Sweatin’ Like a Whore in Church

I’ve got years of bonafide Catholic molding and teaching to thank for my aversion to attending mass on Sunday. For years ,the promise of a kick ass Szchechuan chinese  meal complete with succulent chicken in paper and prawns with garlic sauce kept me going to one 4:30 snore fest after the next, knowing that the wafer was only the first course in a night that promised culinary perfection topped with a fortune cookie. The enticing idea of a long luxurious brunch after the 10:30 a.m. helped me pass the hour fantasizing what kind of eggs I’d be getting with my bacon and wheat toast. But as I grew older a new and far more powerful draw kept me in the pews. The lure of the Irish Catholic male. In high school I attended mass in the school rotunda at lunch religiously to catch a glimpse of the boy I really liked ( and wanted to deflower) and even went so far as to attend his parish mass..WHERE HIS FAMILY WAS. If that’s not enough to turn the stomach of every good Catholic mother and father, then what I imagined transpiring between he and I while my eyes bore a hole in the back of his angelic head would be more than enough to make the contents of those stomachs spill forth on the floor.  Later on, I would wonder why his parents disliked me so intensely, never imagining they probably had me pegged the first time I genuflected at the altar. Only a true harlot would dare skip into such a revered place with such vile intent, and truth be told I did stop going to church the minute we hooked up in the master suite of my best friends house , but these days my thoughts are not quite so depraved.  I have three kids by a wonderful guy who counts himself among the happy atheists of the world and this lapsed Catholic and her God ignoring husband send them to Parochial school. That’s right. I’ve come full circle and realized all that browbeating, forced goodness and fear of God build some serious character and make for knee slapping stories as you grow older.  My daughter is not yet old enough to be sneaking around looking for boys to chase, and she actually enjoys church while managing to listen to the priest unlike her mother who starts to daydream about warm doughnuts and piping hot coffee somewhere around the gospel.

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Filed under 1, bad catholics, food after mass, growing up catholic

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