Premature Eulogies

A beloved member of our former church died this past week, and my mom went to his memorial service on Monday.  The parking lot and church were at capacity with people who loved him and wanted to share their memories of him.  His family members told stories that were a beautiful tribute to the caring, loving person he was. Thinking about his service, I realized that the real tragedy is that people have to wait until they're dead to hear about how much they mean to others and what memories are the strongest.  Considering that people should be honored and highlighted before they die, I'd like to tell you all little about my parents. Don't worry, though my parents likely to game the senior citizen discount at the movie theater, they aren't going anywhere for at least 30 years.  

To say the least, I have incredibly cool parents, and not in the "my parents bought us beer in high school" or the "my mom roams Georgetown in Juicy track suits " try-hard kind of way, but in that enduring, real way.  I've been in awe of my mother for as long as I can remember.  For example, back in the 80s, my parents were freaking fabulous. My mom looked straight out of Dallas or Dynasty with her wardrobe, jewels, and fur coat.  My dad was always whisking her off to fancy dinners and lovely evenings. I would sit at home with my babysitter Nancy, making her listen to my play-by-play recap of mom getting ready to go out, with all of her make up, clothes, jewelry, and tray of perfumes. My mom has a no-nonsense way of handling things, so not only was she glamorous, but she was strong and in control at all times too.

It took me longer to realize that my dad was cool.  All of my friends thought he was the best, but since he was my dad, I obviously thought he was embarrassing since kids rarely see the value of their own "funny" dad. He did things like cause an error on his car phone (yeah, car phone, it was the 80s) that made it go "wee ooh wee ooh" to turn on the pee siren when someone in the car had a pee emergency. He also brought home green bread and dyed my milk green on St. Patrick's Day because, you know, why not?

The truth is, I wish I could go back in time and appreciate my dad like I do now. My dear ol' dad is wild, creative, and a genius. He knows everyone in a 15 mile radius of their house--he's even been invited over for dinner by the guy working at his 7-11. He's manly enough to demolish an entire bathroom (never admitting it was a bad idea) and awesome enough to openly admit that his favorite color is purple.

After I went to college, my parents became reality show worthy with their antics.  Honestly, my family is nutty as all get out now. Since I left home, my mother flew off the back of the treadmill and got her foot stuck in the wall; my dad has made big-ticket purchases in the middle of the night while on Ambien; and my parents went exploring one night, only to drive their car halfway off of a cliff and have to call the police and a tow truck for help (they were fine, but the car almost went over with Dad in it)--and that is just a small sampling of what they've been up to.

Despite their recent tomfoolery, there's no two ways about it--I grew up privileged. My parents anticipated my needs and wants before I even knew what they could possibly be. Everything I have now and have had for all of these years is a direct result of my dad's hard work and my mom's saint-like patience. As a semi-adult, I now understand what effort they went to to make my life absolutely trouble-free and perfect. My parents will continue to be two of the most important people in my life and my best friends.

I Took Muscle Relaxers Before Writing This, So No Guarantees

Normally, I'm deliberate and put together in a way that borders on rigid obsession. I value being on time, prepared, and composed.  And that's all well and good when I'm not stressed or on horse-tranquilizer-grade muscle relaxers, or in the current situation, both of those.

Stress alone makes me do weird things, like wake up in the middle of the night and cold cock Eric with a pretty sweet right hook for something he did in my dream, or leave my car (a manual) without putting on the parking brake. But the combination of stress and muscle relaxers is pretty epic. Especially when my medicated sleep is interrupted and I get all out of whack. Eric tends to talk in his sleep, and while he usually tells me important things like how "Batman doesn't need to work out because he fights bad guys all day," sometimes it's just incoherent Shamu-like "woooo woooo woooooo"-ing that almost sounds like English. So, then I sit there half awake trying to figure out what he's saying until I shove him and he stops. My sleep pattern is then interrupted completely because I try to insert logic into the whole episode, and I end up waking up all the way.

This is all a shame because I have vivid, LSD-like dreams when I take my medicine and am allowed to sleep all night.  For example, I had a dream where I was riding to Six Flags in a limo with Snoop Dogg. We were braiding each others' hair and I was arguing that the explicit version of "Gin 'N Juice" is more poetic than the radio edit. Even if it was in my own imagination, that was one of the top ten nights of my life.

Last night, my beautiful muscle relaxer dreams were interrupted by a creeping, extreme heat. I woke up yelling, "OH MY GOD, ERIC. Why is it so hot in here?!" only to find that he had gone to sleep in the other room because I was acting out my dreams again. There also was an incessant beeping that I couldn't find the source of. Still in dream/waking hazy limbo, I made my way to Eric's office and shook his futon until he could wake up and find the beeping to make it stop and make it cooler. I was already a little tense worrying that I wouldn't get up in time to get to a super early morning customer meeting, but when we discovered the power (and my alarm clock) had gone out, I spent the rest of the night hot and worried that my cell phone clock I set after the outage wasn't on.

So extremely long story short, after a day full of odd behavior, forgetfulness, an outfit that barely worked, and hair that poked out in all directions, I hit my breaking point.  There I was tonight, driving to Wendy's barefoot, braless, and in sweats like some kind of DC Britney Spears to get a Frosty and giant Diet Coke for dinner when I decided that I'm not fit to be in public like this. Not just the immediate barefoot, braless "this," but in this overall state. My filters are completely gone, I look like a homeless person, and I'm rather aggressive. Clearly one needs to prioritize stress management, break the medication habit, and get it together...but my muscle relaxers...are kicking in...and I've stopped caring about being someone who...can be seen in public, fully dressed, without embarrassing my husband.

The Dumpster Scooter, or The Night My Dreams Came True

When Eric and I lived in an apartment, we had the most magical thing ever happen to us.  One of the reasons we got married was that we share the same hopes and dreams, one of those dreams being to own a Hoveround scooter.  We came home from dinner one evening and took a different way into the complex.  This was fortunate, because if we had gone the regular path, we wouldn't have seen the scooter someone left by the dumpster.  We both whispered, "Hoveround..." and practically abandoned the car to go see if our eyes were deceiving us. The scooter was actually not a genuine Hoveround, but rather a Zip'r Roo, which was a little disappointing.  E and I looked around to see if it was a joke, and then carried the scooter all the way across the parking lot and up the stairs to our 3rd floor apartment.

