The problem with mormons, or gee, Djinn lighten up.

In Mormonism, back in that day, at 15 you went to youth church in the afternoon, as a member of the MIA maids. "MIA" stands for Mutual Improvement Association. I can tell you can sense the fun.

I attempt to attend church. I did not fit in. I was tuning to a pirate radio that played Jimi Hendrix, Leonard Cohen and Neil Young; they were posting pictures of Donny Osmond on their bedroom walls (Hundreds of pics, I kid you not.) Now, this seems cool, at the time, though, not so much. I was clearly and unmistakably miserable; My MIA maid's teacher was the Bishops wife; we'll call her Sister Sweetheart -- small digression -- members of the congregation in Mormondom are expected to get up in church and give talks. A popular talk at the time concerned some sad girl whose dad wrote her letters pretending that he was her age and an admirer. Needless to say, I found this story disturbing.

Sister Sweetheart, suffering from that Mormon Beauty affliction, had a totally stunning son, let's call him Brad P. Mormon. He started showing up in the hallways of the church telling some nonexistent soul just out of earshot (poor dear, he was basically honest and could not pull it off) that he thought I was like, totally hot.
I was mortified and ashamed--they were pulling the "daddy" trick on me.

In retrospect, it was one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me.