Directly before my cousin and her soon-to-be husband took their wedding vows. Upon waking up, I was told by the wedding photographer (who was only masquerading as a wedding photographer and was actually a nurse) that I’d knocked my head quite loudly against the wooden pew but we never found a tell-tale bump.

At Mass.

While waiting for my dentist’s receptionist to schedule my next appointment. My dentist tried to blame the spell on the (previously administered) laughing gas but I refused to let her because it meant that I would be forever denied my laughing gas.

On a playground, in the middle of July, while refereeing a game of hopscotch. Which isn’t a game that needs a referee but I was being indulgent. My collapsing onto the cracked and heat-weakened asphalt frightened the children.

After I delivered my line but before I walked off-stage during an early rehearsal for “Up the Down Staircase,” in which I only had five lines and did not feel guilty for using my episode as an excuse to miss over half of the rehearsals.

At Mass, again.

In the middle of a horrible rendition of “La Vie En Rose” for my voice instructor. He billed me for the time I spent passed out on his floor.

Mass, once more. I’ve done a lot of fainting at Mass.

While staring at the “We Listen” poster that hangs in the stockroom at work. This poster encourages Barnes & Noble employees to contact Mike Berry, the president of the company, if they have a complaint or suggestion. I had to discourage my co-worker from calling up Mr. Berry and asking him who moved our cheese. I did not think he would be amused. This all happened after I’d been revived, though.