We circled the scooter in quiet awe, trying to decide what to wear when we tested it out.  We settled on knee socks, shorts, and (car) racing helmets.  Unfortunately, the battery was drained, but we found that we could buy an extra charger to get it all juiced up.  Before buying the charger, Eric made the stupid decision to call the leasing office to ask if anyone had reported the scooter missing, since we couldn't believe someone would actually throw it away when there were so many scooter adventures to be had.

It turns out that one of our handicapped neighbors had been tooling around in the scooter and had run out of power...right in front of the dumpster.  It's assumed in an apartment that anything left by the dumpster is fair game, if you're creepy enough to take things from the dumpster.  Which we are.  We worked through the ethical dilemma of "finders keepers" vs. "that guy is handicapped," and after much debate, decided to carry the scooter to his apartment and give it back.

I guess it was the right thing to do, but you only get one opportunity to find a dumpster scooter.  Upon further analysis, having scootered and lost was probably a karmic reaction to us filling the box from our enormous new TV with a 30-year-old crooked fake Christmas tree, sealing it up, putting it by the dumpster and writing "Free!!!" on it.

The good news in all of this is that we made the handicapped neighbor wait to get his scooter back until we had taken enough pictures to take our own trip to the Grand Canyon:

Why I Will Be a Terrible Mother

I'm approaching 30, and Eric and I are almost out of the newlywed grace period before people start to ask us when we're having children.  In fact, Big E is already speculating what the child may look like (the answer is very blond, pale, athletic, and blind).  Further, Eric is giving me the creeps because he's recently started smiling at other people's children and calling them cute.  Here are some things I'd like to remind him of:

• I consider a 100 calorie bag of popcorn and grapes a balanced dinner
• I name my [animal] children ridiculous things (e.g., Snippy, Googles, Googles Jr., Nugget, Tater, Tot, Niblet, Pee Wee, Jean-Bunnay)
• Kidz Bop gives me a visceral reaction
  
• I'm extremely susceptible to kid germs
• I'm a social scientist and believe it is my disciplinary and academic right to have both a control and a test child to run social experiments on, like teaching them the alphabet backwards or denying the existence of certain colors
• I prefer nighttime muscle relaxers to responsibility
• I'm the worst cutter ever
• My daddy still fixes my problems
• I allowed a hamster to fall down the stairs and get head trauma
• I kill plants and just about anything else in my care
• I've run out of gas on the highway twice
• I believe the difference between a playpen and a dog crate is purely semantic
• I have a history of attacking our house with my car and laughing afterward

Exhibit A:

Is there any hope for me?

Glitter, Glue, and Shame

I'm a huge champion of (non-court-appointed) community service, and especially service to those who will benefit from my time spent with them. Let's take a moment to reflect on how incredibly elitist that is. Okay, that's enough. So, considering the volunteer shifts I had taken over the last year included: attending and "working" at an American Girl doll fashion show in Potomac, smiling and eating mini cupcakes at the National Capital Area Cake Show in Fairfax, and collecting question cards for speakers at the Women's Conference in Tysons, I figured it was time to roll up my sleeves and go a little deeper into the volunteering wild.

I volunteered for a shift at the Capital Area Food Bank, which is in Northeast DC. While there, I  witnessed someone getting arrested for stealing a car (I pretended to get something out of my trunk for 10 minutes so I could observe this) and saw the immediate aftermath of either a shooting or stabbing at a gas station on the way home. After that experience, though it was rewarding to do actual service, I decided maybe I should do something less pearl-clutchingly frightening.

That all led me to an opportunity to help out at a local group's Christmas party for mentally handicapped adults. I started the evening thinking how delighted these people will be that I'm sharing my crafting talents with them and that I'm taking time to be there after work. I'm pretty self-centered, you know. While helping a small group make ornaments, one woman asked me to draw an angel. I finished, thinking it looked pretty good. She looked at it, then at me with a horrified look she shouted, "That's a terrible angel!" It totally stung, but I brushed the loud comment off and drew angels until she was able to choose the least terrible. She said she wasn't allowed to use scissors, so she wanted me to cut the backing for the angel ornament. Apparently I failed at that too because she turned to me, pointed accusingly, and bellowed, "You're the worst cutter EVER!"

So there I was, covered in glitter, glue, and shame, having been told what's up by someone who isn't allowed to use scissors. But I did make a terrible angel and I am the worst cutter ever, so can I really blame her for a little honesty? As I attempted to get glitter out of my hair and ears later that night, I realized that social interactions--whether they are with friends or with those you are attempting to serve--are really all about give, take, and mutual respect and love. Perhaps the idea of service is far less one-sided than I had previously assumed, and the real gift is in being able to have those interactions...no matter how humbling they may be.

Some Girls Wanted to be Ballerinas...

When I was little, my career aspirations were simple: I wanted to work at T.J. Maxx. No one is really sure where I got that, since my family was not one of T.J. Maxxing, but I was adamant about it. I mostly wanted to use a scanner, so my mom tried to twist that around into a more illustrious career. We compromised at me wanting to work at Hallmark, because then I could use a scanner and wrap things in tissue paper. I spent day after day in my room providing excellent customer service to Teddy, going "boop" as I scanned each of his items, and wrapping all of his purchases in tissue paper. He, of course, then came back to return the items because I had a limited number of tissue-paper-worthy possessions to play with. He was a pretty indecisive bear, so the process repeated itself over and over until Thundercats came on.

Everything was so simple when we were little and made life decisions based on what was fun. My first job out of college was decidedly not fun, and it didn't involve a scanner at all. I chose that job because it was a prestigious place to work and it had a sensible, clear, (eventually) lucrative career path associated with it. Each day I sat in terrible traffic, praying that the office building would implode before I got there so I would be spared a day at that job.

Finally, I listened to what remained of happy, little girl Kelly who just wanted to do something fun, and I found a job that is a joy to go to each day. Remembering that it is possible to make big life decisions based on what is fun changed my career path and attitude entirely. You know what? I even get to us a scanner every so often.

