You would have laughed too, but that makes you a bad person.

In my household, Sunday mass was not an option. Through high school, whether or not we had something better to do, we were at St. Catherine’s for the 12 o’clock mass, sitting in the section facing the altar, on the left hand side, usually in the middle pews. And about every two months or so, my family would be tapped to take up the offertory.

The offertory is the bread, wine, water and a chalice (I think) that is to be consecrated by the priest and made into communion. Members of the church take the gifts to the altar, while everyone else passes the basket for the collection. Expert church goers know that this means that you are two kneels, a sign of peace, an Our Father, communion and the last hymnal from freedom. Or at least doughnuts.

I was fourteen when The Incident occurred. I had just gotten home from a post-Christmas trip to New York with my sister Carroll, and was wearing some of my Christmas finery – specifically a black jersey jumper from the Limited, a white turtleneck and some costume pearls. I hadn’t gotten new shoes, however, so I was wearing ancient black hand-me downs from my sister Susi, whose heels had been ground down into nubs (the shoes heels had been ground into nubs - not Susi's heels. Her heels were fine). This, as it turns out, was going to be a problem.

The nice old man who drove the yellow convertible and wore the plaid sports jacket for his ushering duties asked me, my sister Carroll, and Susi if we’d be willing to take up the offering at that mass. Willing wasn’t exactly the word to describe how I felt about it, but my mother did not give us a choice, so we agreed. Also: I was wearing my totally hot black jumper, so I was pretty much okay with being the center of attention.

At the time that the baskets were being passed, Carroll, Susi and I made our way to the back of the church, where Carroll was given the hosts to carry, Susi got the wine and chalice, and I got the water. Getting the water is like getting second runner-up in the Miss America pageant – a meaningless and totally unglamorous job. But, I grinned and beared it, in beatific (dare I say holy?) silence, and started my march up the polished stone aisle of the church, to the altar where Father Borelli and two of his altar boy minions stood, awaiting the gifts.

A quarter of the way up, we were doing well. Maybe marching a little fast, but we were totally on pace to make it there before the baskets were all collected. I could see Father Borelli, his balding, ancient, Italian head shining in the distance, waiting for us to get there. I always did a quick check at the beginning of mass to see what guys I knew were in attendance, so I knew that the Larrimer boys were over on the right hand side of the church, and Mike Moriarty was on the left. And there was Matt Davis, who I had an unrequited crush on, and his brother and father, sitting one row behind my mom, who had somehow gotten out of having to join us. Hi Mom!!!

The halfway point was when things went all wrong. My demolished heel didn’t get purchase on the slick floor, and I could feel my right foot start sliding, and my body follow. I struggled to regain footing, but the slide was starting to get out of control. I started to veer into Carroll, who was on my right, and overcorrected a bit, jostling her and the hosts. Do not let the gifts fall! I screamed in my head. Letting the gifts fall on the ground, I imagine is something like letting the flag fall on the ground – it’s not good, and People Don’t Like It At All. Carroll started to lose balance and jostled Susi, who was on her right. It looked like the whole thing was going to go to Hell in a hand basket, which was never a good thing to happen in a church.

“Oh, Shit!” I yelled, because everyone knows that screaming obscenities is a totally valid tactic.

The second it happened, my mouth went into a surprised “O”, and I awaited the thunderbolt from God, but actually, it seemed to do the trick. I regained my footing, Carroll and Susi righted themselves, and we made it up to the altar. Perfect, except that I had screamed a curse word in the middle of a church. During mass. (It’s totally okay to do when the church is empty.)

Father Borelli was not amused. “I see that you were having some fun on the way here,” he said, looking at me like he would send me to hell immediately if he had the power. At least I think he said that. He had a very strong Italian accent, and I had a lot of adrenaline going through me. He might have actually said, “I see you got stuck with water duty. That sucks, doesn’t it?” But I think he said the first thing. In any event, he didn’t know the battle between good and evil that had been going on in the very aisleway that stood behind me. He should have been thankful that the water made it there safely. I don’t even know what they do with that fucking water.

I curtseyed as always, which isn’t traditional in the church, but I think adds some flair, and we made it back to our seats, where my mother was trying very hard to look pious and appropriate, while suppressing the laughter from the scene she’d just witnessed. Matt Davis and his brother were not trying to suppress anything, until their father sternly whispered, “Cut that out,” while I sat there, mortified, until the service ended and we could go in peace.

After that day, I learned to stay away from what I termed the “Offertory Zone” – that area of the church that the ushers tended to troll to find offertory victims, and I also learned to wear hiking boots to church. And to carry a knife, so if an usher asks me to take up the offering, I could stab him really quick in the kidneys.