The Pandora's Box of TMI

Previously on Fishers of Men: I went to my summer singles ward for the first time, and a few summer sales guys invited me to their apartment for pancakes. Never having had Mormon friends in my hometown, let alone potential dates, I leaped at the opportunity (but obviously I tried to be cool about it).

Later that night I changed into jeans and showed up at the apartment El Niño shares with two other guys in the ward. Of course El Niño misdirected me somewhat, so I knocked on the wrong door at first, and the butchest woman I have ever seen quieted her dogs down long enough to tell me I had the wrong place. Thanks, New Friend.

Once I got to the right apartment, it seemed like pretty standard “hangout” fare at first: Niño and I played a couple rounds of Rock Band and one of his roomies started cooking breakfast-for-dinner. The four of us enjoyed pancakes and bacon while watching 3:10 to Yuma. There was typical “get to know you” banter. I promised one of the guys a round of Words With Friends. We discussed fun things to do in the area and I guess I got voted Cruise Director for the summer, since I’m the only native.

All typical first-hangout stuff…

Then it got weird.

I mean, when you first meet someone, you keep it light, right? A little banter, minor biographical details like hometown and schooling, favorite bands. “Say something for me in [insert mission language]!” You know, that sort of thing.

Well, throughout the evening, El Niño had been my only “constant.” He was the one who got my number at church; he met me at my car; he was the only guy who was there with me the entire time instead of popping in and out like the others did. He seemed very into getting to know me, too: favorite everything, life-changing experiences, et cetera.

But forget about what he asked me. What he told me about himself was a whole different ball game of crazy.

First, he waxed near-poetic about his pre-mission girlfriend who vowed to wait for him but apparently spent the entire two years on her back. For some reason this did not end their association but merely stoked the fire: he went into great detail about a recent series of calls and tearful meetings and broken engagements. I'm so glad he told me the entire story. I was very much on the edge of my seat.

Okay, fine, I thought. Some people get verbal diarrhea about their exes and can’t help themselves. But El Niño’s troubles go far deeper than that…

See, next thing you know, I’m hearing all about his family life, which was no picnic, and by “no picnic” I mean “go to therapy.” Words cannot describe how much I did not want to hear it.

But good thing I stayed tuned anyway, because then he’s telling me he has, in fact, been to therapy. No, wait, it didn’t do him any good and wait WHY is he telling me he “got hit” as a kid? THERE IS NO UNIVERSE IN WHICH IT’S OKAY TO BE TELLING ME ANY OF THIS.

Suddenly, some amusing comments during the movie (from him, of course) about drive-bys and getting shot at were placed in a whole new context. A whole new “that actually happened and you weren’t joking and you were actually telling me about it” context.

And let’s not even mention the Daddy Issues.

How can I say this...oh yeah. I know now. "That's a dealbreaker, ladies!"


Now before you all start accusing me of having a heart of stone and/or coal, hear me out. I get it. Some people had it a lot rougher than I did. People are weighed down by secret sorrows and haunted by old troubles.

But there’s the clincher—secret sorrows. As in sorrows not to be unloaded on the first pretty face you meet in the singles ward. We had known each other for all of eight hours by the end of the evening. Pancakes aside, this is not the Breakfast Club, bud.

Basically, every conversation with El Niño was like opening a Pandora’s Box of TMI. By the time he was asking me “what makes me me,” I practically had post-traumatic stress disorder, I mean, I might as well have been cowering in a foxhole that entire time, desperately trying to avoid the knowledge bombs he kept dropping.

It was like a hurricane of barely-suppressed neediness and not-suppressed-at-all childhood issues that pretty much left me a shell of my former self. El Niño, indeed.

So to close, here’s a primer on how to befriend a cute girl:
1. Invite her over for dinner and a movie.
2. Get to know her.
3. DO NOT BRING UP UNRESOLVED EMOTIONAL PROBLEMS AND OVERLY TRAUMATIC CHILDHOOD EVENTS.
4. If you successfully completed steps 1-3, you literally do not have to do anything else.

Seriously. How hard is that.

He called to hang out a few times this week, but I’m wary. Sunday night got me pretty spooked. I'll see him this weekend at church, and I definitely want to hang with his apartment this summer, but for now I think a safe distance is best. I never, ever, ever want to open that Pandora's Box again.

-Bea