Letters from My Exes

Once upon a time, I was single and I only dated men who said ridiculous things. Being sentimental, I wrote some of these things down in case I ever got too big for my proverbial britches.

“I thought you were the one, but you’re not.”
“I was on the beach, talking to God, and He told me that you’re not good enough for me.”
“You’re a goddess, and I want to shield you in my embrace.”
“I hate you, but, on the other hand, you’re a cheerleader. I’m drunk.”
“If you don't hate me too much, I’d like to see you. I'm not going to bring my gun.”
“Did you just use me to help you move? I have feelings, bitch.”
“I know you said to stay away forever, but a call from you once in the last few days would have been nice.”
“I’m taking this girl to her semi-formal, so, rain check on your birthday?”
“Oh, you wanted to go to a bar on your 21st birthday?”
“By the way, I hope you had a wonderful 24th birthday. Sorry I stood you up.”
“Maybe I’d like to be the girl in the relationship sometimes.”
“[James] and I are moving to San Francisco...to, you know, be together.”
“The whole deal with the pregnant girlfriend I never knew about was all made up.”
“You’re a gem of an individual.”
“I can’t believe you’re dumping me while I’m on the toilet.”
“You grind my hopes into dust.”

Biting It

Last night, I finished off a spectacular workout by falling down the gym stairs. It is an embarrassing thing to do in itself, but it’s even more embarrassing that it happened because I was being impressed with myself and trying to change my heart rate monitor to show how many calories Her Royal Awesomeness here had burned.

I don’t tend to be clumsy, but there’s a sick fantasy reel that plays in my head of me knocking my teeth out every time I nearly miss a stair (or miss many in a very busy gym) or have any close call with tripping. This whole teeth phobia was exacerbated right before my wedding when the wedding coordinator said, “Honey, be careful. I had a bride trip and knock her front teeth out while walking down the aisle.” Oh.

The teeth phobia probably signifies something bigger and more indicative of my psychological state. A methodologically unsound random selection of Google search results gives us these possibilities:

1. I’m anxious about my appearance and how others perceive me (I’m female and within 2 years of turning 30, this should be obvious)
2. I have a fear of rejection, sexual impotence, and getting old (Who doesn’t?)
3. I’m going to get money (Now we’re talking)

I think tripping on the gym stairs was less a realization of my deep-seeded psychological anxieties and more about thinking I can do multiple things at once. Perhaps, for the sake of my teeth—forget my throbbing ankle and shin—it’s time to slow my roll and do one thing at a time. We get so caught up these days in trying to be efficient and able to multitask that we tend to forget about concentrating on the task at hand. Like walking down stairs. Eric was horrified that after he peeled me off the floor, I went right back to messing with my heart rate monitor while hobbling down the rest of the stairs. This was important because doing this while stationary in the locker room would waste valuable time. Well, now I’m wasting valuable time dragging myself around this morning like I have a peg leg.

Productive Members of Society

I’m finding my twenties to be a dynamic, transitional, and often confusing time. You see, we’re floating along in a social purgatory between being “the kid” and “the adult” in a situation, the distinction usually being determined by whom we’re dealing with and our relative level of laziness. To those in college, we’re too old to be doing just about everything fun. To “adults,” we’re inexperienced, too unwrinkled for our own good, and not on their level in work or, really, life.

So, what’s a twenty-something to do? My friend Jess and I have boiled it down to needing to be a Productive Member of Society, meaning that you make your own money, show up when you should within five minutes of when you said you would, treat others with respect, stop partying with the college kids and interns, and take responsibility for your actions. It’s pretty much the nicer way of saying that you can have fun, but you need to act like a “grown-a** woman.”

Maybe our twenties are a blessing. We have license to shift between life stages at will, but while using the knowledge and skills we’ve learning by getting to this age (alive).

The Bag of Diabetes

This year, Eric and I went overboard on each other's Easter baskets. Way overboard. The result was an entire Trader Joe's paper grocery bag of candy that weighs 8 pounds as of this morning, named the Bag of Diabetes (BoD). We like to think we're reasonably healthy, fit people, so you can imagine when one of us drags the BoD out after dinner, we're overcome with guilt for even having it.

By the second Cadbury Egg, the guilt usually turns into self loathing. You know that feeling you get when you're fully aware that something is bad for you, and you'll be paying for it later, but you don't care at all because it's SO GOOD.

Most of us have a Bag of Diabetes or two in our lives, and despite advice, warnings, and common sense, we keep dragging that BoD out. It might be an 8-pound bag of candy, a certain wrong type of person you keeping dating, or even a bad habit like procrastination. Having some sort of BoD in your life isn't the real matter. It's being okay with how you deal with your BoD. Some people thrive on self loathing and guilt, so if you're that type, then by all means, proudly hook the BoD to your ears like a feed bag and go to town. If not, put that BoD out for trash day, wipe the chocolate off your face (and out of your hair), and get to changing what you don't like instead of whining about it. It's within your power to get rid of the bad stuff in your life, so make it happen.

Great Expectations

I hate change. I take comfort in knowing that each day will start with the news, a Super Big Gulp, and a new dent in my car door from the column sticking into my parking space. I consider myself to be content with how things are going at any given time and resistant to anything that disturbs the order of my universe.

A good friend of mine got married this past weekend. Today, he commented that he still doesn’t feel different, and that he keeps waiting to. Since being both engaged and married, I’ve been waiting to feel different too, lying awake at night scared that the next day will be the one where I’ll feel crushed by commitment and adult responsibilities.

One would expect events classified as “life changes” on insurance forms to be those that alter us the most. Those who haven’t married would be surprised how much the same you feel after the dress is preserved and the photo album is in.

Is it possible that the key to a loving, stable relationship and a correct fit is not feeling different? Theoretically, you’ve chosen a spouse who will take you for better or for worse, in full acknowledgement of who you are and your lifestyle. It’s my belief that a couple that’s doing it right is one comprised of two capable individuals making a good team, rather than two incomplete people coming together to make a whole.

Love is like finding the perfect dress—they fit you as you are then and there and will continue to fit you in the future without major alterations.

Moral Correlation Without Moral Causation

There seems to be a delicate balance that rules the world. Maybe it’s karma…maybe it’s just a subconscious need to have order and balance, so we see things that way. Whether you believe that you “reap what you sow” or that you’ll come back as a marmoset in your next life to pay for your deeds, we’re always searching for that balance.

