I promise I'm a good Catholic

I'm a good church-going Catholic  girl. You'd think there would be some sort of Heavenly reward for going to church every week - like, maybe, no abject embarrassment during that hour and half. Just once a week. An hour and half. That's all I'm asking.

But, no, of course.

Last year, I was in Mass during the winter. I always try to wear a dress to church (Again, no reward for dressing nicely at church? No. In fact, the opposite). There was a visiting priest and his homily was predictably long. I have this theory that when a priest who won't be there next week facing the wrath of grumpy parishioners is giving the homily, he really goes to town. I mean, we're talking about an eighteen-minute homily.

I really had to use the restroom about eleven minutes into the homily and he was showing no sign of stopping. Luckily, I was sitting on the very end of a pew, so I slipped out and down the side aisle to the bathroom at the foyer. Feeling very sneaky and rebellious - as I always do when I leave during the homily, because my parents never allowed it growing up - I headed back, making the long trip back to my pew, which was - unfortunately - at the very front of the church. This means I passed about 150 or 200 people before I sat down. 150 or 200 people who were, at thirteen minutes in, extremely bored of the homily and looking for distraction.

I sat down and fidgeted for a moment, wondering why the church had suddenly gotten so much colder - specifically, why my pew seemed so chilly.The horror slowly dawned on me, and I reached down under my thighs, hoping to smooth my skirt, starting to panic when I felt my own skin instead of a skirt.

For future reference, girls, when you use the bathroom and you're wearing a dress, always, always, always check the mirror before you leave to make sure your skirt isn't tucked into the waistband of your underwear. Especially if your underwear isn't church appropriate (and really, what underwear is?) and you're in church.

I sat there, having fixed my dress, face as bright red as my now-hidden panties, wanting to be called up to meet the Heavenly Father right then and there, or hoping for some kind of divine revelation to appear in the church so everyone behind me would forget what they'd seen. Jesus can do memory erasure, I'm sure. But He didn't, and when the time for the Sign of Peace came along, I couldn't even turn around.

The Sign of Peace, for all you non-Catholics, is the point in the Mass when we turn to the people all around and shake hands saying "Peace be with you!" It turns into a mad scrambling competition to see who can spread the most germs. I managed to shake hands with the people in front of me but I couldn't bear to turn around. 

Since this episode, I have joined the choir at St. Austins and started going to a different Mass time (I'm serious). The all enveloping maroon choir robe (neck to ankle, long sleeves, opaque and scratchy fabric, nun-style) leaves no chance of indecent exposure during church, not to mention, it's really difficult to tell if I'm actually female, or for that matter, human, when I wear it. I look like a maroon blob with yellow fuzz on the top. Oh, and I also get to stand in the choir loft at the back of the building, away from the rest of the congregation, so no one can really see me in the first place.

After flashing half of the parish, I don't think it's unreasonable to want to conceal my identity.