My nursing home is my mattress, my "stories" are Sunday morning football and my "meals-on-wheels" program is a delivery of Buffalo wings. At 24 years old, this is my retirement -- from teaching religious school.
I wake up early, groggily slapping the snooze button and hating the outfit I've picked out the night before. When I go to brush my teeth, I'm frightened by the sight of a hideous pimple that seems to be taking over the left side of my face. A familiar sense of dread comes over me. I have to go to Sunday school. Well, I don't have to go; I'm choosing to go. I'm going back to Sunday school to find out if it's as bad as I remember it.