in case ...

I’m sorry for knocking you off your bicycle with a pecan limb, sister, and for dropping your Mrs. Beasley doll in the toilet. I know you always wondered why she was wet and I never thought you believed me when I said, oh, the roof must be leaking. In my defense, I really thought Mrs. Beasley was part human and came alive at night, so it only made sense that she would sometimes have to go to the bathroom. I was only trying to help her out when she just fell in. Which brings me to another little, uh, confession ...

I’m sorry, mama, for swearing that the little plastic disposable razor — oops — fell off the side of the tub and cut a three inch gash in my leg when I was seven. I know it’s hard for you to believe, but I was really trying to be like my big sisters and shave my legs. With Dial soap. Which reminds me of another thing ...

I’m sorry, little brother, for telling you a little piece of Dial soap was orange candy. Oh, I didn’t let you swallow it but I sure do wish I’d had a camera when you put it in your mouth. And for hiding your Donnie Osmond poster, sister, I am deeply regretful. Especially when you thought it was our other sister who moved it, resulting in a big ol’ fight involving, if I remember correctly, hair snatching and chasing throughout the house. I guess I should say I’m sorry that I laughed, too. I never really understood the whole Donnie Osmond thing, which brings me to one tiny little confession ...

I was the one who scratched your “Puppy Love” 45 vinyl record and made it go “And they called it ... and they called it ... and they called it ...” over and over and over again. In my defense, I was listening to it on your record player, you know ... the one you threatened to kill me with if I ever touched it ... and I heard you coming and ripped the record off real fast and, well, that’s when it got scratched. Sorry. And sorry to you, too, Donnie.

There. I think that’s about it for now. Oh, who am I kidding? There are more, but there’s just not enough time to reveal it all. I still haven’t checked on that statute of limitations — I mean, it’s been ... what ... at least 35? She can’t kill me with a record player now, can she?

Nah, I’m not worried. Besides, if you’re reading this the world didn’t end. My secrets are still safe.

And that’s what I call ... and that’s what I call ... and that’s what I call... a very Merry Christmas.

Contact columnist Mandy Flynn at flyn1862@bellsouth.net.