After an adequate healing period, I feel it is finally time for the following episode to be shared with the world.
When you go to BYU, dating is part of the curriculum. I once even had a classmate use as an excuse for not doing his assignment the fact that he "was having a first kiss on a second date." It should probably be said that he wore crocodile boots and I detested his guts, but still you get the point--we date a lot here.
Because dating is such an integral part of a BYU education, I have decided to present you with a little test question:
Which of the following elements does not belong with the others?
e) food fight
g) all of the above can be combined to make something romantic and adventurous
If you guessed F, you are correct! If you guessed G, you are either crazy or you are the zoobie who punked me.
Sometimes at BYU people think it's ok to ask strangers out. In my opinion this is never acceptable, unless the stranger happens to be Justin Bieber or something of the sort.
One fateful day, however, on a cold walk home from campus, I was startled by a non-bieber stranger who came up beside me with a chipper, "hey, how's your day goin??" Surprised, I responded and we began to converse. He told me he was thinking of going into advertising, so naturally I got all excited and began telling him the ins and outs of the program. Alas he mistook my enthusiasm for interest and cleverly came back with, "well, maybe we could go on a date and talk about it then?"
What else could I say?
Let it be known that this boy is a totally nice, clean-cut, i'm sure upstanding citizen who will find a great wife someday. I'm just not sure it will be me.
The day of our date (which happened to be April 1st) I received a text from him that said, "Hey, we're going to do some messy stuff tonight, is that ok?"
Messy stuff? Is that a euphemism? Trying to appear cool and low-maintenance, I responded saying I didn't mind getting dirty (not a euphemism) and made some joke about us having a food fight, to which he responded that a food fight would be an accurate mess-level for me to dress for.
Dread! Dread! Fear! Desperate search for excuse!
When we arrived at his apartment it was him, his brother, his sister, and both of their significant others. All five grew up in the same small town in Canada and all five did not laugh at Rebbie's jokes. Likewise, Rebbie did not laugh at theirs.
The first activity was not a food fight but actually its evil step-cousin, the eating contest. The food to be eaten? Spaghetti and ribs, washed down with chocolate milk (common meal in Canadia I presume??) It went like this: The boys went first. They had to sit down at the table and lift their arms up, while the girls reached underneath and shoveled food into their cake holes. Nothing quite like a man with spaghetti slodged all over his face. When it came time for the girls to pig out, I employed acting skills I didn't know I possessed.
I sat down at the table. I lifted my arms. I succumbed to the spaghetti. But after a few bites I felt ill. How do those asians on Coney Island do it? Oh my good heavens!!! For fear of losing my spaghetti, I began to chew politely, much to my competitive date's dismay. I looked up through pasta debris flying through the air. I saw his sister sitting opposite me, her face, hair and ears covered in spaghetti, laughing. At this point I knew I could never make him happy.
After we cleaned things up, he pushed out the table and rolled a giant piece of white contact paper out on the kitchen floor. He retrieved what can only be termed vats of different colored pudding from the fridge. Red, yellow, green, blue. He proceeded to splat dollops of colored pudding on what had now become a twister board. A pudding twister board.
Put your right hand in the yellow pudding!
Put your left foot in the red pudding!
Pudding sludged through our digits and around the paper until eventually it all mixed together to coat the paper in a nondescript greyish paste. Alas, I failed out of the game pretty quickly and watched the remainder from the sidelines. After the men were thoroughly sweaty, red-faced and covered in pudding, the game ended. (I am so sorry I'm still writing this post. I am so sorry if you are still reading it. But the truth must be told.) Wouldn't you know it, that darned Canadian zoobie stood up and yelled, "PUDDING FIGHT!!"
I stood with my arms in the air and let that stranger slather me in pudding. Really, what else could I do? Covering my face, coating my love handles, down the back of my shirt. Pudding.
I left that night feeling like an awful, high maintenance word that rhymes with witch. I have not seen this individual since the incident and looking back now, halfway wonder if it was real life. The fact that it occurred on April 1st has caused many to speculate the nature of his intentions. Did I get fooled? Most definitely. But was it on purpose? He just seemed way too nice (albeit confused) for that to be the case. In keeping with the curriculum, I've decided to give him an A+ for creativity, messiness and innovative means for breaking the touch barrier. As far as other date categories go, I believe I should keep those grades to myself. As thankful as I am to my Alma Mater for such a well-rounded education, I am even more thankful to have left it.