Hello, friends! It's the final Story Time of 2010 and I'm happy to bring you a little non-fiction and a little religion as we all break for the holidays. OK, so the "religion" part is an exaggeration. But, this essay by repeat offender, Molly Strzelecki, does take place at Mass. You may remember Molly's last appearance on Glass Cases, back when temperatures were higher and she gave us some pretty great fiction. For more of Molly, go visit her blog, McPolish.
An Open Letter to the Hot Guy at 5:30 Mass
By Molly Strzelecki
By Molly Strzelecki
I know your name is not Samson. At least, I am guessing that there is a very slim chance that your name is Samson. But my girlfriends and I call you Samson because of the following text exchange I once had with my friend Julie:
Me: omg! The hot guy at mass cut his hair! It’s so much shorter now!
Julie: omg no way! Is he like Samson? Did he lose his sexy power?
Me: no, he’s still got his sexy power. Heh. Samson.
So we call you Samson. I hope that’s okay. It’s just so much easier than Hot Guy at 5:30 Mass. Not that “Hot Guy” wouldn’t be a good name for you, as you are both hot and a guy, but this is all beside the point. The point is maybe I should start over.
Hello! I’m Molly, and I often sit in the pew in front of you at the 5:30 pm Sunday mass at Blessed Sacrament. How are you? I am fine. I just wanted to drop you a note to say that I find you very attractive – hot, even – and if you’d be up for it, I’d very much like to marry you and have several babies with you. I have come to the conclusion that you, Samson, may very well be the man of my dreams. Hard to say, though, as I’ve only ever seen you at mass. I don’t know what you are like outside of church, but inside church you are tall and handsome and sometimes you go to mass with your friends, too, which right there we obviously have something in common. But as soon as the recessional hymn ends you slip out the door and into the evening mist never to be seen until the following Sunday, which puts a thought in my head that maybe you are not the man of my dreams, but are instead the Holy Ghost?
Well, either would be fine with me, really. I would like to get married someday, I think, but then again, after 31 years of being Catholic I have still not quite grasped who, or what, exactly, the Holy Ghost is, other than one third of the Holy Trinity. The Holy Ghost just simply isn’t as tangible as Jesus or God, there are no parables to describe Him/It, and this has left a big chunk of my diagramed spiritual life missing. Were you to draw it out on a large piece of poster board, it would look something like this:
So, Samson, if you are the Holy Ghost, that’s totally cool with me, because then at least I would be able to put a face with a name.
But if, in fact, you are not the Holy Ghost, and are the man of my dreams instead, then terrific! This is very exciting.
Except that, as previously mentioned, I do not even know your name. I do not know where you live. Did you grow up in the area? Do you really reject Satan and all his ploys, or is this church thing just a cover for your true self, and really you are quite evil? What are your thoughts on premarital sex? Oh, Samson, there are so many questions I have for you, and I’m just not sure where to begin. Or how to begin, for that matter. How, exactly, does one approach a handsome young man in church? Sure, there is the “Please take a Minute to Stand and Greet Your Neighbor” moment right before mass begins, and I’ve attempted to glean a shred, any shred, of information that way. Maybe you remember? Maybe you don’t. It went like this:
Me: Nice to meet you. I’m Molly.
You speak English! This bodes well for us. The next week, I tried to glean more information.
Me: Hi, I’m Molly
You: Nice to see you again.
You remembered me! This is progress, Samson. I hope that one of these days, when we meet-and-greet, you will share your name too. I think that day could be magical.
But beyond that, Samson, I’m not sure how to approach you. My psychic said that it is a very strong possibility that the man of my dreams will start out being a friend of mine, so maybe I should ask you to do something friendish? Except that usually my friends just come over and drink wine and do crossword puzzles and our nails while watching Lifetime Originals. You know, so soon in our relationship, and me not knowing your name or anything, that might be a tad bit awkward.
If I go the other route, leaving all traces of friendship out of it, any advances I might conjure would seem, at best, sleazy. And not in the good way. In a bar, asking someone if you can buy them a drink is normal. Asking someone if you can pass them the communion wine is fucking weird. What am I supposed to say to you? “How’s about you and me pull up a confessional and chat a bit?” or “People have told me I look like Mary Magdalene”?
No, Samson, no. Even I can’t be that sleazy. Not in church.
(Not that I’m sleazy! I’m not, I swear! I’m a relatively nice, somewhat practicing Catholic girl! I like puppies and making macaroni crafts in the shape of the three wise men’s heads! So sometimes I have impure thoughts, okay? How else are we supposed to know what to do when creating our army of Catholic children?)
Sadly, Samson, I’m just not sure how to go about this, how to get your attention, how to get you to notice me so that we can see what kind of future we’d have together. Approaching a good looking, young guy who willingly goes to mass is an approach that I fear does not exist in my arsenal. If only I would see you in the cereal aisle at the grocery store, or while buying panty liners at CVS. Either of those situations I would know better how to handle and approach you than in church. Because approaching you in church, the best I have is an extensive and intricate plan involving a fake mustache, making a single, special copy of the Sunday bulletin with a condensed version of this letter, and my friend Heather posing as a bulletin distributor after mass.
So I guess, for now, I’ll have to settle for simply sitting in front of you at mass whenever I can, trying to play it cool at the sign of peace, and praying that I catch a glimpse of you in the real world, somewhere, anywhere. Unless, of course, I can bribe Father Ben to work my pleas and hopes not only into the ears of the Lord above, but also into next week’s homily. Because that wouldn’t be irrelevant to the church community at large.
Until then, Samson. Peace be with you.