Originally Ran: New Haven Register, Thurs., January 30, 2003
 
People don’t believe me when I say that I was an altar boy. Granted, I was never MVP of the altar boy set, nor was I ever asked to grace the cover of Altar Boy magazine, but I do have two masses under my belt. I brought the wine. I knelt at the appropriate times.

I don’t know what it is that makes it so difficult for people to picture me up there alongside the priest, sharing the stage, so to speak—a roadie to his “all glory and honor is yours almighty Father forever and ever” solo. There is not much that I take seriously—this is true—but it’s not like I would tap dance up there. I know about respect. It’s church, for God’s sake.

I miss it more and more these days, too. Not being an altar boy, of course, but church itself. It’s been a while and mostly because it truly isn’t conducive to the partying lifestyle. I mean, 8, 10, and 11:30 Sunday morning? Who made that schedule up, a priest? Couldn’t they throw in a 5:30 Wednesday? Or even 3 o’clock Sunday, a sort of pre-macaroni mass?

Fortunately, now that my thirties have seen to it that going out every weekend is no more possible than running up a flight of stairs and being able to speak coherently once I get there, church has become a possibility all over again. I know I could have (and should have) sacrificed all those years—it’s all based on sacrifice in the first place—but communion wafers always seemed like they would rock the hangover boat. Plus, there is no telling what smelling the wine could have caused.

Church was quite the hot spot when I was a kid. All the good-looking girls were there, in their Sunday best, some even eager to giggle the gifts down the aisle with their best girlfriend. Afterwards, amongst the candles, us boys would behave inappropriately in their presence, making ruckus’s the older folk deemed reprehensible.

Once I even asked a girl out during mass. The memory haunts me in all the ways youthful memories do. Like being at the blackboard and someone points out that your fly is down, but in this instance the potential for religious backlash existed. I always felt like God was looking down, appalled at my timing.
It was the epitome of awkward. The girl in question knew I was going to ask and had already passed on word that she would be accepting. So, why did I choose just before the handshaking portion of mass to do it, during that little “peace be with you” window? The jury is still out on that one—perhaps because I felt the handshake would make her acceptance binding in a court of law. (Editor’s Note: It didn’t; she dumped him two weeks later.)

That confessed, and with ten years of Catholic schooling behind me, I finally feel like I could do church properly now. It’s going to be nice to get up bright and early on Sunday morning, shower and change into some nice clothes, and join the religious (or even penitent) masses at mass. Apparently there is even a great post-mass contingency that hits the diner afterwards.
I got accused of having gone there for the wrong reasons back when I was a teenager, and I may be accused of the same this time around. But, does the reason really matter? There isn’t a questionnaire now, is there? “Reason for Attendance: Likeminded omelet fans!”
Besides, there are many reasons why I want to begin attending mass again, the least of which is the subsequent scrambled egg fest. There is the sense of community, the spiritual cleansing, the celebration of faith.

And to this day I remain entertained by the altar boys. I know their mindset, how they silently reprimand themselves for the uncontrollable thoughts that pop into their heads. They shoot each other glances, and turn away just as quickly when one may make the other burst out laughing.
Communion was the most difficult part in this respect. People take it very seriously, and why shouldn’t they? No one at that very personal moment wants to see a silly altar boy choking on a laugh. And I, for one, would definitely never ask a girl out there.