I threw out all the old, overused, yellow armpit-stained polyester missionary wardrobe and started trying to put my closet—and my life—back together.

About a week after I got home, I was out shopping with Mom. We went to a Sally’s to get supplies for the beauty shop – mom was still working at Grandma’s, and there was Deb—my old boss—working at a different location. She nearly vaulted the counter to hug me.

The manager of that store had died suddenly. She was in her forties and had a heart attack associated with the flu. How crazy is that? The store had already been understaffed, they were desperate for help, and would I please take a job there?

That store was open Sundays, so I agreed on one condition: I would not work on the Lord’s Day.
At that point, obedience felt like the last structural beam holding me upright. Pull it out too fast and I was pretty sure the whole thing would collapse—and I’d be buried under yellowing garments and guilt.

I promised to stay long enough for them to get a new manager assigned and the store fully staffed and trained, and then I was out.

They agreed.

Back to working retail.

Well, it was better than proselytizing.

One unexpected perk: eavesdropping on customers who spoke Spanish and assumed I didn’t.

“Should we buy this one?”
“I don’t know, maybe we ask her.”
“No, the people here are idiots.”

“Yeah,” I’d chime in, in Spanish, “we are. But I think you’d be happiest with this dryer. It’s got more power. And it’s on sale.”

They would stare at me in a stunned stupor—the blue eyed, blond haired gringa who spoke Spanish, who may as well have revealed she could also levitate.

One day I was working the store alone when a woman walked up to the counter to buy a perm.

Sally’s tries very hard to market itself to both professional hairdressers and the average Joe-sephine. In doing so, they carry some products that can only be sold to licensed beauticians. You have to scan a Sally’s card—only issued with a valid license—to ring them up. Selling one without it isn’t just against policy; it’s not allowed by law.

This woman had chosen one of those “professional” perms.

I asked for her card. She didn’t have one.

I calmly explained that I couldn’t sell her that particular perm, but walked her back to the section and showed her comparable ones I could sell her.

She flipped out.

“NO!” she screamed. “I want THIS perm. I have purchased it before! WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?! Are you stupid?”

I stayed calm. After eighteen months on a mission, angry people didn’t startle me the way they expected. I explained again—slowly, professionally—and assured her the other options were just as good.

They were. I’d seen them used my entire life.

She escalated.

The verbal abuse began. Obscenities that would make Grandma cry—and then pray for her soul. I stood there and took it for a while, then decided to get on with my day—facing shelves, straightening displays.

She followed me.

For at least twenty minutes.

Red-faced. Indignant. Slinging obscenities with a creativity I genuinely admired. I think I learned two new words and a metaphor.

Eventually, she realized I would not be cowed by the vitriol and decided to buy one of the perms I’d shown her earlier.

I rang her up.

She wrote a check.

When I looked at the name, a huge smile spread across my face.

“Hmmm,” I said politely, barely stifling a laugh. “I think you might know my mother.”

Then I told her my mother’s name.

All the blood drained from her face.

I thought that only happened in cartoons.

It was glorious.

I achieved retail nirvana.

I knew her name, it was a very particular name that I had heard many times. I knew her husband’s name. And I knew where they lived—right next door to Great Aunt Bernice.

She was family.

And she was, supposedly, a good Mormon—which meant reputation was everything.

She quietly took her purchases and slunk out of the store.

That memory alone makes those years in retail worth it.

When she died several years later, I threatened to retell this story at her funeral, but my mom refused to let me go.
Some people have no sense of humor. Or boundaries. Mostly humor.

Later, Sally’s hired a new store manager who decided I no longer merited a Sunday-free schedule.

So, I quit.

A friend got me a job as a cashier at RC Willey—the furniture store where I’d bought my cell phone in a previous life, right when I was beginning college.

The mission really had been the perfect training ground for working in retail.

It was a terrible job. Turnover was constant. The pay was low. The schedule was unpredictable, posted three weeks on advance, and switching shifts was nearly impossible. We were written up for being a minute late, even if we were in the building, and queued up at the kiosk to clock in at the time. Being told if the line was too slow, we should have come in earlier. Apparently, premonition was a job requirement. We worked every weekend. And every single cashier was required to work every single holiday, for 10-14 hours.

And on top of all that, we were constantly subjected to verbal abuse.

People often came into RC Willey screaming about their bills and the shockingly high interest rates.

It was high – the highest interest rate in the state – and the way the store made most of its money. Before customers were extended store credit, they were given paperwork that explained everything. They just never read it. They listened to the vague explanations from the sales staff, they made assumptions, and signed on the dotted line. Then made minimum payments, or ignored their monthly bill, while interest piled on at 21%.

It was always entirely their own fault, so I felt no pity for them. This was one of my more controversial beliefs.

