“I hate church!” At least that’s what I said to my mother when I was about 11 years old.
Part of it was the contrast between Saturdays and Sundays. Saturday mornings were filled with Looney Toons, Land of the Lost, Pop-Tarts and Captain Crunch, and all while dressed in pajamas. Sunday mornings were completely different. That’s when I had to put on dress clothes: slacks, a button-down shirt, a clip-on necktie, and a navy blue blazer. That’s the equivalent of a strait jacket to little boys. Once we were all dressed, we went to church. I fidgeted in the pew during the 45-minute sermons, eating mom’s hard candy and enacting battles for the fate of the world between my superhero action figures to pass the time.
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