Last Sunday, despite being horribly sick, I went to Mass for the first time in… well, I’m not even going to tell you. Between suffering from the flu that wouldn’t quit and the realization that recently I’d probably earned a one-way ticket straight to hell, I figured it might be a good time to seek a little Divine Assistance.

And, if nothing else, going to Mass guaranteed me two hours of babysitting from my Baptist husband who refuses — absolutely refuses — to set foot in a Catholic church (a fact which, I assure him, ensures that he’ll go to hell, too).

So, like I said, it had been a while. A long while.

Since my decision to attend was made at the last-minute when I woke burdened by an impending sense of doom that morning, I hadn’t given myself enough time for the full shower, shave and shine routine, much less planned what I would wear. I threw on a pair of dark slacks and my favorite cashmere v-neck sweater then put on enough makeup to avoid looking like I’d been on a 6-month heroin binge thanks to the ever-present dark circles under my eyes. (One glance at my ample ass should debunk anyone of the whole heroin thing, but you know how people like to gossip.)

Anyway, as I raced to church, I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw that the v-neck of my sweater was a bit too daring to wear to church. Oh, sure, God gave me some bodacious ta-tas, but even I know there’s a time and place, ya know? So I looked over in the passenger seat and was relieved to find my favorite leopard print scarf there, one that’s long enough to do the fashionable European-style thing with yet not so thick that I’d feel like I was choking.

Just as I raced through the church doors — with minutes to spare, I might add — who did I run into but one of the Church Ladies whose pissy, pompous attitude had pretty much disenchanted me with this very church the last time I’d been there.

You probably know the type: they arrive early every Sunday then position themselves so as to take a mental roll call of who’s there on time, who’s late, and who’s too much of a damned sinner to bother showing up. Guess which category I fit in? I know it, she knew it, and I could see on her face that she knew it, too.

But there was something she didn’t know that I had seen. Specifically, I’d seen HER — the uptight Church Lady — at a favorite bar of mine not three months earlier. The man I’d seen her hanging on (who was easily ten years younger than her and far too inebriated to grimace when she stuck her tongue in his ear) was most definitely not her husband, and the outfit she was wearing at the time was most definitely not the primly tailored and buttoned-up suit she was wearing that Sunday morning.

“Well,” she said as I walked past, “I thought you must have moved or something, since you never attend Mass anymore. But it’s always nice to see old faces again.”

I probably would have left the matter alone, but right then she glanced at my scarf and raised her thin little half-moon eyebrows, then said: “What an interesting scarf. It’s so hard to wear leopard print without looking cheap, isn’t it?”

“Oh, it hasn’t been that long since we’ve seen each other,” I pointed out as I toyed with my scarf. “Don’t you remember, down at the bar about three months ago? You were wearing a black tank top with hip-hugger jeans and a 20-something year old guy attached to your tongue.”

Then, as I swung open the door and headed inside, I added over my shoulder: “See? You didn’t even have to wear leopard print to achieve that whole cheap thing.”

So, yeah, I’m probably still going to hell but I’ll be smiling about it. Oh, and I’ll be wearing my leopard print scarf, too.

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