I guess it's universally beloved. I mean, people absolutely worship this holiday. We all pretend to give up carbs for Lent, starving ourselves in preparation for bikini season, only to inhale our body weight and Cadbury eggs the second Easter Sunday hits. But it's fine. It's religious chocolate, so the calories don't count. That's science. I love Easter. I love it so much that every single year when it rolls around, I book a one way ticket to France and pretend I don't speak English.
Just me, a beret I bought at the airport, and enough wine to forget what day it is. I should probably explain why I'm willing to flee the country to avoid a holiday centered around a bunny and some pastel eggs. Here's the thing it's because of a man. Well, actually it's because of several people, but mostly just one man. And before you start making assumptions, no, it's not Jesus. I'm cool with Jesus. Jesus seems chill. This is about Gerald But we'll get to Gerald.
First, let me paint you a picture of my childhood, which was basically a rejected lifetime movie script. The backstory nobody asked for but you're getting anyway. Mothers are hell. No, not other people's mothers. I'm sure yours is lovely. I mean mine. Every single Easter, before I could even enjoy the post-holiday chocolate sales, I'd have to pack my bags and travel to Ireland for two weeks of what I can only describe as cultural whiplash with a site of trauma. I'm an only child.
Born to two parents, one Irish, one decidedly not. My mother is from a tiny village in Ireland where the population is roughly twelve people and forty seven sheep. My father, on the other hand, was a former NBA superstar. Notice I said former because by the time I was old enough to remember him, he was mostly just a deadbeat with a Wikipedia page. Let's talk less about him, actually, because I grew up hating that life. We never saw him.
He was always too busy dominating the court or networking with sponsors or whatever rich athletes do when they're avoiding their families. He'd come home maybe twice a year, have a screaming match with my mother that would wake up the neighbors three houses down, then leave, to hook up with whatever Instagram model he met courtside at the Staples Center. Not exactly a hallmark childhood, if you catch my drift. So back to Easter, and why it's the bane of my existence.
When my mother finally found the courage to leave my walking PR disaster of a father, she escaped back to Ireland. And there, in a pub that smelled like Guinness and Regret, she met a man named Shane. Enter Shane, the farmer, the legend, the man who fights people over soccer. Shane was and still is a farmer. Six foot eleven built like a scarecrow that lifts weights. And a massive soccer fanatic. But not in the fun let's paint our faces and cheer way.
No, Shane would go to matches armed with a baseball bat to quote have a chat with rival fans. I know what you're thinking. Wow, he sounds delightful. And honestly, he kind of is. I mean, compared to my father, Shane deserves the Nobel Peace Prize. The bar was underground, people. When I was eleven, my mother and Shane fell head over heels in love. It was gross. They'd hold hands at the dinner table and giggle like teenagers.
Within months, Shane flew all the way to the USA to convince my father to sign adoption papers. This is where things get spicy. Apparently there was a break-in at my father's house the night Shane showed up. My father never signed the papers, but he also never contacted us again. I'm not saying Shane had anything to do with it, but I am saying that Shane once fought three men outside of Tesco over a parking spot and won. So you do the math. The Jesus phase aka how my mother found God via sitcom.
Fast forward to when I was fifteen, my mother discovered Christianity. And not in the normal I went to church and felt spiritually moved way. No, she watched an episode of Father Ted, the Irish sitcom, and decided she was born again. I never asked for clarification. I was too scared. So suddenly, church became a mandatory part of my life if I wanted my allowance. Every single weekend, we'd pile into Shane's truck, which smelled like manure and holy water, and head to mass. Here's the weird part.
I'd get hit on by every other girl at church. Like aggressively. I'm talking notes slipped into my hymn book, lingering eye contact during communion the whole nine yards. Just to be clear, folks, I'm into dudes. I'm a girl who likes men exclusively. So to all the lovely Irish ladies who kept shooting their shot during the Niocene Creed, I appreciate the confidence, but you're barking up the wrong tree. I think it was rebellion against their Catholic upbringings or something.
Or maybe I just give off emotionally unavailable vibes, which, let's be honest, is catniped to a certain type of person. The Gerald incident. So Easter Two years ago, I got set up on a date with Gerald, the distant nephew of one of Shane's farming buddies. I wasn't thrilled about it, but my mother had that look in her eye. The one that said, If you don't go on this date, I will make your life a living hell. So I agreed. Gerald came over for dinner on Easter Sunday.
My mother, bless her heart, was attempting to roast a chicken. And by roast I mean cremate. The kitchen looked like a crime scene. Shane, God love him, secretly orders takeout around eleven PM every night after my mother goes to bed, just so we don't starve to death. The man is a saint. Anyway, Gerald arrived right as I was getting ready for bed. I was wearing a face mask, had shaved my head two weeks prior in what I can only describe as a Britney 2007 moment, and look like a sentient potato.
If this was a video podcast, I'd insert a side by side of me and Britney with the caption still kind of sexy though. According to Gerald, I was. We had dinner, we chatted, we laughed, I was charming, which was shocking considering I was still partially covered in clay mask. We talked about everything. His job, carpenter, very Jesus core, my dreams, escaping Ireland, our mutual hatred of my mother's cooking. We fell head over heels in love. Like romcom montage, level in love.
And then he disappeared. Not like oh he ghosted me after three dates. I mean he left the town. Vanished. Poof, gone, like a fart in the wind. I asked Shane's buddy where Gerald went. He shrugged and said dunno. He got weird after Easter and moved to Cork. Cork He moved to Cork? And didn't even tell me? The questions that haunt me Where did he go? Was he the one? Was Easter the cause of this madness? Is that why I hate Easter? Yes. Yes to all of it.
And if you want to know what happened next, if I ever track Gerald down, if I confronted him in Cork, if there's a dramatic reunion involving rain and tears and possibly a sheep, you'll have to come back for episode two of Hell Na to Easter. Spoiler alert it involves a priest, a stolen bicycle, and the worst hangover of my life. Stay tuned.