A white dude in a Y hat or a whiff of mint brownies and I am transported back to the most insecure years of my life. I merely mean to use them as the metaphorical first couple of Mormonism, who exemplify the bar I strove fruitlessly for while attending Brigham Young University.
Let me paint the picture —. We finally make it to the entrance and are greeted by five handsome twenty-something boys collecting canned goods to donate to the countries where they served their missions. As I hand a can of refried beans to one of them, my price of entry, our eyes lock and the world stops. Clean-cut, classically handsome, with a twinkle in his eye and a million dollar smile — I know who this boy is, for I have seen his face on posters at the Wilk.
In an instant, I envision our future. He will ask me out, we will date for a long time like 6 months, get married, then go away for his internship at McKinsey. I marvel at what a catch he must be to not only be so socially active, but use his social aspirations for charity! It dawns on me that this is the reason you come to BYU, because it may be the only place on earth where this type of boy exists.
I dance the night away to clean versions of rap songs, leaving sweaty and having met no one. Sensing its futility, I attempt to bury my Kyler crush, but instead it festers into a full-blown complex: my destiny at BYU is to become Ann enough to land myself a Mitt. There was just one problem with this plan: I am not Ann. By this, I mean I am not poised or sweet and do not own pearls—not even fake ones. And yet, despite many clear signs I was not, nor was ever going to really be Ann, something told me that when it came to dating, I had to at least fake it.
I had to have well-cared-for blond hair. I had to be neat and smiley. I should maybe consider switching to broadcast journalism? I made myself miserable trying to develop an Ann alter-ego, convinced it was somehow my birthright to marry a boy who was at that moment giving a presentation in the Tanner Building.
