Relief Society Renegades

January brings about optimism and great bodies.  I’m aiming for the second title of Mother Theresa, while Dean is fighting his way to spin class. January at the gym is an absolute nightmare, but it dwindles with goal setting come March, and dies completely with next year’s holiday season. Then it renews its yearly cycle.

It’s the same with charity. Every Christmas I want to give, give, give, than slowly the homeless and fundraisers become an irksome sigh.

How tragic, the cynic I’m becoming, but here’s to new beginnings, hope, and dreams.  There will be much service and bike riding on our list of things to do as soon as the gym bicycles stop being swiped like crispy crème donuts, and people stop being so dreadfully intolerable so I can serve them.

In all seriousness, I love all different kinds of people. I thank God every day for people in all their variety, like chocolates. I love the normies, the strangies, and the uptighties. Thank you to the two minorities and handful of gentiles who moved into my neighborhood, taking a chance with us Mormon whities.

We have a women’s service program in our church called the Relief Society. It’s a phenomenal program that would change the world if it could be thoroughly distributed. I have two women who are put in charge of my well-being, and in return I get the privilege to serve two more women. It’s like the ultimate chain letter of charity.

 We are asked to look after and report on the girls each month, and if anything goes wrong…a whole entire altruistic compassion pose’ might end up on your porch cleaning your house and making you meals. We freaking love to serve. Why? Many reasons.

For starters, it fills my heart with warm fuzzies. In addition to that, my file in heaven is pulled and a golden star sticker is placed by my name. When I start gossiping or flipping the bird at other drivers, another star is placed, but it’s black, charred, and branded upside down to my chart.

 Enough of those wicked stars, and my file is passed to the dark side where the Master of Evil figures out what to do with me. I’m 99% sure it will end with taking an eternal math exam in freezing temperatures, while a baby cries in my ear and I’m forced to chew on a squeaky balloon.

And that is why I’m aiming for the golden stars.

The problem I face, is that people(especially in my community) love to appear entirely self-sufficient and flawless. We all seem to have picture perfect families, and nobody wants to admit that they could use a helping hand.

Another issue, is the dullness that comes with a task. I feel that my visit each month is a chore that my girls endure, allowing me to accomplish my duty. Yuck.  If I’m asked to do something, suddenly I no longer want to do it.

I want to fight bad guys in the night with an alternate identity, but let’s be realistic, the vigilante dream needs to stop. I don’t even carry a gun for starters- it creeps me out. I do, however, carry a knife, and I’m looking to slice and dice something- A little FYI if you happen to read blogs and rape people.

What if… I snuck around at night, but did service instead? I still want to wear a mask, but I’m unsure of a cape- it’s a bit gay. Yes I say gay, and I like homosexuals. I mean it like the adjective gay(cheery, but used in a sarcastic manner) an English word used before homosexuals stole it away and gave rules to its usage. I apologize, but I’m going to have to take your rainbow as well. How about a trade: a marriage certificate for your seven united colors of alternative lifestyle? I just want to put it on my car without assumptions, and say gay without worry of prejudice…that’s all I want, seriously, that and superhero abilities.

I want to creep around like a service elf. You’ll wake up, and your house is “magically” clean. I’m watching and waiting behind your door, vacuuming only in thunderstorms, doing your dishes, feeding your crying babies, washing your nasty clothes. With every smile in your refreshing morning,  I’m getting another gold star. It’s a double win situation and adrenaline rush; a cure for the do-good excitement junkie.  You think someone is in your house at night…don’t worry ‘bout it, we are, the RR…Relief Society Renegades.