A few nights ago, I was over at Eric’s and made a snarky comment about [a person]. Seconds later, I took a sip of wine and sucked it right into my lungs, causing me to cough so hard that I almost knocked over the wine glass in all that commotion. Okay, maybe it was more like Arbor Mist and ice from an Albert Einstein mug. Regardless, for the past few days now, whenever I’ve started to say something mean, I’ve also started to cough uncontrollably.

There’s also that phenomenon where whenever you, you know, make a point in traffic you will undoubtedly stall out at the next light. I’m not sure what happens to people who drive an automatic…maybe those are the people who get stuck in intersections after the light has changed and traffic has to awkwardly go around them.

I’m leaning more toward the idea that we invent this balance in our lives because we all know that person who is mean and sells others out, yet continues to get ahead and have good things happen. Our moms tell us that those kinds of people will “get theirs” some day, but I’m not so sure about that. I think I’ve been gettin’ mine since day one…mostly from the kind of person who never gets hers.

A Few Open Letters

Maybe it’s the rain or maybe it’s the soul-sucking nature of the industry I work in, but I’m in the mood to get a few things off my chest in open letter form. This is probably the best case form, considering I often have a penchant for verse when annoyed. An archaeo-astronomy professor in college learned that lesson when I turned in a paper written in iambic pentameter.

Dear Guy Who Left the Funions on the Apartment Building Stairs,

With each passing day I’m more and more curious about why the Funions weren’t doing it for you and had to be abandoned on the stairs. Clearly you lost your Funion virginity that day and were none too pleased with that. Who’s going to clean those up? They’re soggy now since you left the bag open and it’s been rainy the past day or so.

Your Neighbor


Dear Guy at Work Who Likes to Comment on What I Eat,

I understand that you are still intrigued by my actions in that all-hands meeting last year when I took two cookies. They were small. And good. But, you know, asking me that day…one year ago…if I wanted you to just put the tray of cookies on my desk so I could eat all of them was amusing, but it isn’t anymore. Why is it that whenever I make the decision to have something sweet it’s worthy of comment? I’m a grown up. I can have Mike and Ikes for lunch if I want to.

Love,
Kelly


Dear Late 20s to Early 30s Single Males,

I understand that the guy biological clock seems to go off at this time and you think that you should be paired up ASAP, and anyone in your path will do. That’s cool, man, but I’m not interested. The words “I have a boyfriend” are for real. He doesn’t like that you think he’s a speed bump and not a road block. Stop being creepy.

Kelly


Dear People Who Sign Every Work Email with “Thanks,”

You know, sometimes when you say something over and over again, it becomes meaningless. Do you really need to sign the email saying “Per your request: ___” with “Thanks, Milton”? You’re doing me a favor. What if I signed my emails with something idiotic, yet equally as fake nice?

You’re Sexy,
Kelly

P.S. Same goes for you, “Very Respectfully, Norm.”

You Say “Tortilla and Cheese,” I Say “Quesadilla”

Every family has some nonsensical saying or word that has been passed down for so many generations that no one can really place accurate blame on its creator. Not surprising to anyone who has met my family, we have a lot of them. Our sayings range from the regionally acceptable “dumber than sled tracks” to the convoluted “hot pad holder” (it’s a pot holder…who would’ve guessed?).

The prime suspect for our oddest sayings is Grandma, who thinks it’s normal to call a model home a “sample home” or claims that perfume has a lovely “odor.” For all the off-the-wall things Grandma says, more often than not she uses the correct word, although the definition is the last one listed or is noted as obsolete. Sometimes her English language relics cause some problems when in polite company. One time Grandma was telling my parents’ Sunday school teacher a story about how my grandfather always made people feel important and said, “Oh, when [so-and-so] came into the room that day, Julian just ejaculated all over him!” Everyone was in shock and knew she couldn’t mean what they all thought she did. After years of telling the story and laughing about it, my mom finally looked “ejaculate” up in the dictionary and we all stood corrected.

Though someone who comes from my gene pool should not cast stones, I’m going to lob a big one at my boyfriend Eric anyway. We’ve had many heated arguments over the proper name for cheese melted onto a tortilla and served with the tortilla folded over. For the first 8 months of our relationship, I kept my mouth shut when he said he was going to make a “tortilla and cheese.” One evening, when I was in an especially foul mood, I said, “Eric, for the love of God, it’s called a quesadilla. Do you name all the ingredients of everything else you cook?” He argued that quesadillas are totally different from tortilla and cheeses, like two completely different species of food that necessitate two names. Apparently in his family, a tortilla and cheese is microwaved and a quesadilla is grilled. After over a month of confrontation in front of the microwave, I have conceded. Not because I believe he’s right, because he’s not , but because he isn’t completely wrong, just very descriptive. Maybe we'll eventually be able to use my hot pad holders to get the tortilla and cheese out of the microwave without a second thought.

Well, We're All Pink on the Inside

When I was 12 years old, I was desperately in love with Thomas Ian Nicholas. My friend Lauren and I collected pictures and tidbits of information from magazines, but it just wasn’t satisfying enough. Our dream was to someday meet him and hear him say, “Kelly (or Lauren, but hopefully Kelly), run away with me and be mine forever.” Well, last week I was on MySpace, and who did I have a friend request from? Yes, Thomas himself. I wanted to hug my 12-year-old self and prance around jubilantly with her. O...M…G…what should I do? I clicked to send Thomas a message and anxiously drummed my fingers on the keyboard, trying to think of the best way to e-connect with him without being a total e-tard. I settled on: “Hi, I just thought I’d tell you that I had a huge crush on you when I was in 6th grade. Good to (sort of) meet you all these years later. Take care.” I’m fully aware that I looked like a weirdo, and that he may have been offended that I’m no longer crushin’ on him, but I had to do it.

The next day he responded, “Thanks.” I had hoped for more than one word and was a little pouty. With that message went my last little shred of celebrity awe, and I knew that even T.I.N. was just like anyone else and wrote terse responses to the strangers who send MySpace messages declaring love, lust, or, in this case, former love(ish).

