“It’s a meat market, Amber.”
My roommate’s face in the mirror looks a little hurt, because I’m complaining about church.
I’m in her room, tying one of my gym shoes, while she adds a little more curl to her long hair. I have a date with a treadmill. She has an actual date.
“The whole YSA ward thing’s a meat market, or just the pool party?” she asks calmly, not interrupting her work.
“The whole thing. The pool party itself is like the meat market’s huge Labor Day sidewalk sale.”
“Having a separate congregation for young single adults isn’t just about marrying us off,” she says, parroting the official line. It’s familiar, but I listen anyway. She always listens to me. “We get more opportunities for leadership and service, and the activities and programs can focus on our needs and interests.”
I cinch up the other shoe. “Plus we don’t have to go to church with all those women who have husbands and babies already, and be reminded that we don’t,” I add helpfully. Sort of helpfully.
“We don’t yet.” Amber’s an optimist.
“Right. Sorry. I shouldn’t complain. Again.”
She glances at me, smiling faintly, and turns back to the mirror. “It’s okay. I know you like it less than I do. But you’re still giving it a chance for a while, right?”