Don’t want to drown in debt? Step number one, don’t buy things you don’t need and can’t afford.

Our manager, Barbara—a spineless waste of flesh with a name badge—would vanish at the first hint of confrontation. However, once a customer demanded a manager loudly enough, she’d be unearthed from one of her hiding places and she would immediately give in to whatever they wanted.

Meanwhile, we—the cashiers—were not allowed to give an inch.

Which trained customers to escalate, loudly and often.

So, when I grew tired of constantly training new people who couldn’t handle the stress, I took it upon myself to step between the crying teenage cashier and the red-faced, spittle-spraying customer. While Barbara was creeping away.

I had learned to smile.

I learned how to not react.

I had learned to absorb abuse.

Customers would usually devolve into personal attacks, calling me ugly or fat. But still, I would not budge. It was oddly satisfying. Like emotional judo. Watching their fury deflate into confusion when it found nothing to push against.

If it went on long enough, Barbara would still be summoned—but at least the damage had already been redirected and the new cashier wasn’t heading out the door for the last time.

I enrolled at UVSC—the less holy school option in Provo, BYU’s much scruffier neighbor—as a Spanish major.
I figured: I suffered for this skill. I might as well use it.

In one class I was learning ir versus estar.
In another, I was assigned a full Spanish novel to read and a sixteen-page paper to write analyzing its themes.

It was quite the difference in curriculum.

The book we were assigned was Santa Evita. Because I was never fully fluent, I had to keep a Spanish- English dictionary nearby to look up words I didn’t know. I had to look up a lot of words.

Almost all of them ended up being slang terms for vagina.

The Spanish equivalents of (in no particular order): cooch, snatch, pussy, honey pot, fanny, lower regions, down there, happy valley (also a nickname for Utah County), vajayjay, kitty, beaver, lady bits, muff (my personal favorite), nether regions, and “Nothing” for those Shakespeare fans.

It was all a little too much for my innocent little brain to process.

Eventually I begged for mercy and was reassigned The Alchemist.
Much less genital. I got an A.

Looking back, I regret not reading the original novel, it was an interesting story, but I have lost so much Spanish in the interim that there is no way I could read it now. So, if you speak spicy Spanish, you should read it and tell me how it ends.

During this time, I reconnected with Cami, and we spent a lot of time together, talking about boys and watching movies.

I reconnected with Amber, and we spent a lot of time together, watching movies and talking about boys.

I went on a few dates with Elder Billings, now just “Billings”. It was difficult to bridge the fellow missionary, to potential love interest gap though. He was a very nice, if still intimidating fellow. One time he picked me up with a bottle of Olive Garden salad dressing in hand – CURSE THAT GARLIC-RIDDEN HELLHOLE OF A RESTAURANT – but it was a gift he had brought for my mom, who had mentioned she liked it.

THAT was some super classy shit, dude.

He probably would have had me if I’d taken the initiative—but he talked about wanting a big family, and I already knew I didn’t want kids, despite what my patriarchal blessing said.

I wasn’t about to ruin someone else’s dream just because I liked his manners.

I tried to reconnect with Reed…I mean, we did, but we didn’t. He tracked down my number and called me shortly after I got home from the mission, and asked me out for New Years Eve. YES! I thought, YES! He DOES LIKE ME!!! This was going to be awkward as hell, but it was New Years Eve, one way or another I was going to get a kiss from him. And then we could proceed from there.

He made dinner – chicken topped with cheese, and bacon and pico de gallo – the meal he had perfected to impress girls. My hands were sweating and I was terrified. I was sitting on the couch, staying out of the way while he finished the final touches when there was a knock on the door. Reed opened it, to let in another couple – Oh, I thought, it’s going to be a double date. OK, no problem. My plan to just jump him right there went out the window.

We sat down to dinner, and then another girl showed up.

And this double date had just been downgraded to a group hang.

Which was when I considered throwing myself out the window.

After dinner, we all went bowling. There was no kiss at midnight. I cried on the way home. So disappointed after ALL those years of flirting and exchanging letters. Reed had lived in my head for years—safely hypothetical, safely distant.

And apparently never to actually be in my arms.

Much later, Reed explained it was only supposed to be a double date—to ease me back into normal social interaction.

The extra girl was not part of the plan.

But by then, the damage was done.

At the time, I figured he had never really liked me “that way,” and this was his gentle way of letting me know. We stayed in touch over email for a while, though mostly I just dumped emotional baggage on the poor guy.

The therapist in my imagination would point out my poor communication skills. Looking back, I was spectacularly bad at asking for clarification.

Reed eventually married a lovely woman who is apparently excellent at making pies and adorable babies. They had four kids. They settled in Rexburg. Reed became a therapist.

Very appropriate.

I’m glad it worked out for them. I don’t think I would have done well with that life. Some endings only make sense in hindsight.