the way the cookie crumbled

When I was a self-expressed 4 year old, Heather was my best friend. Being two of the few younger kids on the block, we played together all of the time. We read our favorite books, created art projects, and in the long summer months played outdoor games, shared lunches and explored the deep, deep gardens in the park-like backyard of her Grandma Peterson's house. Heather made me laugh, and with long blond hair, was pretty cute, to boot.

When February rolled around I asked my mom "what do you give your friends for Valentines Day?" Under her supervision we made sugar cookies and with friendly confidence I walked the plateful of heart shaped tokens, all by myself, across the street. Heather's uncle Gene answered the door.

"Are those for me?" he inquired. "Well, I suppose you could have some if Heather wants to share," I replied. "Oh," he continued, "they're for your GIRLFRIEND" he teased. "Well, no, I made them for Heather," I stammered back. "Well," he said, peering down from four feet above, "she's a GIRL isn't she?" "Yes," I agreed. "And she's your FRIEND, right? So that makes her your GIRLFRIEND!" Before I could process his logic he called out, "Heather, your BOYFRIEND is here! He has valentines for you! Maybe if you're lucky you'll get a kiss with those cookies!"

Like a deer in the headlights, first I was stunned, and then I bolted back across the road to safety. And like the crumbly cookies, I think I left my fragile heart behind. It occurs to me now, 30+ years later, when it comes to showing affection for someone first, I've never dared to cross the street again.

crashing through walls

Attending a family ward as a single male has its challenges. Over the years I've come to the conclusion that the first 10 minutes of Relief Society must be dedicated to a brain-storming session focused on my singleness and who these soul sisters could fix me up with in order to make me whole and complete. No matter what you call the process, whenever I am hit up for a line up, it usually ends up feeling like a "set-up."

I've been tapped on the shoulder from two pews behind, stopped on my way to the bathroom, and again on the way out. I've been blocked at the drinking fountain, cornered in the gym, backed up against the carpeted hallway walls, flagged down in the parking lot and followed home. One particular Sunday, after a series of such encounters, I'm afraid my reservoir of polite responses had run dry.

When the fifth clairvoyant matchmaker approached me in the overflow and offered up the contact information on the "perfect girl for me," I think I snapped. Glancing at the handwritten note placed in my hand, I said something flippant like: "Isn't that strange? Just today FOUR other people have told me they also know this person, but she seems to go by a lot of different names, and has completely different phone numbers. With all of these aliases, do you think she could be some kind of felon?"

Again, not my most gracious moment.

Recently I had an epiphany around blind dates. After years of trying to decipher who I am being that people mentally link me with girls who have pink hair, run personal cat sanctuaries or are grandmothers of eight...it occurred to me, with the help of friend, that people keep setting me up with "nice single girls" because all they know about me is that I am a "nice single guy," and so that is all they have to go on in order to connect the dots between us.

While it is a challenge for me, I now realize that I need to be more open with people. I need to share my real self with those around me if I ever hope to share my whole self with a help meet. Who knows how/when/why I constructed the cliched emotional walls, and carry a fear of intimacy, relationships and commitment. But, with the aid of my army of yentas, maybe we can figure it out.