A wooden ring

NOTE: I do not write this post to incite sympathy, because things are pretty darned good. I only write this because I feel it is worth writing about. In fact, it seems a shame not to. So to those people who care about me, don't offer me your condolences, just savor in the irony with me.

NOTE II: I have finished this post and have now reread it. I think it is fairly well written, so I will post it. However, I warn you that it is overly melodramatic (read pathetic). So much so that I was about to delete it. But I hate to let a good post go to waste.


According to universal missionary lore dating back thousands of years, there exists the Law of Wife Points. This law states that for every hardship a missionary endures without complaining, he gains Wife Points. For every long night spent in the cold rain without an umbrella or afternoon spent under the scorching sun walking on the dusty roadside, in a parallel universe a missionary's to-be wife is perfecting the art of brownie baking or is putting in a few extra hours on the treadmill. (This law may be derived from the same eternal truth as the 40 Virgins in Heaven for a Muslim Suicide Bombers Law, but let's pretend it isn't.) It is a beautiful principle, in principle. In practice, we can only see how it works in retrospect.


I lived by this law (among many other laws, of course) for two years of my life. Ah the sweet flavor of Wife Points! Some say that they are the best two years of your life, others say that they are the best two years for your life. I was much more of the "for your life" school of thought because it promised such a bright future, that it only prepared you for better things. Yes, it was a time to accumulate Wife Points, only to cash in once the investment had time to grow.


In my mind, I had everything figured out. As I neared the end of my mission I had accumulated a nice cache of Wife Points. I picked up a few when I was bent over the toilet at the hospital in Chapeco, I caught a few more that leaked in through the silver-dollar-sized holes in the bottoms of my shoes in Ipomeia. I was pretty much set, ready to cash out. And I knew exactly where I was going to invest. My own personal soy, you might say.

Her name was Girl A, who, although she was (is) a real person, was of more an idea than anything. I met her when I was 16 years old and didn't see her again until much later in my life, just before I left for my mission. During that time, I referred to her as Girl A to my friends; she was all that I wanted in a woman. Attractive, spunky, coy, unattainable, etc. I never knew her well enough to know what she was really like, but I knew who she was in my wandering imagination, which is all I ever needed.

During my mission, we corresponded three or four times, which was three or four times more than I corresponded with any other girl not related to me. It may have meant nothing to her, but it meant everything to me. It was as if I were confirming that my wife points were indeed accumulating. Kind of like when you peek in the oven to make sure that the bread is rising - perhaps a perfect analogy, since in both cases the result is a deflated, dissappointing reminder of what could have been.


Ah, Girl A, the idea, the person, either one. As I neared the end of the mission, I purchased two wooden rings, one that was the size of my finger, and one that was whatever size Girl A's finger would be. (I knew that it was cheezy at the time, as I know now, but everything related to love before a couple is 70 years old is cheezy. After 70, it's cute.) I put these rings in a small cardboard box that was to be saved for when the time was right, when I would give the ring to Girl A as a present. Not as an engagement ring, but just as a present, just to make sure that I was being cheezy enough.

Fast-forward a few months, I am in Rexburg thumbing through a set of index cards nervously in one hand, my thumb hovering over the talk button on my cell phone in the other. I will not fill in the details here because they are too painful for a third party to bear, but in sum Girl A never answered my calls again. And so I was left with nothing else to do but wonder about those Wife Points, figuring that all that happened was that this supposed Girl A must not have actually been Tony-caliber. Or that the ring wouln't have fit. Her hands were far too petite and perfect for my wooden ring, I was sure.


And thus Girl A the idea went elsewhere. She went for a short stint somewhere she never belongs, and that is to a girl with a real name, with a real connection to me and to people close to me. Again, just a short stint (I never even sized up her hands to see if the wooden ring would fit) and now she is back where she belongs, far away from me. And apparently just moments away from being engaged, although that is strictly heresay because she is where she belongs, far away from me.

Two days ago I was looking for my W-2 form to do my taxes, and I stumbled across the small cardboard box that has sat unopened for two-and-a-half years. I opened it and looked at the two rings lying there, happily unattached. But carpe diem, I thought. I put on my ring because I wanted to. Because even though my Wife Points had fallen through the cracks, and because even though I found it painfully awkward to talk to girls with any Girl A qualities, and because even though I am carrying 7 or 8 (or so) extra pounds from a few years back, I can wear this ring.

I can put it on and remember everything that Wife Points stand for, that we are rewarded when we do the right thing. I can remember the long days and restful nights in Brazil, and why those two years were the best years of my life. It was like a CTR ring that carried so much more weight, so much more meaning. That's not to say that I was cutting off Girl A, but that I was putting her back where she belonged, far away, farther away than she had ever been before. Maybe far enough away that I could stop caring.

