It’s a shocker, I know. Try not to pass out. I’ll wait a minute while you take some deep breaths.
… … … … …
We have a new home teacher. I will call him Bob. Why is it that every time I try to think of a random, generic male name, I think of Bob? Wouldn’t John make more sense? But no, it’s always Bob.
For those who aren’t familiar with Mormon terminology and what the crap a home teacher is, this is from http://www.lds.org:
“Home teachers have a sacred duty to be the Church’s first source of help to individuals and families. They visit their assigned members at least monthly. In serving and visiting their assigned members, they support parents in their responsibilities, teach the gospel to each family member, nurture friendships, and help members prepare to receive temple ordinances and live worthy of the blessings of the gospel.”
So basically, every family in the church should have a pair of priesthood holders that visits them monthly, unless their companion is busy, in which case they often come alone.
Bob is fantastic–friendly, personable, chatty. I’ve always thought he was pretty cool, and now he’ll visit us once a month. I hope. Car and I don’t have a particularly good track record with home teachers (Does anyone?), but I’m thinking this one will stick around for a bit. Unless, of course, I’ve now offended Bob so badly that he asks to have us removed from his assignment.
Yeah. I’m awesome that way.
From the moment he sat down, he would move his jaw, kind of stretch his face, and blink repeatedly. For reasons that are fairly apparent, movement disorders are prevalent in my mind right now.
If you know me at all, you can see where this is going. You can’t look away from the impending train wreck, can you?
We had a great time getting acquainted with Bob, and he shared an inspiring message with us. The visit was everything you could possibly hope for from a home teacher.
But those facial movements were bugging me. Really, really bugging me. Not in a “that’s so weird” or “what a freak” kind of way, but in a “I wonder what’s up with that” way. Most people would shove this feeling to the side–the wise course of action. Wise. Obviously not a word in my vocabulary.
Note to self: If the question coming out of your mouth starts with, “Can I ask a personal and probably invasive question,” just stop right there. In fact, stop before you even begin the sentence. You might want to even–oh, I don’t know–stop to think before you open your mouth.
Bob, of course, being the nice guy he is, says, “Okay…” (I can’t imagine why he sounded wary, can you?)
“Do you have motor tics?”
He looked at me blankly. This is the point where I started to realize I had embarked upon a very poorly thought out path, but now there was no turning back.
Bob says, “What do you mean?”
“You know, like facial tics?”
Even typing this, I want to sink through the floor. What was I thinking? I want to whack myself up the head. Repeatedly.
He had explanations for every movement, none of which were tic-related, and I felt like a complete ass. I did try explaining that motor tics are at the forefront in my mind because of Big G. Bob was very understanding, but what was he supposed to be at that point?
Gah. Someone needs to invent a filter that catches all the dumb things I might say before they exit my mouth.
I’m going to try to focus on the silver lining: At least I didn’t ask the question that initially popped into my head.
“Do you have Tourette’s?”