“I don’t get it, I just don’t get it.”

I had just walked into the kitchen to see Harry sitting at the kitchen table with a big mug of hot coffee in front on him.  It was surprising because he didn’t usually sit there to read the morning paper, which was spread out across the table.   Most mornings I could find my husband sitting in the big overstuffed recliner, a luxury he never had when we lived back east.  Oh, we could afford the furniture; we just didn’t have the time to sit in it and read the paper.

“You don’t get what, hun?”  I asked, although I had a feeling I knew what he was going to say by glancing at the papers headline, Pioneer Day in big, bold letters across the top.  I grabbed an oversized coffee mug from the dishwasher and drained what was left of the contents of the coffee pot, filling it three quarters of the way so there was room for the creamer.  Harry had gotten me hooked on drinking the flavored creamers with my coffee, something I had never done before.  I was a 2 teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk kinda gal.  Turning me on to this creamer was like being addicted to crack.  I would panic if we were down to two bottles of the stuff, and would have to run out to Walmart to stock up on more.  I had to have at least four bottles in the frig at all times.  I felt like a crack whore.   A wide awake crack whore.  And I missed the stock market.

We had finished our first part of coffee in record time and Harry started to get up to make another pot.

“Sit” I ordered, and got out the paper coffee filter from the drawer.   Sticking it in the basket, I counted the 7 scoops out, closed the lid and filled the water well with the water from the faucet.   I was careful not to splash my workout clothes.  I was dressed to go to yoga class held at the athletic club the gents downtown advised me to join.  We couldn’t just sit in the house all day, it would look too suspicious.   We still hadn’t heard from our contact about a job and we were getting a little antsy.  He wasn’t a health club kinda guy.

It had already been three months since we had moved to Idaho Falls, and the only thing we really could do for entertainment was go to Walmart or take rides in the truck out into the country.  After a few visits to the church across the road, we were realizing we weren’t assimilating as well as we should have been.  I made a mental note to try to do better in that area.

Harry didn’t say a word the whole time I was making the second round; he was re-reading what he most likely had read about 5 times earlier.  His face was scrunched up and he was squinting.  I remembered he had said something about needing glasses, back in the old days.  I have to find him an eye doctor I thought.

I rested my hip against the sink, and drank the contents of my cup while we waited for the magic elixir to drip down into the glass pot.

“The Normans.”  He offered.

“Mormons, hun.  Mormons.”

“Huh?”

I smiled.  The coffee pot was gurgling, letting me know the water was just about hot enough to start flowing through the filter.   We didn’t eat breakfast much, Harry and me.  We liked eggs and bacon around midnight, a throw back to the old days.  9am was way to early for real food.

I glanced at the clock.   It was almost time for me to go.   I didn’t like being late because the class filled up fast.  It was like being a kid again and going to Mass.  Everybody sat in the same pew, in the same exact spot every Sunday, and God help you if you inadvertently sat in ‘their’ seat.

It was the same in this class.  Everybody laid their yoga mat in the same exact spot, in ‘their’ spot.  The difference here was that if you did happen to end up in someone’s chosen area, they just smiled real big like they do here and quietly moved over.  Creepy.

The other thing I noticed is that every time I entered the class, I had an overwhelming urge for salad like the kind I used to get at Vito’s back in the city.  Some nice arugula and hunks of mozzarella cheese covered with the house dressing, sopped up with a big hunk of Italian bread.   Heaven on a plate.   I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why I only got the urge for it during this class.

“What is the big deal about holey underwear?” he asked.

“What?”

“Holey underwear.  Why would the paper write about people’s underwear with holes in it?  I would be embarrassed, and certainly wouldn’t tell a reporter I had holes in my underwear.”  He shook his head again.    “I just don’t get it.”

 

 

After I explained that it was HOLY underwear and not underwear filled with holes, my husband was still a little confused.  I had planned to go into more detail with him when I returned from class.

In fact, it was in this yoga class that I was first faced with the whole idea of Holy underwear myself.

After about the tenth downward facing dog pose, I had decided to sit out the next sequence of moves, catching my breath while grabbing a big gulp of water from the bottle that never left my side.   I thought maybe I could get away with filing it with whiskey, but it made it too easy to fall asleep during the mediation sequence.  I woke myself up snoring one time, so I decided it was too risky.

So there we were, a bunch of red faced, sweating, and grunting women in various states of expertise and flexibility head down on our yoga mats.    I was sitting in the back row, the place where new comers were relegated.  That was ok; I didn’t want to get in anyone’s way, anyhow.

I looked around the classroom as the others continued on.  Some were more agile than others, and I marveled at the ease of some the poses many of them were able to accomplish.

It was then that I witnessed something a little strange.

We were in the middle of summer, a hot 90 degrees most mornings, and everyone wore workout clothes that were lightweight. Tops were made of sleeveless spandex, making it easier to maneuver the positions as well as stay as cool as possible.  Beads of perspiration dotted the cleavage of most of the women.  Pants were stretchy material that went to the knee, but those who were daring wore shorts.   This religion boasted of such modesty, I assumed this was one of the places where they could let loose and show some skin.

Except I noticed one woman had on a undershirt under her already loose fitting top.  It surprised me someone would don more clothing than they had to wear in this heat.  Apparently, the woman on the mat besides her noticed it too.

“Sissy!” she whispered.  That was another thing.  Everybody here is named Sissy.  You would think there was more originality when parents were picking out names.

“Sissy!” she repeated, only louder this time.   “I can see your garment!”

Garment?  Pretty fancy name for an undershirt, don’t you think?

“Oh! Thank you, Sissy, thank you!” and the offender pulled down her workout top so hard I thought it would tear off in her hands.

The woman to the right of me noticed me watching the whole scenario.

“It’s magic” she said simply, and then she winked.

A magic under shirt?  What, did she disappear when the class was over?  Does it wash itself? Multiply like the fishes and loaves so you don’t have to go shopping?

Jesus, and I was having that urge for a salad again.

 

 

When I got home, I proceeded to school Harry about this whole magic underwear thing and what it meant.  That it was a sacred garment and all that.  The Mormons wore it to keep themselves holy and a reminder to be always be in the presence of God, sorta like the Jewish people and their yarmulkes.

“Oh, you mean like those little hats they were on the back of their heads?” he asked in earnest.  I nodded.

“I always thought those guys wore them to cover their bald spots” he laughed and took another sip of his coffee.  He had moved to his place on the recliner, feeling somewhat more in control and not as lost as he had seemed when I left him this morning.   I was on the couch, my wet hair wrapped in a towel.  I had just taken a shower and all I had on was my robe.

“Yeah, your bra and panties are pretty sacred to me” he laughed and then snorted a little as he slapped the side of my thigh.

Putting my feet up, I positioned myself against the couch pillows and readied myself for a nap.   Harry sure did like my wearing sexy lingerie; he said said it gothim closer to God.  Ha ha, gotta love that Harry.

It seemed to me the holy underwear was a form of birth control, if you asked me.  But of course no one did, since no one here talks to me, still.  I was surprised the woman at the club had even bothered, but I was to learn she wasn’t one of the chosen ones either.

Just as I was about to drift off to sleep, I heard Harry ask another question.

“Do you know how to make dead potatoes?”

I thought about that one for a minute.  Then it hit me.

“You mean ‘funeral potatoes’, hun.”

“Funeral? Who died?”

I really had to get Harry out of the house more.

Minga.  There’s still so much to learn here.  I don’t think we’ll ever fit in.