In 1979, I committed what I thought was the unpardonable sin.

For months I was racked with guilt. I’d wake up at night, fearful that my mother knew of my transgression and was just waiting for the right time to lower the boom. Finally, at a Wednesday night Bible study class, I blurted my sin outloud to my teachers and classmates.

“I watched “The Jerk” at my friend Lisa’s house and it is rated R and now I’m going to Hell!”

Looking back, the teacher was probably stifling a laugh but I thought her frozen countenance meant she was disgusted with me. She patted me on the shoulder and told me I wasn’t in trouble. She assured me that my mother would understand, that I wasn’t going to Hell, and not to be so worried. Apparently she didn’t know my mother.

I can still remember the fear in my stomach as I approached my mother that night. With a stuttering, tear filled voice, I confessed my sin. Every muscle in my body tensed, waiting for the punishment to be announced. Visions of my cool detective kit being tossed into the trash or my Shawn Cassidy album collection being confiscated clouded my head.

“The Jerk? Oh, that’s not a big deal. Go on to bed now, honey.”

WHAT? Two torturous months of sleepless nights, images of Hell floating in my mind, and all she said was ‘that’s not a big deal’!

The next week I babysat for a church member and they had cable. “Excalibur” was showing. It was the first sex scene I ever watched. Funny thing, I didn’t feel guilty this time. Guess Steve Martin desensitized me. His rags to riches to rags story prepared me for a lifetime of guilt free movie watching. Notice, I said movie watching, people. Guilt is part of my life like the hairy mole on my arm I won’t have removed. It’s ugly, it’s useless, but I’ve had it ever since I can remember so why not keep it?

When I told my husband this story, he said it explained alot. What in the hell does that mean?