Easter Sunday.
Mmmmm.
I notice most people hit up church services in... well, their Sunday clothes.
I'm not a fan of Sunday clothes.
They remind me of hot Sunday afternoon Mass services as a kid.
I remember people towering over me as I stood on my pew, trying to get a peek at... anything that wasn't a man or woman's ass.
I remember when I'd give up, I'd turn around and stare at the people behind me, who'd often raise their eyebrows at me, as if greeting me. I'd return their friendliness with a scowl, and that would be my cue to turn around and find something else to do.
After giving up on seeing anything to the front or back of me, I'd grab one of the missals and sit on the... well, those cushions you kneel on... I don't know their name in English.
I'd be calm for about five minutes, staring at the occasional black and white photo of a seagull... I guess that shit was supposed to be inspirational or something. Anyway, after about five minutes, I'd get restless. It was hot, and the damn clothes I'd be wearing wouldn't help:
Those frilly dresses would be accompanied with frilly pantyhose... frilly, itchy pantyhose.
I'd sit for five minutes and then feel as if I had sat on an anthill.
I'd remain there, however, because then "the reaping" would begin. That would be the moment this old lady would walk up to the altar and "collect" the kids for mandatory Sunday school.
Fuck. That!
She was loved by everyone there... I guess she was one of the oldest Sunday school teachers in the city... but that shit only freaked me out. Not a fan of old, hunchbacked ladies with liver spots... who proceed to try and coax me away from my parents. Fuck. That. I have separation anxiety, remember?
I'd sit there on that kneeling cushion, quietly, trying to go undetected... like those quails on Bambi.
Pleasedon'tseeme.Pleasedon'tseeme.PLEASEDON'TSEEME!
I'd watch the kids walk out of the pews and head towards the old lady like zombies... a lot of them crying and screaming "NO!" but having an older kid lead them by the hand.
NO! I'm not going! And no one better tattle on me... I'll be quiet, I promise!
Rafa would willingly head out the pew and join the kids. He had a buddy, so he didn't care.
Mom would look down at me, we're make eye contact, and I'd just shake my head with tears in my eyes.
Please don't let them get me...
She'd keep me.
In retribution, I'd sit quietly... in that itchy, hot attire... bored out of my mind.
One time, on an Easter Sunday service, actually, while rocking some sky-blue frilly pantyhose (they were frilly in the butt part. Lacy frills that felt like shit. Irritating and stupid... whoever invented that shit deserves to get slapped across the face with a hot branding-iron), I endured the entire service after sitting on some bubblegum. It was sticky... and gross... and giving me a panic attack, because I knew Mom was going to beat my ass for ruining a pair of pantyhose. Longest service of my life.
Fun times!
At 27, no more pantyhose... and a limited amount of dresses. No Easter Sunday Mass (because I go hardcore Saturday nights and celebrate the vigil. Asking me to go the next day is too much).
Happy Easter, folks.
Mmmmm.
I notice most people hit up church services in... well, their Sunday clothes.
I'm not a fan of Sunday clothes.
They remind me of hot Sunday afternoon Mass services as a kid.
I remember people towering over me as I stood on my pew, trying to get a peek at... anything that wasn't a man or woman's ass.
I remember when I'd give up, I'd turn around and stare at the people behind me, who'd often raise their eyebrows at me, as if greeting me. I'd return their friendliness with a scowl, and that would be my cue to turn around and find something else to do.
After giving up on seeing anything to the front or back of me, I'd grab one of the missals and sit on the... well, those cushions you kneel on... I don't know their name in English.
I'd be calm for about five minutes, staring at the occasional black and white photo of a seagull... I guess that shit was supposed to be inspirational or something. Anyway, after about five minutes, I'd get restless. It was hot, and the damn clothes I'd be wearing wouldn't help:
 |
| I still remember how itchy I'd be in that damn red dress. |
I'd sit for five minutes and then feel as if I had sat on an anthill.
I'd remain there, however, because then "the reaping" would begin. That would be the moment this old lady would walk up to the altar and "collect" the kids for mandatory Sunday school.
Fuck. That!
She was loved by everyone there... I guess she was one of the oldest Sunday school teachers in the city... but that shit only freaked me out. Not a fan of old, hunchbacked ladies with liver spots... who proceed to try and coax me away from my parents. Fuck. That. I have separation anxiety, remember?
I'd sit there on that kneeling cushion, quietly, trying to go undetected... like those quails on Bambi.
Pleasedon'tseeme.Pleasedon'tseeme.PLEASEDON'TSEEME!
I'd watch the kids walk out of the pews and head towards the old lady like zombies... a lot of them crying and screaming "NO!" but having an older kid lead them by the hand.
NO! I'm not going! And no one better tattle on me... I'll be quiet, I promise!
Rafa would willingly head out the pew and join the kids. He had a buddy, so he didn't care.
Mom would look down at me, we're make eye contact, and I'd just shake my head with tears in my eyes.
Please don't let them get me...
She'd keep me.
In retribution, I'd sit quietly... in that itchy, hot attire... bored out of my mind.
One time, on an Easter Sunday service, actually, while rocking some sky-blue frilly pantyhose (they were frilly in the butt part. Lacy frills that felt like shit. Irritating and stupid... whoever invented that shit deserves to get slapped across the face with a hot branding-iron), I endured the entire service after sitting on some bubblegum. It was sticky... and gross... and giving me a panic attack, because I knew Mom was going to beat my ass for ruining a pair of pantyhose. Longest service of my life.
Fun times!
At 27, no more pantyhose... and a limited amount of dresses. No Easter Sunday Mass (because I go hardcore Saturday nights and celebrate the vigil. Asking me to go the next day is too much).
Happy Easter, folks.
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