I wasn’t too much for celebrity crushes when I was young, so that’s why this one stood out. Despite that, until my twenties, I at least was impressed by the idea of celebrity. That deteriorated after a couple encounters over a few years while I was out in DC.

When I was out one night, the guitarist from a famous band wanted to buy me a drink. I told him no thanks, I was the D.D. He got all indignant and said, “Excuse me?!” I repeated what I said and he retorted, “When a man offers to buy you a drink, you need to take it.” That set me off. He shouted, “Do you know who I am?!” I let out something between a snort and guffaw, and he spat, “I’m (name withheld)!!!!” I narrowed my eyes, squared my shoulders and spat back, “Do you know who I am? I’m KELLY VANDERSLUIS!!!” It was clearly time to go at that point.

I have also had separate encounters with two very well-known whiny singer/song-writer guitar playing pansies. Both leered, attempted fondling, and generally freaked us all out like we thought only drunken frat guys could do. So, after all that, my friends and I have learned that money and one’s name on a CD section at Target or movie poster do not make people any different than those we already know.

Oh, and Thomas, you're welcome to run away with someone else now. We're so over.

In Consideration of Mortality

Dorian Gray, I understand now. However, truth be known, I should’ve had the foresight to hide a portrait of myself a few years ago. Today I’m 25. I woke up with palpitations to the realization that I am no longer able to rely on my youth and assumed inexperience to get away with anything I want. However, now I can rent a car nationwide and my insurance company considers me far less of a liability than they did yesterday (suckers). But, car rental and lower insurance payments certainly don’t make up for the promise of a slower metabolism, wrinkles, and eventually getting around by Scootabout.

I worked with an old guy who would go into coughing fits resulting in him horking up something gross, fall asleep in every meeting he attended, and protest technology whenever possible. Also, he inexplicably smelled like vegetable soup. It looks like with age, you eventually just stop caring about what people think and do whatever you want whenever.

So, I guess getting older has its advantages. Last year I was mistakenly sent my AARP membership card. I was too nervous to try to use it, but there are some serious discounts out there for the older population. I did my best to convince my mom on her 55th birthday to come to IHOP with me so we could get a senior citizen discount. She was rather uppity about it for someone who uses Grandma’s handicap hangtag when Grandma isn’t out with her.

A nearby cemetery with a macabre sense of humor posted a sign at the entrance that says, “Fall Sale!” You wouldn’t think that there would be such a marketing push for something that everyone will need eventually. However, as my grandfather said regularly for 20 years before he died, “Every second is just one tick closer to death.”

Tick-tock, tick-tock...

Virginia, You're So Vain

I love my state, but really, Virginians enjoy a freedom of idiocy unlike any other population. Not only do we have over 180 special license plates for any interest group, state idiosyncrasy, college, or type of wild game you can think of, we also have lenient policies on what you can have written on your special plates. There are limitless possibilities for irony, obscenity, and over sharing of personal interests.

I guess I can admit that I, too, have personalized special interest plates (the Commonwealth Difecta). I self-consciously feel like others think I’m a bad person because I didn’t choose socially aware plates like Kids First or I'm Animal Friendly. But, it's not like I let toddlers play with plastic bags while I shoot puppies in a bucket...often.

I’d like to say that we’re just a friendly population who wants to connect with others on the road. For example, if Billy-Bob didn’t get NRA or Sons of Confederate Veterans plates to put his cheeky saying on, how else would Cletus know who to follow to the swap meet? Unfortunately, I think we just put the "vanity" in "vanity plates."

Sadly, 99% of the stupid, redneck, or morally questionable personalized plates immortalized on sites like College Humor are Virginia state plates. God bless Texas? Wrong. God bless Virginia where you can have plates like:

"Are you glad?"

I can’t say that I’ve even been in a more utterly vile mood than I am today. I even yelled at my mildly retarded goldfish this morning when he ran into his plant.

It all started four days ago when I fell in the post office parking lot. I’m not talking a trip. I mean, a sprawled-out, whimpering-on-concrete fall. Sure that’s embarrassing, but my very way of being made it so much worse because I always insist on wearing short skirts and walking around with my purse open, laughing in the faces of both decency and personal put-togetherness. So, like it isn’t bad enough that I’m face-down on the sidewalk and people are everywhere, but I’m there showing my hot pink thong and tan lines with my package about 5 feet in front of me and the contents of my purse littered all around. Tears in my eyes, a bleeding leg, and a big toe whose fresh polish was violently married to the concrete, I got up and started gathering the contents of my purse, which for a normal person would be easy, but for me it meant finding a wallet, keys, 5 different shades of pink lip gloss, gum, bobby pins, brush, cell, oyster crackers, another lip gloss, and a tampon.

That afternoon I flew to Atlanta with my boyfriend Eric for a photo shoot. Our flight got cancelled, and around the time I noticed my full bottle of hair goo had exploded in my bag, we learned that we were rescheduled on different flights that evening. Luckily, our meal at the Waffle House and 45 minutes of gorging ourselves on as many Coke products as possible at The World of Coke made up for the hotel room in the ghetto with soggy carpets, a cracked toilet, and a colony of silverfish; the make-up artist who called me “thick;” and a few near-death experiences on the highway navigating between speeding cars with bad rims.

But, before being completely in the depths of despair, I considered the most insightful joke of my childhood:

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Banana.
Banana who?
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Banana.
Banana who?
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Orange.
Orange who?
Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?

The lesson to take away from this is gladness. I’ll bet you didn’t even know to be irritated by bananas until you read that; nor did you know how glad you’d be not to hear banana as an answer.

As a 4-year-old, Eric used to ask a question, wait for the answer, and respond with, “Are you glad?” How often do you think about whether or not you are glad about the simplest or even the most annoying things in the world? Though, I’m sure the “are you glad” refrain got old after a while, I think that question is an effective reality check. When else would his parents have realized that they’re glad that zebras have striped skin and giraffes have long necks so they can eat leaves?

Not only does the glad question make a person consider how much worse things could be, but it proves that being glad is a good replacement for ambivalence. I’m glad that zebras have stripes on their skin because there’s probably some evolutionary reason for it, and who am I to judge? Other than when he was sticking chopsticks up his nose, Eric was a pretty astute kid.

