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Begone, Satin!
by Mary Tompsett

Do you ever miss childhood? Me too. I don't mourn the loss of my mermaid tail, imaginary friends, or the monster under the bed-I've never given those up.

No, what I miss about childhood is the ability to catapult myself with a full twisting triple back flip onto the floor for a shoe-flinging, head-banging whopper of a tantrum, without injury. Hip replacements ain't cheap.

I've been fretting over some troubling symptoms: Relationship conflicts; minor accidents; career and money problems. The usual. But I also have hazy thinking and forgetfulness; stomach bloating and constipation.

Holy hypochondria! Are these evidence of menopause? Done with that. Ageing?? Sweetie, you might age. I, on the other hand, ripen. No, they point to demonic possession.

Certain signs scared the giblets out of me, such as blocked chakras. But that explains the bloating and constipation!! Furthermore, possessed people are missing the solar plexus chakra! Huh. I thought the solar plexus was a constellation.

And the sure-fire sign of possession? Dreaming of having sex! Hey, you do it too, so don't gimme that look. Think about it…a sex dream is cheap, safe, fun, and it bypasses sweat and commitment! Will someone explain how this is a problem???

Despite the signs of a freeloading squatter inside me, I wasn't speaking in strange languages. But I do invent phrases to phonetically imitate profanity. For example, yesterday I'd just finished my rehab exercises and was shooing pigeons away from my lunch when suddenly I shrieked, "Cheezits Feldenkrais! Will ya flock off?!?"

Possession does have its downside. When a demon rides you like a Tilt-a-Whirl, there are hidden costs-the extra chiropractic care, shredded clothing, or buying OSHA-approved HazMat foam for cleanup. And the forgetfulness can be especially irksome. I don't care about crap like missed appointments or leaving the stove on. But if I'm dreaming about a romp in the hay with anyone-or any thing-I sure as hell want to remember!

On the positive side, hosting an entity provides companionship without the pesky irritations of conversation or compromise. Golly, what a treat to freely sass your in-laws in an archaic language! And for physical fitness, nothing beats a surprise bout of break-dancing.

Unsure whether to accept or evict the critter, I took a test drive by exorcising my wardrobe. OUT, all pointy shoes and tight, low-rise jeans! LEAVE, all ye lycra and lace! AWAY, 18-hour bras! (If you find me harnessed in a bra after 18 freakin' hours, do check me for a pulse.) Garments of yellow, I cast thee out! And man-made fibers? Begone, Satin!!

I concluded with a nondenominational closet exorcism prayer: Yea, though I wander the valley of dorkness, I shall fear no fashion. With heaping measure of ignorance, I shall hold steadfast to mine clueless spirit, rebuking all manner of meddlesome comment.

Well, that went peachy, so I took the full exorcism plunge. Traditional outing rituals include dunking the victim in a tub of divinity fudge, or inflicting a marathon of Lawrence Welk reruns. But I say, no more bullying! Instead I hosted a lovely Kumbayah home exorcism party!

Five hundred of my closest friends gathered to share laxative recipes and de-worming medications. With raised paws and cloven hooves, they sang exorcism classics like "Unchain My Heart" and "Please Release Me." Then, while crooning "I've Got You Under My Skin," they lured forth the demon-with milk and cookies. Suddenly, deep within me a dark presence kicked and stomped in a rhythmic frenzy-think of Darth Vader as the male lead in Riverdance.

To my chagrin, I also coughed up oak leaves and a strip of…yellow satin!? And from my mouth there warbled a strange voice! Clearly this wasn't your usual, run-of-the-mill possession, for the voice we heard wasn't a scary ol' Darthmeister. No, ma'am. It was Elmer Fudd.

"Tie a yellow wibbon 'wound the old oak twee, if you weally want me…heh, heh, heh."

Copyright © 2010 Mary Tompsett

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