Needless to say,  I protested loudly every Sunday morning. By the time I was five, my parents gave up with the exception of one brief attempt when I was 12. With great conviction, I marched up into the attic, donned some outdated funky skirt, knee-high plaid socks, picked up some funky smelling perfume and doused myself. As I walked downstairs, between gasps for air, my dad announced, "You can't go to church like that." Victory was mine. They gave up for good.