I bought six indestructible polyester dresses, two pairs of sensible shoes, new scriptures, and every other item on the missionary shopping list.
And a pile of brand-new bras—I had gone up yet another cup size. The size was hard to find, so I had to be well supplied.
The Lord provides. Sometimes in bulk.

Next on my list: go through the temple.

According to the instruction pamphlet, I was to visit the local Mormon R Us—more formally known as the Distribution Center—to purchase a white dress, a sealed packet of costume pieces I was not allowed to inspect, and some fresh new knee-length underwear with a matching chemise.

I was also instructed to invite at least one, preferably two, temple-recommend-holding girlfriends to accompany me on the “big day.”

In Mormonism, the temple is the finish line. From the moment you’re old enough to grip a crayon in Primary, you’re told to prepare for the temple. It’s where you finally learn the Very Important Things that unlock the Celestial Kingdom, which is basically the whole point of your existence.

So naturally, with all that buildup, I had expectations.

It was supposed to be life-altering.
It was supposed to make everything make sense.
This was the moment the confusing bits of Mormonism would finally be explained by the giant booming voice of our invisible Sky Daddy.

It is a big deal. Not just anyone can wander in. You need a temple “Recommend” from your bishop, which you can only obtain after convincing him you’re following all the rules.
And you need a looming social obligation.

Trust me—I had tried to go before. My Patriarchal Blessing told me to. Apparently, divine destiny still requires scheduling.

Most women don’t go through the temple until their wedding day, when their entire family is present, thousands of dollars have already been spent, and the promise of sanctioned sex is doing a lot of heavy motivational lifting.
I was allowed in because I was going on a mission.

I prepared as much as one can, considering no one will tell you anything about what actually happens inside.

Warning:
The following section contains stuff that happens in the temple. As they like to say, it’s not “secret,” it’s “sacred.”
And since nothing is sacred in this collection of stories, I’m telling you everything.
If you’re worried about eternal consequences, maybe skip ahead to where I regain feeling in my face.

First up: the Washing and Anointing—a ritual I hear they’ve since updated. Probably after too many people like me tried to claw their way out through the ventilation ducts.

Back then, I was instructed to remove all my clothes and put on an oversized white poncho that gaped open at the sides. I tried to preserve my eternally significant modesty while being escorted into a tiny curtained room with two withered old women.

They recited memorized lines and proceeded to “wash” and “anoint” me, which involved reaching under the poncho and dabbing my bare skin with water and oil. These women were performing a priesthood ritual—despite women not being allowed to hold the priesthood—because apparently inside the temple, doctrine gets quietly defenestrated.

While I sat there—nearly naked, confused, and horrified—one of their cold, gnarled hands brushed my muff.
My small, forbidden, never-to-be-touched, don’t-even-think-about-it growth of hair.
The bad area my mother warned me about.
The one I was sure could summon immediate divine wrath.

I am honestly shocked I survived the shock.

There was zero acknowledgment of what was definitely a mortal sin. I was now ruined.
Unless… maybe it didn’t count in here?

Again: doctrine, discarded, out on the lawn, in a pile of broken glass.

Afterward, they eased me into my new magical underwear—the Holy Temple Panty Set. Modest. Practical. And engineered to ensure no one, including yourself, ever feels sexy again.

For non-Mormons: this is the magical underwear you’ve heard about. After you go through the temple the first time, you are expected to wear these garments under your clothes every day for the rest of your mortal life—except for swimming, sex, and, inexplicably, working at the Polynesian Cultural Center.

Then I was given my new name: Dinah. Conveniently easy to remember. Which is good, because you’re expected to remember it forever. You’re just not allowed to tell anyone—except your husband—so he can call you to himself in heaven like a celestial dog whistle.

Oops.

Meh. It doesn’t matter. I won’t be acquiring a Celestial Baby Daddy anytime soon.

They shuffled us into a small assembly hall—men on one side, women on the other. Segregation: still alive and well.
Then came the main instruction, which began with my promising to accept everything they were about to tell me before they told me any of it.

I was flanked by Cami and a woman from my neighborhood who had been assigned to support me. They made sure I brought witnesses.
Not manipulative at all.

Though, to be fair, not as manipulative as it used to be. Apparently, they once required you to vow to disembowel yourself before telling anyone about any of this. Progress is real, and it deserves credit.

We watched a poorly scripted video explaining how Adam and Eve were taught the exact same rituals we were now performing. Periodically, they stopped the film so we could put on a new costume piece—a robe, a fig-leaf-style apron, a veil. Then they demonstrated a secret handshake and hand signal. Then the movie resumed.

It was like a spiritual escape room, except no one was trying to leave.

There was awkward choreography. A light amount of group chanting. And finally, the most significant secret handshake of all, followed by a strange coded message whispered to the man behind the curtain pretending to be God.

If you’re familiar with Masonic rituals, yes—it’s a carbon copy. Joseph Smith was not subtle.

And then… we were done.
That was it.

The Pretend God Man pulled the curtain aside and ushered us into the “Celestial Room,” which represents the highest degree of glory—eternity with God.

It featured wall-to-wall white carpet.

No one’s idea of heaven.

This was supposed to be the moment where everything clicked. Where enlightenment descended. Where the heavens parted and said, Ah yes. This is the truth.

Spoiler: nothing happened.

No revelation.
No peace.
No clarity.

Just me, sitting there in my ridiculous costume, waiting for the divine download to buffer.

Nothing.
And I had let that old lady touch my naked body for this?

First a broken Jesus Jacuzzi.
Now cursed Kabuki theater.

Naturally, I assumed the problem was me.

At least this time, I remembered to bring the proper—if deeply unattractive—undergarments.

Next on the list—oh boy, was the room spinning a little—I had to put in my notice at work.
Then I invited all my friends to my mission “farewell.” I believe there was also an announcement in the local paper. Subtle.

On the last Sunday before I left, I was invited to address the entire congregation in what they call Sacrament Meeting. (There is no wine and wafers for the Momos—just water and Wonder Bread. Worst snack ever.)

For my Farewell, I was to give a fifteen-to-twenty-minute talk sharing my testimony of the gospel and my excitement to serve.

It was a good thing I wrote my speech the week before.

Everyone showed. Friends. Relatives. People I did not know existed. Even Alan and Dad dug up old, dusty suits and sat in the very back row—strategically placed for rapid evacuation—to show their support.

And I delivered an unforgivable speech about putting The Church™ ahead of your family.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

It was inspirational.

I was hugged and congratulated and handed envelopes of cash to help fund my mission. It was touching. Though I was still deeply annoyed that there were members of the Bellows family living just up the road my entire life who had never bothered to introduce themselves until there was a public event and a donation opportunity.

Alan and Dad left nothing but rubber and dust in the church parking lot.

I’M SORRY.
I’LL GET BETTER.