I know how it is. Jobs are scarce, so you take the first one you can get. You’re not passionate about it, you don’t believe in it, it but the benefits are great and it’s easy enough. You say it’s just till you find something else, but they give you a promotion, then another and another. You move closer to work, then closer and closer. You realize you only have work friends. You use more empty, archaic jargon than you’re comfortable with, and then you just get comfortable with it. More promotions come and go. You take them without any fanfare. Then one day the big one comes. Suddenly you’re the Pope, and everyone’s bowing and calling you Your Holiness, and sure, you’re dressed to the nines, but you barely notice. You wave to the people and talk. You know the words but you forget what they mean. You see some old man mumbling on TV and you think his balcony looks just like your balcony. Then they say your name, the new one with the Roman numerals after it. And suddenly you see how white your hair is, how your skin wrinkles and sags, even pools up around the rings on your fingers, and you can’t believe it’s come to this. Look how old you are. You don’t even recognize yourself. You used to have such a strong jaw, you’re pretty sure you remember that. You know there used to be more color to your eyes… And you can’t do it anymore. So you back out as gracefully as you can. You keep the title because they won’t let you lose it. They won’t let you melt the ring they gave you either, but you insist they score the soft metal, at least. You promise it’s not personal. You give everybody some kind words, accept their gifts but give them all to the closest charity shop on your way out. You flip absently through the classifieds and see some modest fixer-upper boat for sale. You try to get your successor set up, but all you’re thinking about is how straight your spine will be after a year of no robes, no hats, no heavy books or worries, no expectations. Just a speedo and a pair of mirrored aviators reflecting miles of blue and white water every way you turn. Just salt air and sunlight. You think how great it will feel, then, just to breathe. Yeah, that’s how it goes. Who hasn’t been there?

Thomas Ross is a writer who mostly works in coffee, beer and wine, and stealing people’s stories to tell at parties. He doesn’t know what problems plague the popes, but he sees how frail they are and would like to see more of that. His work has been published here, on this blog, today. For shorter pope jokes and other blistering insights, you can follow him on Twitter where he is called @notThomasRoss.