You know, sure my weekend sucked, but I’m glad because things look comparatively better now. And sure, my goldfish is mildly retarded, but I’m glad because he’s completely satisfied with ramming into plants and walls and is low maintenance. Are you glad for what’s going on in your life? Why not be?

Corduroy, Velvet, and Steel

One's personal catalogue of what's beautiful does not necessarily correspond with the rest of the world's. Some things are so hideous that people find them irresistible, like Chihuahuas and Rene Zelwiger. But then there are those with the rich, soft, velvety looks that make you melt like a chocolate bar left on the dash in 90 degree weather and the girls who are so exotic that you find yourself inexplicably craving tapas.

There was a time when either my inexperience with the world made me think I needed to proverbially put my looks on ice to preserve them. But, to be what we think we should be, girls willingly subject themselves to a beauty regiment that ultimately has old womaning effects from the stress, late nights, tanning, excessive make-up, and not eating. Beauty these days is not simply a rubberstamped replica of a Hollywood standard. We’ve finally reached a point when beauty truly does come in all shapes and sizes; but there’s a catch: beauty is now hooked in with everything we are.

I’ve spent the better part of my free time in 2006 modeling in all sorts of genres (no, Daddy, not nudie pictures), and I’ve learned that the more overrun our culture becomes with media, fashion, celebrity, and surgical procedures, the more beauty standards we have to choose from. Natural is the new sought-after look by at least East Coast photographers, and it is a relief from the botoxed withering roses one sees everywhere now. Everyone has something of interest about his or her looks, but that’s the easiest obstacle to overcome in being considered beautiful.

What has become important and key to stardom is the ability to do it all. Online modeling portfolios offer a long list of the model’s other talents like singing, dancing, acting, and even a place to list other languages she speaks. Desired women are not just pretty faces with smooth, even skin and sparking eyes (all of which can be created with make-up and Photoshop), they are the ones who you’d want to both look like and be like. Even the lauded experts from E!, Cosmo, and the gossip columns fail to realize how much they don’t know about how to become a cultural icon, as they sit behind their laptops casting judgments of who’s wearing what, whom, and how and reporting on everything on the surface.

Fun, flirty, pretty girls are overpriced at a dime a dozen these days. There are literally thousands of these beauties that you can't take your eyes off. The difference between your average Miss Roadside America and an icon is the corduroy, velvet, and steel that make up the icon. A real star is the woman who is as textured, multidimensional, and classic as corduroy, soft and elegant as velvet, and who conducts herself with the consistency and solidity of steel.

So quit with the Magnum and Blue Steel, and work on being it all. No pressure.

Hey, Where's the Cream Filling?

I’m a person of very decisive, stubborn constitution. I decided in 3rd grade that I wanted to be a creative writer, and until my last year of college, I was happy to live in a dream world of metaphors, imagery, and shiny things, much like Nicole Richie’s happy world that she describes as “la la loooooo.”

My education happened in classrooms where professors said things like, “These rows of desks are stifling my creativity” and “Close your eyes and try to imagine the smell of the pestilence in Eliot’s Waste Land.” Unfortunately, there aren’t many careers open to those who can reign triumphant every night in Wheel of Fortune, quote centuries worth of our language’s finest literature, develop engaging plots and characters, and tell you why we have words with silent letters.

In my perfect world, where all careers are equal, I’d have a job like Crayola color namer, Twinkie filler, or storm chaser without making any changes to my current paycheck. However, for now, the world is not under my jurisdiction, so we all have to have sensible careers that pay the bills. My former imaginative and sometimes-whimsical self is now stuck at a desk working in budgeting doing the practical thing. Every so often, the confinement of a cube becomes almost overwhelming. Imagine how it feels to be only yea big and not be about the see anyone over the walls or see out. You start to lose your sense of being. I’m like a canary, I at least need to have something reflective in my cage, excuse me, cube, so I can verify I’m still there; so I stole a windowed cube panel from someone else to be able to reflect some light and look at myself.

I’m not sure if it’s reassuring or depressing that I’m not alone in opting for a career in the realm of practicality over fun. Instead of owning a software development company, my dad would be much happier as our local Tastycake deliveryman where he could get a discount on delicious Tastycake treats and make friends with every 7-11 worker in Fairfax County. I guess practicality eventually overrules the “la la loooooo” in my family.

In a blatant rip off of M’s blog shtick, I ask you, why not put aside our notions of what is a sensible way to make a living and think of how we’d most enjoy spending 40-plus hours a week (without debt)? With a little thought, even the most asinine career plan can be practical. Now, stay with me here, as I will show you how to rationalize your own career move.

Before going into her first brain surgery, my mom entertained the idea that she may lose important information in her memory bank. She told us to ask her one important question when she was in recovery, “Susan, do you still think zebras are super-cool?” If she answered in the affirmative, everything was in there. Since she answered yes, and still thinks zebras are super-cool, I figure we could talk my mom into making Zebra Cakes at Little Debbie. This opens the door to my dream of Twinkie-filling and the Tastycakes dancing in my dad’s head. With all three of us living the dream, there would be a diversified Vandersluis empire within the cream-filled snack treat industry, which, in my book, creeps into the realm of practicality and eventual fortune. Never underestimate a girl with a dream.

Minutiae

I haven’t written in a while, and until I feel like writing something that was not assigned to me at work or in school, I’ll give you some traditional narcissistic blog minutiae to keep up with the masses writing about their earth shattering everyday lives:

Today I woke up at 6:50 AM. I was supposed to get up at 6:00. I set my alarm for PM instead of AM. I’ve done that twice this week.

I had two pieces of wheat toast for breakfast, toasted on level 4, which is just past halfway between light and dark on my toaster which I got at Wal-Mart for $10, which sometimes makes a buzzing noise at me if it doesn’t feel like toasting that day. On one piece of toast I put sugar free jam. On the other I put fat-free, low-cal “butter” spray. I wish I had eaten half a box of mini powdered donettes and a Super Big Gulp of Diet Coke instead.

When I got off the Metro today, I had a sharp pain in my left foot. That sharp pain has been there for a week. I believe it is a consequence of wearing 3-inch heels and walking to and from the Metro everyday. I would wear flats, but just one person in my entire company knows I’m really only 5’1”. I must choke back the pain and persevere.

