Sunday bloody Sunday.

Sometimes I just feel like blogging. I have nothing of any great importance to say, but rather I grab on to a few of the whirlwind thoughts spinning through my brain and put them out there. For who, I don't know, myself I guess. Today is one of "those" blogging days. This post will have no cohesive rhythm. I actually advise against even reading it as I assure you it will be boring. I went to church today. I have never really enjoyed church, and if I am honest, I basically dread it. My husband wanted to go and so I obliged because I knew it was important to him. What is it about church that makes me standoffish? I guess several things. I don't like hugs from people I do not know. I don't like putting on a happy face when life is anything but, and that is what's expected at the churches I have been to in the past. I am somewhat uncomfortable with emotion (mine and others', just being honest here) and have a great deal of unresolved "issues". I have baggage, what can I say? My upbringing alternated between viscous Atheism and cram-down-your-throat-Christianity. It was profoundly confusing and this confusion has carried over into adulthood. I have also been disappointed by many professed Christians who have come into my life, but maybe I expected too much of them. So, that sums up my church-o-phobia. Today I decided to buck up and go. I lived. Barely. I was slightly overdressed and I went on a 5 minute inner monologue/tangent when the pastor cracked a blond joke, and, oh yeah, I did get momentarily (and repeatedly) distracted by a church band bass player who was rocking out hard core yet looked just like Ray Romano. Kind of like soccer dad meets sitcom dad meets Gene Simmons. He was great and I couldn't help but be distracted. In the end, I still felt awkward and out of place, but it had less to do with the church itself and more to do with the Freudian luggage I carry around.