I went to church for the first time in a long time on Easter. Despite my parent’s concentrated efforts, I have been what is called a “C and E” Catholic, which means I make an appearance for the Lord on Christmas and Easter. This is worse than a “suitcase” Catholic, which is what I used to be. That means I only went to church when I came home from college.
Interesting nicknames we Catholics have for our shortcomings, right?
Church is one of those things I tell myself I need to put as a priority. I always tell Josh, “We are going this Sunday.” He nods and says ok. And then we don’t go. This is when I know I’m still Catholic because I feel extremely guilty.
When I was in church, it was hotter than hell, no pun intended. My mother would make some joke about my sin, but it more had to do with the fact that hundreds of people were packed in like sardines in a church that was built before the invention of air conditioning. I’m not used to kneeling for long periods of time anymore, due to my lack of church attendance, and I thought I was going to pass out. This is a big fear I have, especially in church, because it has been known to happen. The reason I’m so freaked out is I heard you piss yourself when you lose consciousness. I don’t know if this is true or not, and I hope I never find out.
For this reason, I prefer the Christmas mass, because the church starts out really cold, but it slowly warms to perfection with all the people packed into it. One year, my parents bought a front pew for Christmas Eve mass at the church auction (yes, a creative way to make money). I could tell my dad was so proud to have his whole family sitting front and center for one of the biggest masses of the year. I don’t have a large immediate family number-wise, but we are not small people, so thank god they give you the first two pews.
Josh and I arrived late that year, and I don’t recall why. We sat in the second pew, directly behind my sister and her boyfriend.
Throughout the entire mass, which was a little over an hour, I could smell rancid fart. I thought about stories my mom used to tell me about my uncle. He would sit next to an old lady in church, drop a silent but deadly, and then make a big show of glaring at her and scooting away so other people thought she did it. I always found this hilarious, but in the second pew in adulthood, I was annoyed.
By the third round of rank air, I turn to glare at my husband and my knee nudges his. He turns toward me, his eyebrows raised in question. What? He mouths.
I lean over. Stop doing that, I hiss in his ear.
What are you talking about? He asks.
Dropping ass. Seriously. We are in church. Yes, I scold my husband for farting in church but I don’t shy away from a mild swear word.
I’m not doing it, he insisted. I think it’s your sister.
My brother turns around and glares at me. I frown and him and jerk my head toward the front of the church, indicating he should mind his own business.
I survey my family. I shared a bathroom with these people for the first 18 years of my life, and I know what they are capable of. Of everyone, why would Josh single my sister out?
I ask him, and he acts like it’s a stupid question.
It’s clearly a girl fart, he whispers. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I give him a skeptical look.
It’s different, he said.
I thought about this the rest of the mass. Yes, I admit it, I didn’t think about the birth of Christ like I should have. I thought critically about what differences there are in the male and female body that would make this true. In the end, I decided my husband didn’t have a leg to stand on with this. But, I still had to find out.
Mass ended and we all stood up. As my parents were fawning over Josh (as is their habit), I turn to my sister.
Hey, were you farting during mass? I asked.
My sister turns pale and her face is full of shock.
Oh my god, did you hear it? I thought it was silent! she says.
I lock eyes with Josh and he smiles.
I told you, he says. Girl fart.
Interesting nicknames we Catholics have for our shortcomings, right?
Church is one of those things I tell myself I need to put as a priority. I always tell Josh, “We are going this Sunday.” He nods and says ok. And then we don’t go. This is when I know I’m still Catholic because I feel extremely guilty.
When I was in church, it was hotter than hell, no pun intended. My mother would make some joke about my sin, but it more had to do with the fact that hundreds of people were packed in like sardines in a church that was built before the invention of air conditioning. I’m not used to kneeling for long periods of time anymore, due to my lack of church attendance, and I thought I was going to pass out. This is a big fear I have, especially in church, because it has been known to happen. The reason I’m so freaked out is I heard you piss yourself when you lose consciousness. I don’t know if this is true or not, and I hope I never find out.
For this reason, I prefer the Christmas mass, because the church starts out really cold, but it slowly warms to perfection with all the people packed into it. One year, my parents bought a front pew for Christmas Eve mass at the church auction (yes, a creative way to make money). I could tell my dad was so proud to have his whole family sitting front and center for one of the biggest masses of the year. I don’t have a large immediate family number-wise, but we are not small people, so thank god they give you the first two pews.
Josh and I arrived late that year, and I don’t recall why. We sat in the second pew, directly behind my sister and her boyfriend.
Throughout the entire mass, which was a little over an hour, I could smell rancid fart. I thought about stories my mom used to tell me about my uncle. He would sit next to an old lady in church, drop a silent but deadly, and then make a big show of glaring at her and scooting away so other people thought she did it. I always found this hilarious, but in the second pew in adulthood, I was annoyed.
By the third round of rank air, I turn to glare at my husband and my knee nudges his. He turns toward me, his eyebrows raised in question. What? He mouths.
I lean over. Stop doing that, I hiss in his ear.
What are you talking about? He asks.
Dropping ass. Seriously. We are in church. Yes, I scold my husband for farting in church but I don’t shy away from a mild swear word.
I’m not doing it, he insisted. I think it’s your sister.
My brother turns around and glares at me. I frown and him and jerk my head toward the front of the church, indicating he should mind his own business.
I survey my family. I shared a bathroom with these people for the first 18 years of my life, and I know what they are capable of. Of everyone, why would Josh single my sister out?
I ask him, and he acts like it’s a stupid question.
It’s clearly a girl fart, he whispers. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I give him a skeptical look.
It’s different, he said.
I thought about this the rest of the mass. Yes, I admit it, I didn’t think about the birth of Christ like I should have. I thought critically about what differences there are in the male and female body that would make this true. In the end, I decided my husband didn’t have a leg to stand on with this. But, I still had to find out.
Mass ended and we all stood up. As my parents were fawning over Josh (as is their habit), I turn to my sister.
Hey, were you farting during mass? I asked.
My sister turns pale and her face is full of shock.
Oh my god, did you hear it? I thought it was silent! she says.
I lock eyes with Josh and he smiles.
I told you, he says. Girl fart.
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