I almost got hit by a car on the walk to my office. It would have been my fault. I was jaywalking and staring at myself in a store window trying to see if I was walking all gimpy.

I had “Whoomp There It Is” in my head from 9:00 until about 10:45 today. It’s hard to balance the DoD’s budget to that beat.

At 11:00, I lined up animal crackers across my desk, like animal with like animal, and hummed circus organ music. Halfway down the line, somewhere around the camels, I got tired eating of animal crackers and put them back in the bag.

Around 2:00, I pondered why candy corn looks nothing like corn. My coworker pondered why candy corn is named as such while jelly beans are not called candy beans. We then wondered if the candying of vegetables is a conspiracy to make children identify more positively with the vegetable group. Our other coworker confused our theory by bringing up candied yams, which are not a candy.

At 4:10, I realized that just about every female Government worker is named Kathy. I also realized that my voicemail recording at this customer site says I’m Joy Fulton. Maybe I'll change it tomorrow.

At 7:15, I went to dinner at my parents’. That’s a good thing since the only food left in my apartment right now is sugar free jam, fat-free, low-cal “butter” spray, half of a Hershey bar, and a can of Diet Sprite. I briefly considered going grocery shopping after dinner, but then I decided I would rather do nothing instead.

Man 2.0—The Future, Today!

So, I’ve recently started seeing a guy who’s prettier than I am. He even has softer hands than I do. I must say I’m absolutely fascinated by his ability to be pretty and manly at the same time, without being a male bimbo, or “mimbo”. He’s a member of a superior sect of the human race that’s become a Man 2.0 of sorts. It appears that the male side of the species has recently evolved in the way that women did during World War II where the beauties of the time became even more enhanced with the advent of Rosie the Riveter. The metrosexual movement, in its less extreme form these days, has evened out to a less shocking, but equally awe-inspiring, group that can squish bugs and lift things as well as Man 1.0, but looks much better doing it.

Man 2.0 creates a real quandary in our minds and defines a new paradox that will forever throw the gender stereotypes of yore out of whack. We females have to come to terms with both getting everything we ever wished for—a manly man with a bathroom counter full of nicer products than we have—and feeling that twinge of jealousy over cheeks that are naturally rosy as opposed to our artfully painted ones.

An encounter with Man 2.0 makes us realize that we can no longer rest on our feminine laurels as the fairer sex. There’s stiff competition out there in the form of Man 2.0. He’s everything we fancy ourselves to be in our cosmetic counter reveries—lovely on the outside and strong on the inside.

After getting over my minor bout of jealousy, I realized that snaring a Man 2.0 is better than having your proverbial cake and eating it too. It’s like having the whole dessert tray and then finding out it was all fat-free. When my Man 2.0 arrives at my place to go out and I’m still fighting the good fight against my thick, wavy hair, he totally understands that it takes time and a few burns from the flat iron to be the loveliest date possible. Ladies, these guys make all of the work worth it.

But alas, there’s a dark side to Man 2.0. The materialistic mutation of this sect can cause your average girl more anxiety than sorority rush. All of you women who complain about your husbands and boyfriends not noticing when you get a quarter of an inch cut off your hair may need to spend an evening with the dark side to appreciate the traditional cosmetically-oblivious bunch of guys we know and love. I was out one night with one of the dark ones who commented on my accessories using the designer names and then complimented me on my highlights and, get this, my lowlights. Talk about feeling on display. It made me so nervous to wear anything that didn’t have a fabulous label attached to it or, God forbid, put my hair in a ponytail, that I stressed monumentally over what I’d wear if I ever had to see him again. The threat of a run-in with these fools is enough to make you shake in your Old Navy track pants and $3.50 flip-flops.

As a disclaimer, I have to tell the remaining Men 1.0 out there that you’re not obsolete. I’m certainly obliged to assure you that your version of manliness is equally as desirable as the 2.0 upgrade, and females support both versions. As much as I’m on a Man 2.0 kick right now, it’s good to keep a few beer-guzzling, deer-hunting 1.0 friends around to jazz things up and keep me in touch with my football-watching (Go Virginia!), Jager-shot-taking Woman 2.0. Just as a smart investor diversifies her portfolio, the smart dater diversifies her collection of gentleman callers; and we all know that diversification ups our chances of profit. So, set aside your jealousy, girls, and grab yourself a shiny, new Man 2.0…the softer hands are worth it.

I Like What I Know and I Know What I Like

I’m aware that I’m not known for my love of change, but sometimes there’s a great relief—even to the most adventurous, well-traveled person—to come back to a place where one knows all the shortcuts around town and people’s back-stories. I feel like I could search every populated (definition of populated: more than one high school, mall, and highway where I can drive over 75 mph) area in the world and not find what I have now. Some people need to backpack across Europe for emotional clarity and others try to find themselves in places that are the complete opposite of what they came from, but my search for comfort and long-term happiness was easy; it was right where I left it.

One of my oldest friends, and an expatriate of the Good Ole Commonwealth of Virginia, came home to visit this past weekend. Always looking for a challenge, he said, “Doesn’t it bother you to come back after college and live less than 10 miles from where you grew up?” The short answer? No. But, I’m not one for short answers, so here’s the real scoop. If I had come from a town with one stoplight and mountain folk, maybe it would, but my return home has shown me more good in the area and residents of Fairfax, Virginia than I ever knew of or fully appreciated before I left for school. My complete answer to him would have to offer a bit of sentimentality. I get to live somewhere where I can remember that same little boy standing me up for the first 7th grade dance (yep, I lied when I said I forgave you) as well as someplace where I’m constantly making newer—less adolescently tragic, of course—memories.

I understand that returning to what you know may be too simple of an answer for most, but I think that the rightness of going native, per se, and returning to one’s roots depends on the past, present, and future of the location. If the place you have returned to is liquid and changes with the times just enough to stay fresh, you have a better chance of happiness, unless you’re like my grandma and really, really don’t like change. In addition to the ability of the area to advance and grow, you need to allow yourself to grow as well and revisit what you always knew with fresh eyes and the vigor of one arriving in a completely new location.

