The concept of guardian angels is common to Greek philosophy, Zoroastrianism, and Christianity. Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite developed an extensive theology of these helping numinous beings.
Usually, they work subtly; and only rarely manifest themselves to humans. Maybe they're embarassed by our antics; maybe, as the angelic equivalents of buck privates, they consider their job as dirty, hopeless, and without the compensation of wearing spiffy angelic threads. [Guardian angels are considered theologically the lowest order of angels; Seraphim are the topmost; they're the angelic bon ton.]
Anyway, after a little merlot to help my digestion, I noticed this winged creature in my room, reading my copy of Vogue. I asked him matter-of-factly, "Who the hell are you?"
He answered, "I'm Steve. Your guardian angel." And he produced his credentials to prove it.
So I go, "But I'm a chick. Don't I rate a chick guardian angel?"
My angelic Steve said that there was a surplus of guy angels when my application was processed; and the priest screwed it up at my Baptism, and I didn't seem like much of a challenge. I chose not to pursue that matter; being that I probably would not have liked the answer. And he was cute and sincere and had a hopeful look; so I got my guy angel Steve.
And we really get along. We watch the Saints games together, when they're aired around here. He's learned that I cannot afford the styles of Vogue; but that it's a dream magazine. He makes a nice cornbread recipe, and is in general a low-maintenance angel. When I go on dates, we follow a "don't ask, don't tell" policy. And he knows when to avert his eyes. He watches the Cartoon Network while I bathe or dress. I'm getting him to do some of the laundry; but he has yet to master the concepts or not mixing white and colored garments; and using different drying settings for certain types of garments. I iron his robes; he looks more cared-for when I do that.
Sometimes, to tease him, I make him unhook my bra.
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