Most of you may know this story, but it’s worth telling
again, in honor of the impending Valentine's Day. Chelsea courageously copes with the
emotional scars I still bear from my many years of post-mission dating in Utah
County. The following recounts my first,
and most traumatic, dating experience upon returning from my mission.
Dating in Utah County is completely unique to anywhere else
on Earth. Take, for example, the RM factor. Returned LDS missionaries return to
their home life and schooling not unlike a newborn entering the world. They're
all a little shocked about what's going on around them, have wide, unblinking
eyes, are almost completely incapable of social communication, and need to be
slapped periodically to remind them to breath. At least, it was that way for
me. They also return trailing a habit that was indoctrinated and ingrained in
them each moment of each missionary day--a complete and utter terror of the
opposite sex. Hugging even your own sister is a little weird when you first
return. The problem is that to everyone in LDS culture, an unmarried RM is a
loose cannon. To them, it seems few if any RM's can long survive the traumatic
rebirth into real-life if they are single. The longer he goes without a girl's
hand clasping his own, the more likely he is to watch Family Guy, drink Doctor
Pepper, or swear. Therefore, it becomes
the duty of every faithful Latter-day Saint to line up their returned
missionary brothers and sisters. (I think it's in the D&C somewhere.)
I think whoever termed it "lining up" had an
execution in mind. It feels a lot that
way sometimes. Take my first "line
up" experience upon returning home:
“Stuart! Welcome
back! This is your old home teacher!”
“Brother Martin! How
are you doing?”
“Really well, thanks!
Just wanted to call and welcome you home. Also, I was wondering, we’re going to be
having leftover pie on Sunday night.
Would you like to come help us out with it? I think it would be good for us to hear some
of your mission stories.”
One of the first things I learned upon returning home was a
returned missionary is happiest when talking
about his mission. “Absolutely Brother Martin! I’d love to!”
“Sounds great, Stu.
We’ll plan on you at 7:00”
The following Sunday Brother Martin came up to me in church. “We still on for tonight?” He was a grizzly man with a stout body and
firm handshake. He intimidated me like
crazy.
“Absolutely! I can’t wait.”
“Well, we’re excited
to have ya. Oh, by the way, I’m going to
have a niece there I want you to meet.”
My stomach rose and my heart sank. They met somewhere around the bottom of my
lungs. “Oh, um, ok. Great.”
His eyes twinkled.
“See you tonight.” And he walked
away. The Machiavellian bastard.
That night, I went down to my room to get ready and, on my
bedside table, spotted my missionary tag bearing the title “Elder Back.” It had gotten me through some pretty
uncomfortable moments. I couldn't help
it. I grabbed it and put it in my
pocket, a little black, plastic security blanket.
I showed up on the
doorstep. This time my heart had seemed
to migrate to the top of my throat. I
had just spent two years knocking on doors.
Why was my hand so hesitant to touch this one? I knocked heavily. It swung open. “Stu, come on in!”
I stepped into the Martin living room. There were couches one two of the walls and a
series of plush chairs on the third. On
the left side of the room sat the girl’s family—three younger sisters and
austere looking parents. In the chairs
to my right sat the Martin family—Brother and Sister Martin and their son. On the couch on the far wall sat a
pretty, but nervous girl with blue eyes and long blonde hair. She was flanked on either side by what I
immediately deduced were her grandparents, definite progenitors of Brother
Martin, powerful, stocky, and rough.
In the middle of the room, some distance from the fourth
wall, sat a single kitchen chair. It
might as well have had a nameplate reserving it for me. I sat down.
“Sarah, this is Stu. Stu, Sarah,”
Brother Martin said, not without a slight flourish.
“Good to meet you,” I
said as I shook her hand. It was
protocol. I shook hands.
“You too,” she said.
Then there was an awkward silence. I wasn’t sure what the procedure was
here. Preach My Gospel didn't cover
these situations. My sudden impulse was
to ask someone to pray, but I luckily swallowed it.
“So,” I asked,
feigning comfort, which more likely sounded like desperation, “Um, do you do
anything for fun?”
She smiled. “Yeah.
I love tennis and singing. I also
love to read. How about you?”
“Hey, I like to read
too! Have you read anything good
lately?” This was going well.
“I recently just
reread Pride and Prejudice again. It’s
my favorite book.”
“Hey! I read Austen in high school.”
“Oh really? What did you think?” she was excited. This was going really well.
“Wasn’t a big fan,
really,” I said. As the words were
coming out of my mouth I realized I was making a dire mistake. She looked a little affronted, a little
crestfallen, and a little annoyed. I was
a little mortified. I tried to recover.
“Well, um, I mean, it’s just that I don’t understand the way girls think all
that well. I didn’t really get it.”
The smile stayed on Sarah’s face, but her eyes fell
distant. Hushed murmurs of disapproval
wafted from the audience. I had the
distinct feeling that Sarah’s passion for tennis had come from her family. They were quiet spectators quietly watching our
volley. Neither of us was winning.
“So, do you have any pets?”
It wasn’t yet 15 minutes in. I
had absolutely no idea what to ask. She
told me about her pet cat at home, but that she wasn’t a big animal
person. “I love animals.” Crap!
Where’s my filter? The score fell to 30-love, Sarah.
25 minutes in: “Have you ever been to Washington?” I was playing to my strengths with this one.
“D.C.? Or Washington
state?”
“State.”
“I haven’t. I heard it’s pretty, though.”
“Oh man, it’s so
pretty. I seriously miss it really bad.”
“Do you not like Utah
at all?”
“I thought I did
until I went there.” That sinking feeling I get when I say something stupid had
by this time turned into a sort of dull ache.
“Oh. Well I’ll have to try to visit someday.”
There was an awkward
silence.
40 minutes in: “So
what’s your favorite book?”
At our next awkward
silence, I realized in horror that I had been out of anything constructive to
say for over half an hour. I had been
off my mission for 9 days. There wasn’t
a lot of common ground to cover. I
grasped at the small black tag in my pocket, willing for it to strengthen
me. I suddenly got a flash of
inspiration. I was good with kids! I was totally comfortable around kids! I turned to her sister, who couldn't have been
any older than nine.
“And what was your
name?”
“Jessica,” she said,
blushing.
“Jessica, how old are
you?”
“I’m 8.”
“8? So that would put you in 3rd gr. . . “
A grizzled voice cut me off mid-sentence, “Hey, you’re here
to talk to her!” It was Sarah’s grandpa, making a rough gesture in her directions. She was also blushing.
The awkward silence that followed was so intense, my tag started to bend
in my pocket from my grip.
Ten minutes later, out of sheer boredom—it certainly wasn’t
out of mercy—Sister Martin said, “Well, who would like some pie?”
I ate my obligatory pumpkin pie, and stumbled out of the
house. Is it any wonder that eight years
later, I'm still recovering?
"Courage is
being scared to death - but saddling up anyway" -John Wayne
