Some Days I Feel Like This

Irrationally Rational Red Flags

People will tell you a lot of crap over your lifetime. Most of it is myth created by people who want to be nice, and are willing to discard credibility in favor of a cliché. One example of popularly peddled crap is the idea that you can’t judge a book by its cover. Untrue.

If you’ve lived as a single Mormon long enough, you know that you can—and should—judge books by their covers. It’s remarkable how simple attention to detail can let you know your prospective partner is probably a nutcase. If you meet a boy who still parts his hair months after returning from his mission, for example, you’re probably safe in betting that Disney and Anthony Lloyd Webber have informed most of his ideology, and he is therefore highly unlikely to take you to go see the remake of Fright Night (which was excellent, by the way). And the girl who perpetually comments in Sunday School about everything from daily prayer to homosexuality probably won’t laugh at your “That’s What She Said” joke. It’s a handy little tool.

Here’s my list of my top five red flags when it comes to Mormon men.

1. A Cappella Groups Really? Harmonizing with other guys in dapper outfits while snapping your fingers and grinning cheeky grins? It’s not just a gay thing, I promise. It’s more like I don’t want you renting a tandem bicycle and taking me to the soda shop for our first date. If you’re going to sing, please get a guitar and grow an awesome folk beard. Besides, Osama bin Laden was once in an a cappella group. And you know what he went on to do…

2. New Balance Tennis Shoes Whenever men wear these, I feel like they’re 90 percent more likely to have an unhealthy relationship with their mother. Actually, the same goes for pretty much all white tennis shoes worn with non-gym clothes. I’m not sure why.

3. Economics Nuts I banned these guys pretty early on in my BYU career. Fanatical lovers of free market capitalism just don’t tend to be very nice people—and I could never be with a man who’s still bitter about the scholarship he wasn’t eligible for because he was a white, middle-class male.

4. Band Frontmen This one is teetering pretty close the edge of who I am attracted to, so I have to be careful. I love creative men—sometimes to the point of fatal attraction, unfortunately. But it’s a double-edge sword. Men with bands (and bands they promote heavily) are also a lot more likely to be massive tools. You’re probably not going to get a record deal, so can we all take a step back and stop taking ourselves so seriously? Please? Please?

5. “Forever Strong” Fans I know this is an extremely narrow category, but I feel very strongly about it. I loathe this movie. It’s clichéd feel-goodery at its worst, and a thin guise for promoting the kind of LDS snobbery I wish we could get rid of. And trust me, I’m not just cynical. Richard Curtis is my hero.

Of course, judging books by covers goes both ways, and there are a lot of random qualities that make me say “Caitlin, you’re going to fancy this one.” I might list those on my next post. We’ll see.

What about you? What are your red flags? Leave a comment, I’d love to know!

Mormon Fashionistas

One of the most daunting aspects of being in a singles’ ward is knowing how to dress on Sundays.

It took me a couple of years to catch onto this one. While everyone else was backcombing their hair into mountains and layering like there was no tomorrow, I was still wearing the pink skirts and bizarre sequined sandals I did when I was a MiaMaid. It was a shameful time. Luckily, I’ve become a bit more educated since then.

You see, when you’re a single Mormon girl, one of your cultural responsibilities is to look impeccable every Sunday morning. You can sort of see it as an investment—all of that cash you put into the perfect pair of heels will eventually land you three or four nice dinners courtesy of an interested Mormon boy. Pleasant little payback.

But that’s just the surface idea. The real dirty underbelly of Sabbath Day fashion—the secret that no one will tell you—is that girls dress up for other girls. What may have started as a bid to impress men eventually morphed into a vicious war of social inclusion, where timid girls tremble over the right cardigan combination just to avoid the shame of sitting next to Gucci-loving Greta while wearing last year’s denim skirt.

It’s passive-aggressive behavior at its best, and while everyone’s welcome at church, you’ve got to dress right to be a true member of the club. Here’s an intimate (if a little exaggerated) look at my typical Sunday morning melt-down:

9:00 AM Wake up. Sulk in bed while staring across room at open closet. Go back to sleep and hope to revive dream of going out with James McAvoy.

9:09 AM Wake up for real this time. Take shower and put on unfortunate-looking pink fluffy robe.

9:30 AM Stare at closet listlessly. Decide to leave robe on to delay moment of choice making. Do makeup and hair instead.

10:00 AM I hate my hair. Why does it think it’s hilarious to freak out on Sundays? Every other day of the week, it lays perfectly flat and does what I ask. Does it have a conference Saturday night while I’m asleep and decide it would be a good idea to hover in frizzy patches at least an inch above my scalp?

10:05 AM Subdue hair uprising with discount hairspray and return to room.

10:06 AM Stare at closet again. Retreat to dresser, where I know picking out a slip won’t be an issue.

10:07 AM Take out slip. Stare guiltily at cute gray tights I bought a year-and-a-half ago and haven’t worn. It’s not my fault. I just don’t have the right outfit for them yet. Think briefly of my dark blue skirt, and then remember that it’s actually gray. Briefly contemplate whether or not I’m colorblind, and then decide that I’m not. The problem is probably just in the same category as my inability to distinguish red-headed men from men with light brown hair. Waste several more minutes trying to decide if it’s possible for a red-haired man to be attractive.

10: 20 AM Return to closet.

10:35 AM I’m definitely going to be late now. In a rage, I rip down a flowered sun dress and then select a random tank top, cardigan and shoe combination I hope is alright. Not daring, but maybe it’s enough layers to get away with looking like I put some thought into it.

When I get to church is when the real melt-down begins.

11:00 AM Smile pleasantly at everyone and sit down, waiting for the meeting to begin while I chat with friends. Glance surreptitiously around the room at the other girls. Begin to feel vaguely panicky about own outfit choice.

11:15 AM Someone offers a comment in Sunday School. Listen for the first five seconds, and then realize I like her headband. Wonder if my hair is too short to wear headbands. Stare at the rest of her outfit jealously.

11:18 AM Realize I haven’t listened to a word of her comment, while everyone around me is nodding their heads in appreciation. Hope my psychotic staring made me look like an interested Sunday School student and not a lesbian. Refocus efforts to pay attention to the actual point of being at church.

11:30 AM After Sunday School, go to take a bathroom break and then realize I can’t fit around the group of girls surrounding the five mirrors on the wall. Self-consciousness gets resurrected. If these girls are fixing their perfectly applied makeup, what do I look like? Lock myself into the stall and calm down. When I go to wash my hands, I keep my head down so I don’t have to see the way my eyeliner is probably smudging onto my lower lid.

12:30 PM Through impressive mental efforts, manage to ignore Relief Society teacher’s perfect curls and interesting earrings and pay attention to lesson. Feeling good.

12:31 PM See gaggle of girls outside chapel doors. Go to investigate.

12:33 PM After squeezing by fancy skirts and lethal-looking heels, I find one of the popular boys in the ward telling an entertaining story. He’s wearing a brown belt and black shoes, but no one cares because he’s otherwise funny and charming. Ball my hands into fists and walk away, mentally cursing men who only have to worry about not wearing a Tasmanian Devil tie to church on Sundays.