After boxing this evening I ran into the Mormon missionaries. This was the third time since coming to Japan and the first of those three times when I wasn't running to catch a train. They were in my train station's bakery, which was where I wanted to buy dinner. (Curry rolls.)

Long story short: When they gave me a little map to the church I felt wanted by a decent looking American man within a couple of years of my age, which was strange and wonderful and then depressing. I miss tall, clean-cut white boys. Missionaries are even better because they come in pairs and without women. No offense, women. Unfortunately, they don't want me to come to their church because they like me; they want me to come because they believe a theology that I don't.

Gosh I felt sad after that. Not too sad—boxing endorphins—but sad. Probably I'll never stop being sad, at least a little, not about these particular men but about the Mormon life I didn't lead. Like the best storybooks, that Mormon life was so beautiful that it hurts that I can't believe it's true.

I'm pretty sure I'll visit the church sometime soon, maybe even this weekend. I'm such a sucker.


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There were cutie-patootie eight year olds at the boxing gym today. They asked me my name, and where I was from, and how old I was. One kept going "Pchiew!" and fake punching toward me. One kept showing off on the climbing rope, calling me over to make sure I was watching.