by Chrysa Smith
I’m not ready for granny panties. I’m really not. But sometimes, my age sneaks up on me. Or is it just a sense of propriety? Standards? Good behavior?
Case in point: I was at the children’s church service one Sunday morning. It’s cute. It’s non-spiritual. It is what it is. I completely expect that from a room full of toddler’s with bathroom, hunger and boredom issues. What I don’t expect is that from their parents.
Arm over the back of the pew, ala movie or concert, just a few rows from the altar, the woman pulls out a water bottle and begins to slug it. OMG! Is it my puritan Catholic upbringing, or is that just wrong? I mean, what was next? Popcorn? Junior Mints? Or am I missing the point of the priest’s sermon and the dogmas of faith when I am critical of others? Eh, you can’t win.
When I told the story to fellow blogger, MaryFran, she did jokingly admit that a little post communion ‘sweet’ is just what the stomach orders. But I know, I wouldn’t find her rattling the Junior Mint box and dumping them into her mouth in any reverent setting. Period. Case closed.
This certainly falls under one of my biggest gripes, and that is the lack of formality in any situation these days. Nobody dresses up for much of anything. Nobody believes they should wait for anything (aka the big credit crisis or a drink of water). Nobody believes that anyone should enforce any kind of standards of behavior (aka talking at the movies, on the phone in a restaurant, drinking in church). And I think the result is a lack of anything much being ‘special.’
Too bad, because I do think people miss a bit.
As a kid, Sundays were special. Stores were closed. Families ate together. You couldn’t buy beer before noon. Work required formal dress. It marked it as a professional and formal place. School required expected standards of dress code and behavior. Even though I was almost a perfect child, I did wind up in detention just a time or two—as I should have.
Behavior and its standards are going to hell in a handbasket. Boy that’s sounding old.
Bah humbug. I’m going back to bed—in my best pajamas.
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