The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance: A Memoir (18 page)

Amber flew back in her chair. I looked down at my empty hand, my mouth wide open with surprise.

“What in the heck . . .”
Amber began.

Everyone started laughing.

“I’m so sorry.” I didn’t quite know how to explain myself. “I thought you were asking for a tangerine,” I managed.

“Yes,” Julia agreed. “She was definitely asking for it.”

 

After this fateful FHE, I was more determined than ever to win Brady.

I bought every manual ever written on landing a man, and I started reading them:
Mr. Right, Right Now!
,
Why Men Love Bitches
, and
Sex and the Single Girl
(which is totally pointless if you’re Mormon).

And then I found
The Fascinating Girl
, a book my grandparents had given my mother in the seventies. “To our own fascinating girl,” the dedication read. “Christmas 1972, Love, Mom and Dad.” I read the pearly white book cover to cover. It was all about getting a man by reverting to the 1920s style of being submissive. There was an entire chapter called “Unlearning Your Efficiency,” and another one on Angela Human. Half human, half domestic goddess, she was the ideal woman from a man’s point of view. My favorite chapter, “How to Make the Most of a Picnic
,
” encouraged the reader to “not just sit there” but to explore the path and get into predicament after predicament—allowing the man to assist her with his strength and cunning. When I finished the book I thought,
This can’t possibly work.

I decided to practice on Brady. “Compliment his masculinity: A man’s most central need . . . is to be admired for his masculine traits—his strength, aggressiveness, idealism, manly courage and determination. Admire him by using words like: big, tough, brute, invincible and indominatable.”

When I passed Brady in the hallway at church the following Sunday, I said, “You look strong and bearlike today.” He beamed.
This has to be joke
, I thought.

It was the gateway drug. Once I realized that the methods—while seemingly outdated—worked, I shamelessly started using them.

I waited for FHE to make my second attempt.

Timorousness: “
You can practice timorousness around men by first unconsciously performing some task, then when you realize that the man is noticing you, suddenly become self-conscious and confused.”

I walked over to Brady and began, “Your tie is crooked; can I fix it?”

“Sure,” he said.

Holding onto the knot, I delicately tugged at the base of the tie. Then I stopped suddenly, and held Brady’s gaze.
I’m so hot for you,
my eyes said.
Oh, dear.
I looked down at the floor.
Now I’m shy.

It left him speechless.

But this was nothing compared to the finale—the icing on the cake—“The Beauty in Distress Method.” Similar to “Making the Most of a Picnic,” this chapter explained that every man wants to be your hero, so you should create situations where you are a beauty in distress so the man can save you.

I was passing Brady in the hallway after a church activity. The usual flock of girls, Amber Cunningham included, surrounded him.

“I’m organizing a soup kitchen,” I heard Amber say.

That’s when the idea came to me:
beauty in distress
.

In one swift movement I emptied my purse upside down so that all the contents spilled out. As I did this I let out an “Oh, no!” and pretended to trip. It was more realistic than I expected. I forgot that my iPod was in my purse and, as it smacked against the floor and cracked, the “Oh, no!” that came out of my mouth was completely genuine.

Amber and a few of the other women started to laugh at me. When Brady didn’t react, I started second-guessing myself.
I’m not a beauty in distress.
I crawled to my knees and started collecting my stuff.
I’m a scattered, pathetic fraud
. The laughter stopped. I looked up. Brady was towering over me.

“Don’t worry, babe,” he said in a firm voice, “I got you.”

He put both of his hands on my elbows and lifted me off the ground. As he did this I caught a glimpse of Amber’s face.
I know exactly what I’m doing
, I thought, as clearly as if it were written on a scoreboard above her head.
I’m slaughtering you.

When Brady finally made his first move a week later, it was as though all of us Mormon women were standing against the wall holding our breath. And then it happened. He picked me.
He chose me
.

I did something I’d never done before. I turned around, and in a look I said to all those women—Kelsey, Jamie, Ashley, Eliza, and Amber Cunningham:
I WIN.
Or
Fuck you.

