Ugghh Love. She just stood there with her humidity defying hair and that beatific look on her face smiling at the priest who seemed under her spell. I mean who gets a gluten free body of Christ at communion brought only for her.
Faith stepped forward in her stiletto heels but seemed a bit rocky like when she mixes Xanax with her skinny margaritas and almost took out one of the altar boys. I had done my best to impress, but the YouTube make up tutorial for smoky eyes over thirty had gone wrong and I looked more prepared to dive into someone’s trash than be blessed by God. But I mean you have to try if you are named Hope.
We all stood on the altar posing and looking at the priest expectantly. “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is…” There was a pause as his eyes looked over us and then to the heavens, “Love.”
“I have had it!” said Faith, “Every… single… time it’s Love. Hope, come on. We are so out of here.” Love looked forlorn as she trotted after us, “Faith, Hope, please. It’s not my fault. There must be some way we can work this out.”
“Look,” said Faith, “If we are going to compete, we are going to have to level the playing field.”
I usually trust Faith because you know… I have faith in her. But I should have known when I saw the sign in the ladies’ locker room that said, “Sometimes you have to knock someone’s mother ***** teeth out,” that this was whole new territory. We heard Love arguing with the manager her engagement ring would never fit in the boxing glove.
I caught the eye of a pregnant lady sitting on the bench squeezing into her Lululemons and she said, “I have had a horrendous week. Joe has been working late. My youngest is snorting organic cheerios out of her nose on Tik Tok and my areolas are the size of small islands in the Seychelles. I want to KILL someone.” She slammed the locker door, “I’m Mary by the way.” Love coming in reached towards her belly, “Oh look another beautiful soul coming into the world,” and preggo hip checked her into the wall.
You may not know this but boxing rings are decidedly difficult to get into gracefully, especially with no usable opposable thumbs. Our instructor whose nose had been broken more times than men have said, “You don’t look fat in it,” set us up for sparring, me with Faith, and Love with Mary. “Um sir,” I said, having not so much faith in Faith, “We are really more peaceful Pilates people.”
Love piped up, “I am not hitting the pregnant lady.” The apparent East Hampton Fight Club president took the preparatory stance, her gloves raised, “HIT THE PREGNANT LADY!” then decked an unsuspecting Love with a left hook. I ran to Love’s side to help her up but Faith just looked down at her boxing gloves and said, “I am so bringing these next time I go to King Kullen to buy toilet paper.”
“Right, it’s always about you Faith,” said Love getting up. “Everyone embraces you whether good things happen or bad but only believe in me when their pheromones are raging or their dog dies.” Love turned to me, “And despite Covid, climate change and the Jets last season people still have Hope.”
“Well maybe that means the Jets will get better draft picks this time,” I said cheerily. “My season tickets sucked,” said big belly clipping me with her uppercut.
As the scene devolved into a strangely satisfying “Mean Girls” meets “Pirandello” play, I started to think why on earth were we set up to be in competition? I mean it’s not “The Bachelor” for goodness’ sake. Couldn’t the three of us be more like Sister Wives?
As we left the ring to towel off and ask if anyone had any Arnica, Mary looked at us thoughtfully, “Your footwork needs work, but in the end, you probably shouldn’t be fighting. You need each other.” She put her hand gently on her belly, “After all, Hope is the fuel that keeps Faith alive in our quest to find Love.”
As she tossed her boxing gloves aside, she added smiling, “But you know what else we need in this world? A good dose of righteous female rage.” We responded in unison, “Amen.”
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