Today at work , a colleague who I am close to (I actually referred her to her job), who is married, who is a member of the Church, saw my ring. She, of course, didn't know what it was or the value I had arbitrarily assigned to it. but she looked at it and laughed at it, in a way that I have not been laughed at since 6th Grade. You're wearing a ring? Nice jewelry! It was painful, silly as that may sound. As I walked away I took it off and put it in my pocket.


It's now back in its cardboard box with Girl A's ring, where it belongs, with the lid closed. I never was able to find my W-2 form.

It is not dead, nor doth it sleep

Who said romance is dead? Not this guy. Now, don't get me wrong here. Although in my own life it is - ummm - dormant, it is alive and well in the streets of NYC. Thank you, St. Valentine. I'd like to shake your hand some day. Maybe even give you a noogie.

For one day, the city changes. While 364 days a year millions of people walk the streets with the phrase "Go f*** yourself" deliberately written across their foreheads, Valentine's Day changes that, somehow. Instead, they walk the street with a stem rose in their hand. Suddenly, the phrase on their foreheads is different, friendly. Something like, "So I'm holding a rose. Go f*** yourself." If that's not romance, then what is?

My roommate flew off to Arizona and then to Las Vegas to spend Valentine's Day with her beau. Romantic? Afraid not. In order for romance to exist, there needs to be some sort of conflict, some sort of gravity. If two passionate lustbirds take a week off of work to go to Vegas and spend a lot of time yowzering each other, there is no conflict, there is no passion. In order for it to be romantic, there needs to be something else, something to make it real. Like if they lost all of their money and had to sleep in a sleeping bag in abandoned construction zones. Otherwise, it would be like sitting on the couch and eating fudge for a week.

Along those lines, there is no romance in the young man and woman who sit on the train and take turns licking each othersl ear lobes, unashamed of their busy, inquisitive hands. Romance inolves self control of sorts, like the couple who sit next to each other with almost no physical contact, but somehow interested in what the other is saying. No licking or nibbling involved, dull as that may sound.

By far the most romantic couple that I saw were two women who obviously had clearly defined masculine and femenine roles to play in their partnership. The woman of the women was doing the nice womanly things like telling the man of the women to tuck in her shirt, not to scratch herself, etc. Basically, telling her not to be a man, which is, of course, ironic given the situation. As they sat there on the train the "man" started to beat box and rap real seductive-like. Much like you'd imagine from Sinatra if he were an egg-shaped hispanic lesbian from the Bronx. And the woman seemed so taken by her, so happy to have found such a lovely masculine woman. It only seemed romantic because they found each other, somehow, probably online.

So romance exists, regardless of what the cynics (read "I") may say. And whether you consider it romantic to do things like waking up at 5:30 in the a.m. to clean the toilet and looking up the optimal viewing distance of a 32-inch LCD screen and rearranging the living room accordingly to accommodate what would be loosely classified as a date - and even more loosely as a Valentine - doesn't matter. What matters more is whether you consider it romantic to get a call at 7:45 at night with an excuse on the other line. I'd like to think it is.

It's made for whom?

We have this intricate set of personal tastes that no one really understands. These tastes dictate our romantic lives, or so we tell ourselves. In reality, they only exist to give girls an excuse to criticize guys they don't like without feeling bad about themselves. I am not so naive (or so gender-biased) as to imply that this only works one way, but I will tell the story from a man's point of view just for the sake of saving awkward gender-sensitive phrases such as, "When a man/woman and a woman/man fall in love/lust, he/she just can't help him/herself to treat his/her honeybuns/stickybuns to a romantic evening under the stars/makeout sessions during the halftime show."

These tastes become so important to girls that they become somewhat of a code, or a set of rules. Of all of these rules (aka excuses), there are essentially only two categories. The first category is "Too much" and the second is "Not enough." I will ask your pardon in advance to the poor grammatical structure that I will use, but often parallel structure is more affective (not effective, in this case) than grammatical accuracy. "He is too much affectionate." "He is not enough compassionate." "He is too much loud." "He is not enough funny." "He is too much stinky." "He is not enough relaxed." The only time that a woman thinks that she is pleased is when a guy is neither "too much" nor "not enough." But those are just excuses. Contrary to what is most comforting to think, we cannot quantify love.

There is no formulaic answer to the already nebulous question of "what is my type?" In my life, I have "fallen in love" (in quotes because I use love in the Hollywood sense and not a true love, which still eludes me) with all types. I have "loved" a girl that was too loud and liked to dress up and throw parties. I have "loved" a girl that was a fireman's daughter. I have "loved" a girl that liked to read fairy tales in the back seat of my Lincoln (and no, that is not a euphemism). I have "loved" a girl that liked to do puzzles until all hours of the morning. And with every one, I was "too much" something and "not enough" something else, which was just a self-preserving way that they had of saying, "I don't like you."

However difficult it may seem for us guys who try to become the right amount of everything, it is a waste of time because girls don't really want what they say they want; they just want a guy that they love. Until they find that guy, they will make up "too much" and "not enough" excuses about why they don't like those would do anything to make them happy. And I guess that is okay.