48 hours

The transition from week to weekend brought more of the same old story: During Friday lunch at a taco shop near work, my sense of time and space was muddled by an ESPN interview with Biba Golic, who seems to be Serbia's hot new gift to the incredibly sexy sport of table tennis. We arrived a couple of minutes late for the adult session of stake conference on Saturday night, which means we missed our shot at the chapel's padded benches, no small consideration late into the third term of pregnancy. So rather than sitting on the metal chairs in the cultural hall, we spent a good chunk of the meeting on a sofa in the foyer, with a young couple from another ward. I sat next to the wife, in the middle, with our repective spouses at the arm rests. I can't remember the first two speakers, but I can remember the razor nick on the outside of her left gastrocnemius. As the Sunday general session adjourned, I was caught in wave of skirts, heels and calves stampeding out onto the lawn - its effect on me, with respect to everything I'd just heard, was like the magic memory-eraser pen in Men in Black. On my way home on Monday, stopping at the grocery store to get some milk, I passed in the produce section an early-twentysomething who appeared to have just gone on a run. Fantastic, muscular legs and very short shorts. After picking up two gallons, I was overcome by the need to go examine the, uh, cilantro, which just happened to be a few yards from where jogger was visiting with a friend. I love cilantro.

Then that night, my wife asked if I would give her a blessing as she enters the final "stretch" of this pregnancy. We spoke through all the usual issues of faith, belief, power, etc. Since it might be reasonably argued that I'm "worthy" (if one dismisses looking upon other women) on paper, or at least not unworthy enough to use unworthiness as a reason to deny my LDS wife a blessing from her Priesthood-holding husband in her hour of need, I said I needed a couple of days to think about it. So I set a goal: If I could control my eyes and thoughts for two days, I'd give her the blessing.

Tuesday was rough. By the end of the day, I'd counted over a dozen instances in which I consciously had to reverse my default course of eye and mind meanderings, the most challenging of which was the girlfriend (employee of our company) of my boss's son, with whom I crossed paths in HR and couldn't help but notice her red stilettos and the fact that her camisole hung very low under her blazer. But I didn't look long or twice, despite stong inclinations. I was reminded of my mission, and also the months leading up to my wedding, when it seemed at nearly every turn I had to make active, conscious, and often difficult decisions to send my thoughts somewhere other than where they wanted to go. Exhausting. Unsustainable? (The problem with the "Sing a Hymn" solution, is that if you sing from a short list of hymns every time you start to have "those" thoughts, after a while, when you sing those hymns, you start to have "those" thoughts.)

Wednesday was easier. Once I'd run the commute gauntlet of the Gateway Bridal billboard's prom perkies (who aren't all that ravishing, but undeniably young and dewy) and bikini bride relaxing on a catamaran on a Delta Romantic Getaways board (speaking of which, even if you're no Freudian, is this not a hilarious photo?), the rest of the day played out smoothly -- mosly because I stayed in my office for most of it. But at the very end of the day, after most of the staff had gone home, I found myself unintentionally alone in the breakroom with a woman who has, in the past, been a strong focus of my cravings. I was able to have a light conversation with her that lasted a few minutes and featured (ta-da!) zero wanderings. A small, personal triumph.

So last night I gave her the blessing. I emphasized that, while it was done by the power of the Melchizedek Priesthood, that power may well be dormant in me, but that I had the authority nonetheless to act as a conduit for blessings that her faith may make available to her. It went well. It was sincere. It put me in a slightly different frame of mind. And I think it was meaningful for her.