 

The night of our date involved two hours of prep work: I exfoliated, I moisturized, I had the hair, the makeup, the shoes . . . and then I put on my grandmother’s sacred dress.

And suddenly there I was on my dream date, sitting across from Brady in the candlelight. We were in the middle of a conversation about Brady being the captain of the BYU rugby team, when he stopped and looked at me.

“Let me guess,” he said knowingly. “You were a cheerleader in high school.”

No,
I thought,
I weighed two hundred fifty pounds in high school
. Only I didn’t say this. Instead, I took the pretty point, made spirit fingers, and yelled, “Gooooooooo Cougars!”

I could see by Brady’s face that he thought it was adorable. I wasn’t lying, I was insinuating. I got this technique from the book. If I wanted to make a relationship with Brady work, I didn’t have to flat-out lie—all I had to do was pick up on what he wanted and pretend that this was me.

“Did you serve a mission?” Brady asked me.

I waited for him to tell me what he wanted to hear.

“Or were you more interested in starting a family?”

“Exactly.” I smiled. “I just never met the right man . . . one who loves God and his family,” I quoted directly from
The Fascinating Girl.

Our date continued to go well. I’d looked up
masculinity
in the thesaurus before arriving. We were two-thirds of the way through our meal and I’d already used every word.

“I have to use to ladies’ room.” I excused myself. “Will you watch my purse?”

 

I was walking down a dimly lit corridor in an attempt to find the bathroom when I noticed a thin blond woman walking toward me. We looked each other up and down and at the same time we both did the nod. As we got closer, I guess I expected her to move. When she didn’t, I thought,
She’s kind of a bitch.
So whatever, I’m the bigger person, so I moved to the right. But she went right. So I moved left, but she went left. Finally I stepped straight ahead only to realize I was ten inches away from smacking into a full-length mirror. I looked at myself. Gaunt, with hollow-looking eyes. You don’t realize that the little things you’ve been doing will add up or think that you’re capable of behaving like anyone but you, until you’ve done it, every day, for a long enough period of time.
Oh my goodness,
my jaw dropped open,
I’m the blond bitch!

 

I did the only thing I could: I put this information in a locked vault in my brain, and decided to forget it.

 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Brady said as I approached our table.

“I have low blood sugar,” I answered.

“Well then, we should go somewhere and get dessert.”

Dessert? I don’t eat dessert!
Fifteen months of counting calories and I’d almost forgotten the word. But I didn’t want the date to end, which is why I said, “Dessert sounds lovely.” Technically not a lie.

As Brady led me toward Union Square, my mind was racing.
If we get brownies, that’s 450 calories, and cheesecake is like 600.
Just then I saw it: fluorescent white, with pink and royal blue lettering, a beacon of light, a godsend, a Tasti D-lite. Fake frozen yogurt, no fat.

“We could go there?” I offered. “I hear it’s good.” I ate there every other day.

Brady pushed the glass door open and escorted me inside. “What do you recommend?”

“Well there are only three flavors,” I answered, “chocolate, vanilla, and something I refer to as gray.”

He ordered two vanilla-chocolate swirls, walked over to a table, and pulled out my chair for me.

“What do you think?” I asked as Brady finished his first bite.

“I guess I don’t understand why women like this place so much,” he answered. “It’s not as good as regular ice cream.”

“Well,” I began—with authority (there are only a few topics I can legitimately call myself an expert on and this unfortunately is one of them). “It’s probably because Tasti D has forty calories and no fat, whereas ice cream has two hundred fifty to three hundred calories plus twenty-eight percent of your daily fat.”

“This is going to sound mean,” Brady confided in me, “but I just
cannot tolerate
fat people.”

I almost choked on my fro-yo.

“I mean it’s so obvious,” he continued. “Just diet and eat right. Don’t come crying to me—if you’re fat it’s your own fault.”

WHAT?
I thought.
Why did he have to say that??
And also that word:
tolerate
. A person can not tolerate lactose, but they can tolerate someone who is fat.

