Like A Fish Out Of Holy Water

I don't get to church much. Catholic Mass on Christmas Eve reminds me why. We attended more for the mother-in-law points than any heavenly credit. To say my 5 and 7 year old boys were not looking forward to it would be the understatement of the year. I'm not Catholic and they are utter non-believers in sitting still and remaining quiet.

I will say however that (short of airports) church offers the best people watching going. Big holidays bring everyone out of the woodwork. There are the church tailgaters who arrive an hour early, duded up in gaudy Christmas sweaters, overanxiously waving their arms and spreading belongings to save rows of seats for straggling family members. Then there’s the beleaguered stage parents dragging in their reluctant, disheveled shepherds and wise men wearing recycled burlap and dented garland halos.

I particularly enjoy watching Christmas Eve "teenapalooza," that incredible mix of tattooed, pierced Edward Scissorhands-looking kids who look as if they were dragged right off the floor of Strawberries to attend, and the jocks for whom Christmas Eve finery means their shiniest basketball shorts, new high-tops and an extra diamond stud. These guys skulk in and slouch into a seat as if pulled by some invisible tractor beam instead of their own feet.

In complete contrast, there are the church girls. The girls look as if they have spent the entire afternoon primping. There are updos and ringlets, glossy lips and wall-to-wall metallic eye shadow. Mary Magdalene had nothing on these chicas. They wear velvet wraps and show off their sparkly décolletages enhanced by glitter body spray. They come teetering in on brand new mile-high or kitten heels and the only thing they have in common is a complete inability to walk in their shoes. They clomp in like Clydesdales or wobble down the aisle, trying to look as alluring as possible as they take their seat. They spend the next hour checking one another out and craning their necks to see if they are being checked out in return.

The room is packed beyond capacity and the close, over-heated air smells vaguely of bad breath and expectation.

On stage, the key players look like they have been sent from Vatican central casting. The church choir leader could be from 1966 just as easily as 2006. She sports the air of a commandant accented by a plaid skirt suit and Lady Bird Johnson hairdo.
Oddly, the majority of this service was conducted by a teenage ecumenical minister. This sixteen year old gel-slicked Ralph Reed look alike was relishing every minute of the spotlight as he played to the audience with over theatrical hand gestures, deep bowing and perfect enunciation. Extra creepy. I’ll see him again on America’s Most Wanted 2012.

The priest seemed a little off his game. It was as though the high-holiday raised the bar of expectations and he wasn't used to playing to a packed crowd. He tried to connect with the congregation by making lame jokes about the Giants game, baiting us to see if anyone knew the score. (If someone knew, then they obviously hadn't turned off their electronic devices heh-heh-heh). I couldn't help but notice that he emphasized, about three times more than necessary, that Joseph and Mary had no marital relations before Jesus was born. I wasn't aware there was controversy on this point.

At the end, the priest ended with a big flourish by admonishing those of us who had mistakenly wished one another "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas" during the peace. "In the house of Jesus, we should say Merry Christmas. No fish for you if you didn't." ... Um, OK - this church is headed by the "fish Nazi". Seinfeld would be amused.

The peace is always my least favorite part of Mass. You have to turn around and talk, shake hands and/or kiss strangers. I never know what to do. I am always jerking in one direction and then another, trying to make eye contact so I know where to go next. I'm bumping into people, shaking when I should bow or vice versa. Half the time I get totally smoked by someone in the next pew and I have to pretend I wasn't even headed in their direction. It’s always just one giant awkwardfest. Maybe next time I'll just focus on inner peace by pulling a "Fonzie" pretend make-out/back-rub with myself.

I don't think we got too many mother in law points. My boys made it all too obvious that they were visiting a foreign land by asking endless questions in their hearing-impaired voices -- "What's the bible?!" "Why are they collecting money?!" "What does pray mean?!" After I explained the concept of prayer, my eldest beamed at me and informed me he just prayed to Jesus.
"What did you pray for honey?" I asked.
"I prayed that Heat Miser was real and that I could hang out with him." He announced.
What could I say except, "Well, good luck with that," I said with a big thumbs up.

Finishing out our church experience, my boys continued their tradition of "christening" every public building with an extended bathroom visit. On the way to the car, my son asked my husband, "Do you think God minds that I had to poop in church?"
"Nah." My husband said. "That's why they call church chairs pews."

And, that is exactly why I married him.