Mantillas. I hate ’em. They are fussy and bothersome, and last time I checked, lace is a fabric that doesn’t do much concealing, so why even bother? They make the wearer, me that is, feel conspicuous. And really, who am I fooling, trying to look all pious and junk?
But then I wore a mantilla, and much to my shock, no one cared. Not a single eyelash was batted or a tongue clucked. The ground did not open and swallow my hypocritical, how dare she, heathen soul. The mass went on.
That’s really why we don’t wear them, right? Because they are fussy and imply of the wearer a pretense of piety, that may or may not exist. And we’re all about “keeping it real” because being a hypocrite is the worst thing in the world to be, next to being a racist that is. So I’ve been keeping it real at mass, in my jeans and bare head, instead of getting over myself and my fear that everyone is staring at me. Which they aren’t, because no one cares. Imagine that. Wearing a mantilla for mass was much less of a big deal than I anticipated. I don’t know why I was making such a fuss, really. Silly, self absorbed thing that I am.