The missionaries came to my workplace the other day. They had heard through the grapevine that I had roots in
They were pitifully young—just babies, really. All my young life, I had thought of the missionaries as the pinnacle of manhood, full-fledged adults. Once you had completed a mission, nothing fazed you anymore, you could do anything. But the other day talking with them in my cubicle, I realized how young they are—just 19 or 20—barely out of high school. Hardly prepared for what they had been thrust into.
After they left, I told my coworker I felt like I’d been living the last ten years in the witness protection program, always looking over my shoulder for the mob, wondering if this would be the place they’d find me. In a way, I was relieved that they had finally caught up to me, and part of me wondered why it had taken so long. Was I really that easy to let go? I can see how having someone pay attention to you can be a powerful attraction. It’s like that guy everybody knows who hits on every woman he sees and 1 out of 20 responds favorably just because someone—anyone—is paying attention for once, and he’s so persistent, and he’s not that bad looking, it’s easier just to say yes …
Of course there wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to their Christmas party. But it was nice of them to ask, if a bit creepy. I even turned the tables and made a pitch to them, handing them a bunch of my cards to give to their contacts and ward members. If I’m not mistaken, I thought as they left they might have been as relieved as I that our encounter was as brief as it was.
And apropos of nothing in particular, check out these RMs (“returned missionaries”) fully half-naked—it’s the Mormons Exposed pin-up calendar. My wife loves it! (Seriously, she bought one.)