I wanted to stand up and yell, but I remembered the advice in
The Fascinating Girl
: “Never try to change a man, gentle prodding is the way.”

So I said, “I think it’s hard for fat people because their challenge in life is visual. And they can’t just ride by on good looks, instead they have to develop personalities. So I think in general, fat people are very nice. Not that I know anything about it.”

He looked at me. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “They’re either nice or they’re just bitter.”

 

I didn’t kiss him good night; I didn’t even kiss him on the cheek. I left the date early, walked into my apartment, kicked off my shoes, and threw down my purse. As I did this I caught a glimpse of the
sacred dress
in the mirror. I was everything I’d dreamed of but I didn’t feel proud. I felt like Amber Cunningham. That’s when I realized, what made my grandmother beautiful in that dress wasn’t her looks, it was her.

The Man of My Dreams Is an Atheist

I met Matt shortly after my disastrous date with Brady, in the spring of 2005. I’d been accepted into the page program at the
Late Show with Dave Letterman
and I was working the day that we met.

While my father got to brag about his “daughter who lived in the big city and worked for
the
David Letterman,” it wasn’t glamorous. I was an adult cheerleader. My job was to mingle with audience members and pep them up before the show. I’d interrupt people and begin, “How’s everyone doing today?” If they didn’t answer enthusiastically I was supposed to shake my head with disapproval, hold my hand to my ear, and say, “You’re about to see David Letterman.
Now
how are you doing?” It was “You and your family want to be left alone, but I’m an actor and I need attention,” take two.

And then one day, a totally normal Tuesday, I was scanning the line looking for a person to “pump up,” when I saw a man standing by himself reading a book. I say that as if “a man standing by himself reading a book” is intriguing. In and of itself, it’s not. If he were a bald man, or a short man, or an elderly man, I would never have noticed him. But this man was handsome: tall, light brown hair, medium build, and when I think about my first impression of him I can honestly use the line I’ve always wanted to use: “There was just something about him.”

For starters, he didn’t look up from his book once, nor did he let the pace of the line or the pushy tourists draw him from his focus. And it wasn’t just that, as he read he would smile or laugh at different lines. You knew what was happening in the book just by watching him.

I spied on him for at least a minute before I made my approach. I nearly chickened out, too, but I figured if he found me intrusive, I could always pretend it was my job to interrupt people, because it was. I walked over to him. When he didn’t notice me, I made a scuffing noise with my shoe. When that didn’t work, I cleared my throat, leaned over his shoulder, and said, “I see people reading that book on the subway all the time. Is it good?” This was a lie. I’d never seen the book before in my life.

He looked up, and I guess I knew right then that I loved his eyes, the hazel color of them and the way they looked at me with a certain thoughtfulness. I also knew that I wanted him to look at me much longer than any three-minute “peppy” conversation would ever allow for. But that’s all we got. A three-minute conversation about books before we were interrupted.

“Tickets and IDs,” a page called out.

I looked up.
Crap,
we were at the front of the line.

“Will I see you inside?” he asked me.

“Probably not,” I said.

“Well, it was nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” I wanted to say something else like,
Meet me after the show so that we can talk more,
or,
I already like you so much that I suspect some day I’ll write a book about you.

Instead, I backed away from the line. “Enjoy the rest of your book,” I called out.

“I will.” He held it up and waved good-bye.

This would’ve been the extent of our exchange, were it not for what happened next. As I watched him walk into the lobby, following the back of his coat with my eyes, I heard a voice.
That is who you are going to be with,
it said. Nothing like this had ever happened to me.
Him?
I freaked out.
I don’t know anything about him! For all I know he’s married and lives in Milwaukee.

Go after him. Go. Now,
the voice insisted.

And so I did. I pushed open the side door and ran into the lobby. Standing on tiptoe, I scanned the crowd. Over three hundred audience members were waiting in a long maze. He was nowhere to be seen.
NO!
I weighed my options. I could climb under the red ropes, push through the crowd, and then say, “Fancy running into you here,” after knocking ten people over to get to him.