If her mother doesn’t kill her, my mother will.

So this weekend I was in NYC at my friend’s brother’s wedding. It was lovely – in this gorgeous old church on 76th and Lex, on a warm and sunny day. Not too early, not too late, just perfect all around.

Except for how they celebrated their love and affection with a full Catholic mass.

Let it be said, first of all, that, at my mother’s insistence, I am also having a full Catholic mass. Although the idea of sitting in church for an hour makes most of my friends consider group suicide, mass is a bland but calming experience for me, akin to having your teeth cleaned or slogging through a moderately painful hangover. I went to church every weekend until I was 18, and since I’ve lapsed, the occasional Sunday service doesn’t seem like such a drag.

My friend Christina, on the other hand, is unused to the length of the Full Mass, and as such was in rare form throughout the ceremony. Truly, there is a lot of weirdness that you miss when you’re just coasting through the prayers: the body and the blood, transfiguration, the standing, the sitting, the OH SHIT it’s time to KNEEL!! Christina and I met in college, at which time I was… not quite the epitome of a good Christian soldier… and I think she was a little freaked out that I knew all the responses and shit. Why do I think she was freaked out? Because throughout the mass she kept leaning over and whispering shit in my ear like “Who ARE you, anyway?” and gesturing vaguely so as to suggest that I might not be as wholesome as I looked, sitting in the pew with my hands folded and my legs crossed.

It’s a good thing I’ll have my back to everyone on my wedding day, otherwise I’d look at her cracking jokes during Communion and lose my shit. then my mom would murder us both.






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