I was in high school when I decided to keep track of how often I embarrassed myself. After a year of tallying, the average was at least once a week. Tactlessness, ignorance, misunderstandings, and misconceptions hounded me in my interactions with everyone—friends and family, classmates and strangers; but I figured that my options were to never step outside my front door, or to accept the awkwardness and do the best I could.
The other day I embarrassed myself in the worst way, and it happened because of balloon pants. For those who don’t know, balloon pants are baggy and gathered into a cuff at the ankle. Mine are a lovely buff, soft faux suede. I’m very fond of them. The cuffs drape beautifully over my black boots—oh, and I’m fond of them, too. I made the pants, and the fabric was a joy to work with.
So, Easter Sunday. The service is over. I float on a lofty cloud, spiritually refreshed, taking comfort in the fact that, for a time at least, I’m in a state of sanctity. The priest gave a good sermon and I want to tell him so. I like it when others tell me I did well, so I figure other people like it to.
He stands outside the door of the narthex, on the top step, a short man with warm twinkling eyes, wishing his congregants well as they depart. Then, as is the way of things, people move to the side and laugh and talk amongst themselves. The sky is the brightest blue and the air is crisp with a hint of warmth. Spring’s been late in coming this year and I’m pleased to welcome it.
When I stand before our priest, I say, “Hey, Dave, good sermon.” That’s all, just a simple compliment from behind my mask. And I move on—only the heel of my beloved boot catches in the gathers of my beloved pants as I step away.
Gravity takes me.
Falling down a couple of stairs in front of a crowd of proper churchgoers is humiliating, but even more humiliating is what I shout as I’m helplessly falling, which is “SHIT!”
A woman rushes to help me to my feet.
“Please tell me no one heard that,” I plead as I scramble to a squatting position and push myself up with my rear end looming largely.
“What?” she asks as she supports my upper arm. “Did you curse? No, I certainly didn’t hear it.”
What a kind woman.
Oh dear. All eyes are on me. Mouths are frozen in horrified gasps. I’ll be getting dubious looks and people will be asking if I’m okay for months.
Mortifying, yes, but as I said, I’ve been embarrassing myself once a week for my whole life. I’m used to it.
More significant than my pride is the spiritual aspect. Church. I go, I pray, and I ask forgiveness for all the stupid or thoughtless things I’ve done; and I recognize how I’m lacking in absolutely every area—then I’m absolved and I take communion and for a brief time I’m in a state of holiness that feels pretty wonderful.
But it never takes more than a few seconds for me to tumble from my divine plain. An erroneous chord from the organist or a piercing note from a choir member will stir my critical nature and, without thought, I’ll send a nasty glare toward the choir. Or the man in the pew behind me will sneeze on my neck, which is disgusting and rude, and will cause me to hope that horrible things befall him.
Shouting shit outside the church on Easter morning isn’t the first time I’ve done something appallingly irreverent.
Once in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, at what is celebrated as the manger where Christ was born, I spit out a loud, “Dammit!” when I couldn’t get the camera to work. Right there, in one of the most holy places in the world. Though, really—and here I rationalize—how can we know for sure that it was exactly the square meter on this whole planet where a baby was born two thousand years ago?
I’d gone to Jerusalem with a couple of friends and David had given me his ridiculously complicated camera, merrily telling me to bring back lots of pictures. There had been devout pilgrims there! People solemnly milling around in states of saintly euphoria! What kind of monster cusses beside the manger?
Mortification. God forgives me, but the trouble is forgiving myself. I should’ve learned to control my tongue by now, but I obviously haven’t.
And to this day I disdain cameras. Oh, my phone camera has its uses—like if I want to remember a measurement or a brand name, I can take a quick picture. But as to stopping life in order to commemorate a moment, I never do it.
Balloon pants, black boots with a high heel. What was I thinking? How silly, how shallow. Vanity and style have no place in church. What will I do with my balloon pants?
Not nearly as cute on the hanger as when I’m wearing them. But you get the idea.
