embarrassment

Update: The following happened to Dave (not Holly). We apologize for the confusion. :)

This last Sunday, after unloading our girls, diaper bags, manuals, scriptures, and kitchen sinks from the car and heading into our local chapel (Right on time, of course! And by "right on time," I mean "20 minutes late."), I paid a quick visit to the men's restroom.

As I was leaving (still in the doorway), a fellow church-goer passed in front of me, moving quickly. I took a step back and to the left in an effort to avoid a collision. In doing so, I unknowingly hooked one of my back pockets onto the claw-like handle of a drawer that was built into the hallway wall—just to the left to the restroom door. I began to walk away (in my memory, this next part happens in slow-motion) and the inevitable ripping sound followed. I stopped. One of my eyes twitched involuntarily. I felt a light breeze on the back of my legs, that under normal circumstances, would have been refreshing, but in these abnormal circumstances, was most certainly not.

Questions raced through my mind. Who puts a drawer in a chapel hallway? Right by a bathroom? Who uses this drawer? What on earth is in it? Does the Bishop ever pause in the middle of an early-morning meeting and say, "Now, where did we put those files?" and then hear his Executive Secretary respond, "Oh, they're in the hallway drawer. You know, the one by the bathroom. With the claw-like handle."

When he was drawing up the plans, did the architect of this chapel foresee me, years later, standing there, pale-faced and ventilated, in his corridor of shame and laugh maniacally? I'll bet he did.

I covered my back-side with a church manual, shuffled out of the building, drove home, and changed pants. Did I return to church that day? Yes. Did I return with dignity? No. No, I did not.