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.
His Shop
3 years ago
