By Elliot Boswell
For Lent this year, I gave up tiramisu. I'm kind of cheating, I guess, as I don't eat it all that often, but I'd say I indulge on average once a week, or, if I'm feeling particularly scandalous, twice. I'm not even really all that Catholic - I was once lapsed, then relapsed; now I'm just collapsed. But part of me does find some pleasure in the Lenten spirit of self-denial, especially when I can hold it over my neighbors' heads, what with their church book groups and two cute children, little emissaries of Catholic schooling that they are. No, I consider myself blessed, so I figure the least I can do is cut down on my blessings.
No tiramisu for me, thanks!
Week 1: Last Wednesday, my fiancée and I went out to dinner. When dessert came around, I politely (or so I thought) declined the offer of tiramisu, opting instead for the house crème brûlée.
After our waitress had left, my fiancée asked me why, when she (the waitress) had so lavishly pitched the tiramisu, I hadn't taken her up on the offer. I responded that, as my fiancée knew well, I'd given it up for Lent, and since I consider myself to be first and foremost a man of principle, I was going to stick by my guns.
She muttered something along the lines of, "Oh, for Chrissakes..." and sat in disgruntled silence for the remainder of the meal.
Being a man of supreme perceptive abilities, I delicately (or so I thought) asked on our ride home if something wasn't the matter. She responded noncommittally. Being well aware of her occasional passive-aggressive tendencies, I gently (or so I thought) probed further, and received, to my unending surprise, a tirade about how I "never think of others" and "always put my own feelings first." I was understandably taken aback, and attributed her outburst to the glass of wine she'd had with dinner, so I told her to sleep it off and we'd talk more about it in the morning. I think this mollified her, but I nonetheless elected to sleep on the couch that night. (I'm first and foremost a diplomat - it's one of my greatest qualities.)
Week 2: I'm pleased to report that Lent is going very well, and I've yet to consume even a mouthful of tiramisu. My fiancée and I have been arguing more frequently, but I just chalk it up to nerves about the poor economy and her insecurities about our upcoming wedding and the prospect of "settling down," as she refers to it. (She can be so childish sometimes.)
I've quite warmed up to sleeping on the couch, and I've even got a little routine about it: I pour myself a single-malt scotch, then watch "The Tonight Show" (that Jay Leno is such a hoot), and then read the trades before retiring.
Stocks are down, but my spirits are still riding high. (The couch is giving me some very slight back pain, but rest assured, a very handy little prescription I picked up does the trick just fine.)
Week 3: My back is getting worse. I spent the day on a pharmaceutical plateau, and didn't accomplish very much at work. I hid my state from my co-workers fairly well, although one of them graciously pointed out that I was trying to sharpen my ballpoint pen.
Week 4: My fiancée and I had our biggest argument today. It started when one of the neighboring children (remember them?) came by with a flyer about an upcoming church fundraiser.
Naturally taking the flyer from the kid, I thanked him (or so I thought). My fiancée begged to differ, and told me that I hadn't "indulged" the poor dear enough, and that this was the reason we were acquiring such an unsavory reputation in the neighborhood (I had no idea), before claiming I was emotionally distant and a budding addict or something equally insensitive!
I tried to explain to her that my "condition" was really her fault (she didn't like that, despite my reasoned argument) and she told me that I have a "blame complex" (whatever that means), then dropped the bomb: She was leaving me and moving in with her best friend.
Her parting shot? "You can take your stupid principles and stupider obsession with culinary self-deprivation and shove them all up your a**!" Not like her at all.
Week 5: I have a lovely day. I took some medication, now I'm made out of cotton. I wanted my bed back and now I had it today. The stocks went skiing at work today and went faster and faster down the hill. It is great fun.
Week 5.5: I lost my job. The higher-ups cited "lack of focus," "lack of productivity" and (and this was the icing on the cake... or should I say, icing on the tiramisu) "irregular lunch breaks." Due to the economic downturn, it is highly unlikely that I'll be able to find another position as lucrative as my former one, and I'll have to sell my house.
Week 6: I moved back in with my parents. Lent is over and I can no longer afford tiramisu.
Elliot Boswell is a staff writer for The Beacon. He can be reached at boswell10@up.edu
