Burn of the Day

For some reason, all the boys at my church want to tell me about their love lives, and have me fix them.

To protect the innocent (and the not so innocent, certainly), I'll spare you the details on the muckety messes in which they find themselves, but suffice it to say that apparently I have become the go-to girl for advice when they find themsevles peskily infatuated with the lusty lady their best friend used to date or need some how-to's on tactfully dumping Tuesday night Bible study girl for the Friday night happy hour girl they accidentally made out with two weeks prior.

ANYWAY, my friend J. came to me today at a picnic we had on the church's roof, whingeing away about some babe he's in love with at work. Of course I bestowed upon his eager ears the wisdom of the fairer sex, and hopefully he takes my advice so he doesn't spend the next two years pining away for her and eating sad, high-sodium Campbell's soup for one on Saturday nights.

As I was leaving, I was telling ANOTHER male friend, let's call him R., that I had once again been called upon to dispense amorous advice. Awhile back, I had found myself on a church ski/snowboarding trip, drunkenly locked in a bathroom of our overcrowded ski condo with R. for privacy, nursing a Corona and advising him on some (seemingly unworthy) girl he had been pining after forever.

I shook my head and asked him, "R., why do all the boys come to me for advice when my own love life is so continuously in the shitter?"

He looked at me with mock gravity, an evil flicker in his eye, and recited that old maxim:

"Erin, those who can't DO, teach."