For The Love Of The Game
I was a 'pretty girl' too
Every detail had been calculated.
In the cult, dating is ‘courting,’ and chaperones are mandatory unless we were secretly fucking in his car. Breeching cult rule and fucking in a car reaches specific depths, but it is certainly not an emotional one.
Our relationship lasted 13 months, from courtship to wedding day. How did I get to know him in that limited timeframe?
“ Long courtship, short engagement,” - preached the leader.
Our courtship took eight months due to many couples ahead of us in awaited nuptials and the leader's travel schedule. Our engagement ended up being long, at four and a half months, despite being against the leader's will due to the sexual temptations engagement brought.
With a chaperone on every date, limited communication skills and a lack of understanding regarding connection, who the fuck was this eighteen-year-old boy I was ‘in love’ with?
He was a Son of God, one of the chosen few, and that was all I needed to know; that was the bar, and it was in hell.
Once the “I dos” exchange happened, and I was introduced as Mrs. Breanna P., there was no turning back. To be of higher accuracy, there is no turning back upon the given “Yes” in agreement with a wedding proposal. In God's eyes, engagement is marriage, and divorce is never an option.
We had received the approval of the leadership and the congregation, but a problem remained: I did not know the boy to whom I had just vowed my body autonomy.
Two months after we wed, the best friend of his teen years and my bridesmaid's brother took his life. It shook our (barely there) relationship to the core.
A month later, I became pregnant with our first baby.
And for the following seven years, I remained pregnant.
A baby is hard on the most stable of relationships; on us, it furthered the gap that was present from the beginning. He didn’t want a baby right away, but with doomsday looming, I could taste the ascension into my life’s purpose. Besides, the leader said, “ If you are not getting married to bring forth the children of God, you shouldn’t get married.”
It is now 2018, and we are kicked out of the cult into the land we have fear-mongered for almost three decades without skill.
I am the real Kimmy Schmidt.
But what now? On my final phone call with Elder E, he wished me, ‘ Good luck” and left me with the pledge that my ex and I wouldn’t stand the test of time.
Alright, Elder E, I’ll give you that one now.
Try as he might on that call to convince me otherwise, I was not about to let our marriage fail.
Two months following the call, in secret and with my money, I purchased two tickets to an Edmonton Elks football game, an experience we had been denied.
He wanted us just to be us; that desire of his was the impetus of our erosion, but from 2018 to 2021, even though it destroyed me, I poured myself into us, and we were robbed of getting to know.
August 18, 2021, every detail had been calculated. The babysitter was booked, the tickets were bought and paid for, the restaurant was reserved, and with the surprise of his childhood dreams arranged, I couldn’t wait to fall in love.
I aimed for perfection, and that included my appearance. Finally, out of the cult, I was on a personal wander of self-discovery. During the period in 2016 when he pined after another woman, saying, “She’s a pretty girl, and I am a stupid man,” I struggled considerably with my appearance. I did not see the woman I felt gnawing within me each time I appeared in a mirror, but out of the cult, and after a couple of hair appointments, I was now a short-haired, blonde, pant-wearing whore. I was not yet appearing as the woman I felt gnawing, but I was on my way to uncovering her.
Mom always told me I had “Model legs.” yes, even in the cult, but hidden they remained under skirts and dresses to ‘ Little House On The Prairie.’ Uncovering myself, figuratively and literally, took courage, and I purchased my first mini-skirt for the football date. Determined to create the perfect date, with every detail calculated, the mini skirt was green, matching one of the colours of the Edmonton Elks. Clad in a new cropped white blouse, with a face full of absent make-up skills and with the exposure of my mile-high legs and midriff adjacent to the blonde hair, I was going to be the woman he wanted to get to know. I was going to be a “Pretty Girl,” too, and that evening, I ventured to feel it.
Our first stop was a local gem called Northern Chicken. They served the best-fried chicken in town along with the Dorito Mac & Cheese. Prior to our date, I had the pleasure of dining there with my mom and thought it was desirable for us; bonus points for location.
Second stop? His childhood dream: A ride on the LRT, our city's Light Rail Transit system. We parked our van in the nearest grocery store parking lot on foot and ran down flights of stairs underground to the LRT station.
I have a thing. I have many things, but one of the many things I have is the wonder of romanticizing my life. He always told me, “ You live in a fairytale.” Can you blame me? I was Rapunzel in her tower for over two and a half decades, with the pain-in-the-ass long hair to boot. I, too, dreamed of seeing the lights, the corporate skyscrapers calling to me.
A Hollywood scene unfolded before me as we ran down the staircases to the LRT. This was it; we were a young couple falling in love; the time had come for just the two of us. He would look at me as the LRT stopped, giving off a light breeze, blowing my blonde hair off my face in cinematic timing, realizing how ‘pretty’ of a “Pretty girl” I was, wouldn’t he?
Growing up, organized and professional sports were prohibited from our lives. We could play a soccer or baseball game with cult friends, but that was as far as the allowance went. On Sundays, playing sports was off-limits; it was the day of the Lord, and we were to revere it. Skateboarding was forbidden at all times; the spirit it toted was that of Satan. Everything carried a spirit, and we had to tread carefully.
I remember a conversation with my stepdad early on in our developing relationship, at the beginning of organized soccer for my son, Emerson. As we sat in the stands at our local recreation center, watching Emerson find his love of the game, I began elaborating on ‘spirits.’
“Even the colour white carries a spirit!” - I blushed
He raised an eyebrow, “The colour white?” - he scoffed.
“YES! We were not allowed to wear white when it came to sports equipment; it brought with it the attitude of rebellion and punk.”
Both of his eyebrows were now raised.
At that moment, a gentleman sitting in the row in front of us whipped around, chuckled and said, “You’re joking, the colour white?!” and shook his head in utmost disbelief.
Sir, what I wouldn’t do to have these horrors be purely a comedy unique for human joy.
I have been programmed to automatically assume ‘attitude’ when I see white in any sports equipment-related context, and it takes a conscious effort to weave my way through the entanglement of panic that it conjures.
I digress.
Needless to say, I didn’t plan the date for the love of the game of football; my understanding of the game was, ‘The ball they throw is called a football,’ I planned it in desperation to spark the love in our relationship game.
We drank beer, and I filled my Samsung with selfies of the two of us.
The Edmonton Elks won that game, and my venture to feel pretty that night paid off; one of the photos I have from that night became one of my favourites. I didn’t just feel pretty; when I looked at the product produced by my camera, I was in awe of what I was witnessing.
I saw myself as pretty, and I was in love.
Three years later, in the summer of 2021, worn down and in the middle of giving my all in a last-ditch effort to bridge the gap and save us, I sat in the passenger seat of my van, and from his mouth in the driver's seat, he audaciously admitted, “ Yeah, that football game date was the worst. I hated it.”
I had calculated every detail…
Except for that one.
Your ex personified evil to me.
The last paragraph was a gut punch…