when you know, you know. ya know? part 2

“Yeah, sure. I can do that.” I replied.
“He’ll be coming home from his mission soon and heading to school there too.” Pres. Mask noted.

Oh, that’s it. I thought. I bet he’s telling all the missionaries to befriend his son so he won’t be lonely. I’m not much of a social butterfly, but yeah, I can definitely say hi if I happen to see him across campus. No problem.

A week later, I was home. A week later, his son left Buenos Aires and arrived in Barcelona.

The world at home was strange. Or I was strange. My clothes were out of style. My hair was out of style. I mean bangs? Who in their right mind still had bangs? Oh wait. I did. I guess I needed to get a new look, get a new wardrobe, get a new identity or something. It all seemed so overwhelming.

During the days, I spent time with my sister trying to get in style and catch up on trends and movies I had missed. And at nights, I spent time thinking how I didn’t care much about those things but rather the people I missed in Spain. On more than one occasion, I found myself lying in bed glancing over at a paper hanging on my bedroom wall. While I was gone, my mom had hung it right next to the big mission countdown sticker thingamabob. On the paper was a picture of Pres. & Sister Mask with a short bio and photo of their entire family. Looking at it gave me some comfort in my homesickness for the missionary me.  

But life had to move forward, and so did I. I moved back down to school with great anticipation for the unknown awaiting me. Settling in to a new normal wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was actually fun to scope out the single scene, bat my eyes, and get a date here and there. Yet somehow this dating had a bit more meaning than it had in the past. There was a “testing the waters” feeling that permeated conversations—a no nonsense, no time to waste feeling. And way in the back of my thoughts was that little no doubts criteria that always inevitably crept in.

Entering the scene was a guy who I’ll call Home Teacher. And yes that’s exactly what he was—my Home Teacher. Now most normal people know to never, ever get involved when you’ve got church relationships on the line. Believe me, I didn’t really want to get involved with him. He wasn’t my type at all—a tall, blond basketball player. Nope. Blond was never my thing. Give me dark and handsome and I’ll swoon any day. But he was persistent. Boy was he ever persistent. And I gave in.

Before I knew it I was knee deep in this thing called love. Somehow it just never felt like love, to me at least. It was like trying to dance the waltz in hiking boots. But he kept telling me it could work, so I kept stumbling and hoping someone else would cut in. I had visions of Mr. Knightley coming to knock some sense into me and sweep me away. No such luck.

I started to entertain the idea that you could marry someone even if you didn’t really love them and eventually you’d grow into love.  Maybe I just need to accept this, I thought. Maybe this is the plan for me. He’s good. He’s kind. No. No. It couldn’t be. Marriage is a grand reward for kindness.

The year 2000 rang in somewhat bittersweet. I was hoping for some kind of firework romance but it was a quickly fizzling dud. Surely the new year had to bring some sort of change, right? I attempted to tell Home Teacher that this waltz was all too wrong for me. He played deaf. And kept bringing me different shoes to try on.

I realized the only way to make change happen was to become available. Home Teacher wasn’t happy about this. I was. But how exactly does one make herself appear available? Fish net tights and boots aren’t my thing. Feeling a bit hopeless, I tried to distance myself.  

Then one afternoon while checking email, I glanced at an interesting subject line—A Dia de Los Reyes Fiesta! I opened it with excitement to find out about a Spain Barcelona mission reunion the following week. This is it! I rejoiced, An entire room full of guys to check out. I had a plan. I would leave the party with a date invitation. Oh yes, I would.

Preparing carefully for the party, I picked out my best cute girl clothes—a navy sweater borrowed from my roommate, slick grey pants, and a hint of my favorite perfume. I arrived with my game on. It seemed like the perfect strategic opportunity. Only one itty bitty problem: Home Teacher had followed me.  

stay tuned…