Club Membership of the Worst Kind

When something significant happens in your life, you join the club. Someone in your family contracts a disease or develops a condition? Suddenly, everyone has a story of when their cousin's roommate's grandfather's sister had the same ailment. You become part of the Heart Attack club. The Diabetes club. The Divorce club. The Shit-Canned club. You may not want to become a member, but you really don't have a choice.

Over the past few days, from various home-for-the-holidays sources, I have learned new information on an old college boyfriend. And the creep factor? A ten.

Let me begin by saying that for all intents and purposes, I was a total prude in my youth. I went to college firm in my belief of No Sex Before Marriage. While I believe that attitude kept me out of a lot of trouble, I was also very leery of the über-religious types. Living in the South, there are many who wear their "religion" on their sleeve, and actions very rarely ever match their words. I had no patience with anyone who smacked of bible banging, and so I was left out in the cold. If you don't put out, and you don't go to the "right" church, dating options can be quite limited.

I dated this particular guy for a few months, and the relationship sort of ended itself. He was a nice enough guy but had a terrible temper. I was too immature, and he had a lot of baggage. We left things on a fairly friendly note, and he even met the future Mr. NATUI on campus several times.

Come to find out, Road Rage Boyfriend? Is now a minister.

Um, yeah. Let that sink in a second. And not just a minister, but a minister and a therapist.

Now, if he has been able to battle his personal demons and come out on the better side of sensitive and spiritual, I completely respect that. However, the fact remains that I gave a minister a hand job.

In the South, that is probably a very large club, indeed. It is not a membership, however, that I ever thought I would hold.