Oh whoops, Catholicism.

When I was in the fourth grade, I was the lead in the school play.

From the time I started school until I finished the fifth grade, I went to St. Charles School in Woburn, Massachusetts. It was a Catholic school, and although my family wasn't particularly religious, my mother was certain that I would acquire an excellent education at a private school. (I did, too. Standardized testing would show that, every year through the fifth grade, I would score within the 98th percentile of my age group. That's Mensa level, bitches.)

Going to Catholic school means I missed out on a lot of things that public school kids learned about. For instance, I never learned about evolution. At least not at school. Creationism was the lay of the land in my classes, and it was only at home that my parents taught me about Darwin and all of his excellence. I also spent a lot of time learning about the ten commandments and the seven sacraments. Basically, my childhood consisted of my teachers telling me this:

"You were born. You were baptized. First we'll teach you how to tell a stranger all the bad stuff you do, but it's okay because he's a priest. Now let's teach you how to take communion, which is eating the body of that guy we want you to be a fan of. Soon, you'll be confirmed, then you'll get married! If you don't get married, it's okay, you can be ordained! Then, when you die, you'll get last rites. You'll need them, because without them, you'll go straight to hell if you've done one of these things: killed a person, stolen, cheated on your husband or wife. That makes sense. Also though, you'll go to hell if you've done one of these things: lied, wanted something someone else had, gone through a phase where you were Buddhist real quick, worshiped your new BMW over God, or if you ever were a dick to your parents. Those are sort of pushy ones, but just deal with them, okay? Also though, there's these last couple that'll send you straight to hell. They're a bit much, but we were really looking to round it out at ten: missing church EVER, and saying 'God Dammit' when the Yankees win the World Series."

So basically what I'm saying is, I lived my childhood, through the age of ten, in complete and total fear of ever doing anything at any time.

You can imagine, then, that when my fourth grade teacher approached me and said, "We would like you to play the lead role in our Christmas play, Cindy," I was hesitant as hell to say no. Did I, and do I still, have a crippling fear or public speaking? Of course I did! And of course I do! But I was not about to say no to a teacher, especially when she was asking me to be in a play about Jesus.

And you'd better believe that this play was about Jesus.

It was called "Super Gift from Heaven." In it, I would play the role of Amanda, who was a doll left in a toy store just before Christmas. The toy store has closed for the night, and all of us toys are awake and chatting all Toy Story style about what Christmas is really about. At first I am pissed that no one wants me as a present, but then as the play goes on I realize that it's not about being a present, because really there's only one present that's important, and that present is Jesus. He's the super gift from Heaven. There are musical numbers, there is a nativity scene (not just a physical representation of a nativity but, indeed, a scene in the play which involves it.) In the end, we're all psyched about God, and also, I am purchased and given to a child as a gift anyhow. It's win-win.

So as preparation for the play began, I started nearly pissing myself every day. Why the hell was I the lead in this damn play? This is not something that I would ever have signed up for. Whatever though, it was starting, I better get into it. And I did, I guess. I mean, I learned my lines. I sang. I took cues. I listened to the three wise men tell me about why Jesus was the bee's knees. I told Raggedy Ann and Andy that it sucked that I was not a gift, what the hell. I also had a love interest, no lie. I was nine years old and I was playing a doll who was in love with another doll, and we would miss each other when we were bought as gifts, yet somehow we were still angry as heck that we were not being bought as gifts. (I had to hold hands with that boy at one point, I remember. There's nothing better than holding hands with your first boy because a script and several angry teachers are forcing you to.)

Anyhow, eventually opening night came. (Also, for the record, I had to do this twice. This play was so important that we were required to have two showings.) I put on my floral doll dress and put my enormous bow in my hair and got my cheeks painted red. I climbed the rickety, terrifying staircase from the basement of the auditorium to the backstage area - I can still remember the smell. It's a smell that I recognize now as one of fear and terror, but that was honestly probably just old wood.

I took my position on stage and I recited my lines. I was a believable doll that loved Jesus. People clapped at me. I was blinded by the spotlight, but I squinted through the show. I did everything I had to do, and then it was over. Oh, I was so glad it was over. My parents weren't at this show - they had tickets to the next night, so that they could bring my grandparents, so I didn't have to deal with anyone or anything. I went home and I sighed a sigh of relief that I only had to do it one more time.

The next night, I went back. I put on my floral doll dress and put my enormous bow in my hair and got my cheeks painted red. I walked up the stairs, I walked onto the stage, and I recited my lines. And then - all of a sudden - I had no idea what was happening. It was silent. Everyone had stopped talking. In my head I thought,

"Wow, someone forgot their line. What an asshole."

And then I looked down at my teacher, who was standing in front of the stage, and she was pointing at me. FURIOUSLY. Oh yeah, whoops, it was my line. So I remembered what I was supposed to say, and I said it, and then I shimmied to the side behind the freakishly tall kid who was playing Joseph. And I cried. It was a good thing I didn't have another line in that scene, because I wouldn't have been able to spit it out. I just hid behind super tall Joseph for the rest of the speech about Jesus being king, and then when the final line of the scene had been spoken, I ran off stage. Ran, quick like a bunny, get me the hell out of here, sprinted. Had I run that fast in gym class ever, I might have passed Presidential Fitness.

I got backstage and everyone was trying to comfort me, but that just made me feel even more ridiculous. I had basically ruined the entire show for everyone ever. In fact, if you watch the home videos that we have of the show that night, I'm pretty sure you can hear crickets, and somewhere in the world a baby cries at how bad of an actress I am. It was at that moment that I vowed to myself that I would never stand on a stage willingly again. I mean, after the play. I couldn't very well quit at that point. So I walked back out, and I finished the show. I bowed at the end, and I got applause. I went to see my family afterward, and no one mentioned that I'd forgotten a line. Everyone acted as though it had never happened, and that worked really well for me.

Unfortunately, the home video footage still exists. So, in that nativity scene, when Joseph and Mary are talking to the little doll about the importance of Jesus Christ our Lord, they look pretty insane. Because I'm hiding behind Mega-Joseph, and they look like they're talking to themselves.

Thankfully I accidentally recorded some Kids in the Hall over that tape one time.