So I have, say, twenty four hours to make up my mind.  Should I stay in the running for the communications director position I’ve applied for and may or may not get?   Or should I take the unsolicited advice of fifteen people–at least six of whom are clever, insightful souls–and get into wearing liturgical stoles instead of fox ones.

Actually don’t have a fox stole.  I am a vegetarian, but I have three fur coats.  All of three are at least thirty years old, so I feel like this is some sort of ethical loophole.  I do so admire fox stoles, though.  I love scarves.  I love fur.  It’s inevitable.

Sooo… here’re some arguments in favor of saying yes:

  • I could have a dog.  I have always wanted a dog.
  • Job security
  • Health insurance
  • 401k
  • never having to pay rent again.
  • It’s a job I’ve always thought I would be really, really fantastic at.  You know, since childhood.  I’m a pretty good writer and a pretty good public speaker and have always been involved church business.
  • Church is something that, against all odds, matters to me seriously.
  • It’s also a job I’ve always kind of wanted.  I’m a middle child: I enjoy undivided attention.
  • If I were a different sort of person, I might think that my utter failure to get settled into anything more suitable might be the Hand of God or something.  But, strictly speaking, I’m not really that kind of person, the kind who applies far reaching senses of purpose to life.

And some arguments against:

  • I take church seriously enough that I don’t think people ought to enter the ministry just for the free house.
  • Or the dog I’m going to name Tallulah or Guthrie, depending on sex.
  • Or whatever.
  • I’m fairly wretched at this whole being a Christian business, actually,
  • what with the swearing and
  • the boys
  • and what have you.
  • And shouldn’t a call to ministry be something other than an actual phone call from a middle aged blonde woman with an inexplicable attraction to double-breasted suits?

That being said, I think I’m going to go home and run, eat a big salad, and chew on my index fingers.  What?  You don’t chew on your index fingers?