… Or maybe that Survivor reality series show would be a better analogy. First one to fall asleep in the pews gets voted off. In which case I was one of the first ones down. The incense dried out my eyes and the chant had the same lulling effect as an airplance engine. Don’t get me wrong. The mass was beautiful. Last night I visited a church I hadn’t been to in years and the changes the new priests have instituted are vaste liturgical and spiritual improvements. Kudos to you, good padres. So my limp body slumped over in the pew was in no way a reflection on your ability to celebrate Christmas in a reverent and joyful manner.
I’m just a terrible, lazy Catholic. I worked yesterday and had been up since 5am. And had been drinking since the moment I got off work. So by midnight I was a hot mess.
Naturally, I didn’t get to bed till 3am this morning only to be woken up three hours later by an excitable nine year old begging to open presents. Now I’m expected to conjure up a turkey Christmas dinner and make with the nice-nice on three hours sleep. Hiss. Spit. Growl.
I haven’t been to a midnight mass since… well. Ever. I tried once when I was a newbie Catholic. My first Christmas as a bona fide papist. I dragged my listless body and that of my sleeping two year old to church, muscled my way into a pew, and sat there sweating with my son draped across my shoulder and drooling down my back. I hadn’t been back since.
Surely, I thought, it’s gotten better. My son is one week shy of ten. He’s stayed up past midnight before. I’ll be a hypocrite and get there early and camp out, like I blogged about yesterday. I’ll drink coffee and red bull and do jumping jacks in the parking lot. I got this.
Wrong. Oh, so wrong. Now, pass me the eggnog.