Holy Shit

I slide into the pew, like I always do, after genuflecting toward the altar.

Once settled in my seat, it’s unavoidable.  Violent, arresting, off-putting: the smell of feces seems to offensively burrow its way into my nostrils, my mouth.  Accosted, I immediately assess my surroundings:

In front of me are two men, one in a red turtleneck and black blazer, the other in a cream-and-rainbow argyle sweater.  Definitely gay partners, I think.  Definitely.  Maybe it’s them?  I mean, well, you know, stuff can go wrong, I guess.

Unconvinced, I move on.

To my right is a woman in her mid-thirties.  She’s wearing clogs.  She only shops at farmers markets, I’m certain.  She trades in quinoa and peace studies. Vegan, arguably.  Vegetarian, unquestionably.  She wouldn’t wipe in protest to some cause, I think.

I kind of scoff.

Behind me is a woman of eighty, wearing violet pants made of that material that looks strikingly like tissue paper.  Her blouse—also cream—rests on her small frame.  Images of soiled Depends begin to materialize.  Oh, that’s sad, I think.

Realllly sad.

All the while, the smell swells, swirling around us like an early morning fog.  I fear it mixing with the fibers of my flannel and feel myself starting to breathe heavily.  I want to use my bulletin to fan the air around me, creating a haven in the midst of my olfactory hell, but don’t want to draw attention to myself.  Instead, I sit freakishly still, eyes wide, as if sudden movements would be game ending.  With nowhere to look, I let my eyes rest on my legs.

Sheer panic is the right phrase, I believe, for what I feel when my gaze meets my shoes.

My blue converse are covered in dog shit.  Heaps, and clumps, and smears.

I mean covered.

I am mortified.  Between the passing of the peace and the beginning of the sermon, I slink out, genuflecting as I leave the row, and subtly sprint to the cathedral bathroom.

At the sink, I’m cussing.  Now shoeless, I’m standing in my white socks, baptizing my converse in the sink, aggressively scrubbing them.  It’s hardest to get the poop out of the crevices of the diamond-patterned soles, but I’m determined. I look up from my shoes and into the mirror and am greeted by my crazed, disheveled face.  By the end I’m sweating.  When I put them back on, they make my socks wet.

I walk back into the cathedral as the Reverend is concluding her homily with a quote from Anne Lammot.  I hurriedly genuflect a third time and take my place among my fellow congregants, no longer suspects.  I blush a bit.

It’s amazing to me how quickly the people around me—strangers and friends, alike—can become players in the plot against me when I carry unresolved shit with me, on my shoes, in my heart.  Before I turn the spotlight inward, before I examine myself for the places that need cleaning, I so easily externalize my problems: if he only loved better; if she only listened more carefully; if they only worked harder.  The problem, I’ve learned, is that sometimes the shit is mine: I present myself in ways that make loving difficult; I don’t share clearly and make listening almost impossible; they’re already working as hard as they can.  It’s only after I’ve cleaned my feet that I’m able to realize the people around me aren’t out to get me, aren’t soiling my air and hoping for my demise.  They probably smell it, too, and are hoping I take better care of myself.

I introduce myself to the clog-wearing vegan after the service concludes.  She is nice, and I’m sure she wipes.  The allegedly gay couple is, indeed, gay, and has been together for over 20 years.  I thank them for offering me hope for my future.  The woman-in-violet kisses people on the cheek when she greets them.  I resolve to get one next week from her.

I walk toward the courtyard, my feet squeaking with each step, and shake the hand of the Reverend as I leave.