Consider the area as one that is rich with your own personal history. I take great joy in working mere blocks from where my parents first met in an elevator, passing old friends’ (parents’) houses when I take a short cuts around town, sitting at the bar at T.T. Reynold’s where my uncle worked over 20 years ago, and running into people that I haven’t seen in years and being happier to see them than I ever would have imagined.

People, by nature, just plain don’t change; however, the context in which you know them can. I’ve come home to most of my family, those I loved in the past, and those I wish I had known as well as I do now when we were growing up. I’m the luckiest girl alive because I can go out on a weekend and see what successes people from across the high school lunch room have become (or not—which is just as amusing); I can make up for the missed years of getting to know my 5th grade science partner and now next big thing in the world of photography, and set up my apartment with my new roommate and first friend in high school cheerleading. We all have a common ground from which we can tell each other new things. We’re able to speak from the same lexicon of experiences, places, and faces and understand each other without much explanation, regardless of how well we knew each other in the past.

I’m not asking that you reject change, but more that you don’t reject familiarity. It’s easy to make changes in what’s familiar, but it’s a struggle to find what’s familiar in change. Answers to our contentment in life aren’t simple, but sometimes they’re in the last place you look…right where you left them.

Thar She Blows

“SNACK HUT!” In one anagrammically delicious moment, my friend M had solved the mystery plaguing us since breakfast at Runk dining hall our 4th year. All morning we’d pondered how the marquee outside could have provided the resources for an impish dining hall goer to spell out “nut sack.” I had looked at her questioningly, and she turned away from CNN to say excitedly, “Nuuuuuut saaaaaaack! Ugh, alright Colin Powell, stop talking and let us see the weather report.” “You’re calling Colin Powell a nut sack?” I said, pointing at him speaking on the TV. “Huh? What about Colin Powell’s nut sack?” “Huh?” And so started the most quintessentially college treatment of natural disaster that Charlottesville had ever seen.

That evening, Hurricane Isabel hit Central Virginia. Most of us were ready. People had lined up at the grocery stores for hurricane necessities in a style reminiscent of the typical Virginia preparation for 2 inches of snow. Every store in town was sold out of Hurricane malt liquor, M and I had bought enough toilet paper and water to faux paper mache every inch of the ceiling, and our hatches were as battened-down as an apartment with an entire wall of windows could be. Students and townspeople alike were skeptical about the impact of a hurricane on an area so far inland, but after living there through a drought, two earthquakes, a massive snowstorm, and every type of natural state in between, who were we to judge?

After the electricity’s last gasp, M and I whipped out our flashlights and played flashlight tag, waiting for the alleged hurricane to come along. It didn’t take long for torrents of rainfall and gusty winds to assault the drainagely-challenged town and create more mud then you could shake one of the sticks slamming against your window at. Nervous about trees, cows, and other things that sail through the air in bad weather coming through the windows, we moved everything breakable and valuable into a more interior room, and huddled somberly in her bed watching “Top Secret !”on a laptop.

Things calmed down outside, and the hurricane passed over us. The students, festive with a few Hurricanes in their bellies, ventured outside. What one soon discovered was that, if you ignored fallen trees, strewn belongings, and down power lines, there was a wealth of fun to be had in the couple feet of mud that UVA grounds had been reduced to. The next day, the sunlight filtered through the remaining trees spotlighting abandoned flip flops lodged in drying mud, Hurricane bottles, an unfortunate North Face rain jacket stuck on a branch, and thousands of footprints fossilized across Grounds.

If only we could all stay in an age and mindset where even forces of nature can be cause for a theme party. Too often in the Real World we’re bogged down by the minutiae of life like traffic, deadlines, bills, and never having enough time. One has to question whether we truly don’t have enough time anymore to stay up late laughing with friends, enjoy a meal that doesn’t come from a drive-thru, and get together just for the heck of it or if we’ve lost the sense of what is a true priority in life. If the students at UVA had chosen to be sensible and stay inside during a storm instead of getting out and experiencing one of the few hurricanes Charlottesville will ever see, all they would have to show for their supposed good sense is less laundry and maybe a complete pair of flip flops. Life’s bigger than the everyday tasks. In 40 years, we won’t remember the project we’re spending weekends at the office to finish, the errands we have to run, or the guy who cut us off in traffic. Freedom doesn’t end unless we say so, and sometimes you have to squish a little mud between your toes to remember that.

The Mighty Ducks and the Battle of the Blemish

After I moved out for good, my parents took to vaporizing every memory of my childhood to create an oceanic-colored workout haven in what had once been my room. Gone are the closet doors that were emblazoned with sappy New Kids on the Block lyrics after elementary school love gone wrong, height markings from 6th grade when L, A, and I generously gave ourselves an extra inch or two (which I still have not achieved), and the date of my first real kiss. I’m proud to report that the pink duck-printed wallpaper I chose in kindergarten did not go down without a fight. After 18 years of tenancy, the ducks had absorbed themselves into the very fibers that make up the drywall and had to be sanded out. I like to imagine that the ducks screamed with agony and vowed revenge at that point, but it suffices me to know that my dad cut himself repeatedly in the duck removal process.

But do a few cans of paint and a sander erase memories or mask them? Are the ducks going to come quacking through the blue paint and scare my mom off the treadmill (again)? Will the next homeowner years down the road one day uncover that I kept track of important life events on a closet door before I got my first journal? I can only hope so.

How could one small girl have done so much damage to a room? There are battle wounds on the tan carpet from the time I dribbled red nail polish, the many times I splattered Diet Coke everywhere, and my mom’s personal favorite, the bleached-out spot where I missed my hand and shot alpha hydroxy-laced lotion on the carpet. That bleached spot represents a feverish night where my dad and I learned to let the proverbial sleeping dogs lie, leave well enough alone, and the meaning of every other cliché my angry mother spat at us during her spot-discovery hissy fit. Dad, always a trooper, thought that we should try to mask the spot rather than just cover it or let it exist in its full glory. Now, tan carpet shouldn’t be that difficult to match, but when you’re starting with a sickeningly tangerine-colored blemish the size of a dinner plate (I shouldn’t have tried to wipe it up first), the task becomes far more difficult. We started by pouring Diet Coke on the spot to neutralize (and quench the thirst of in a calorie-free manner) the color. That didn’t work, so we moved down a notch on the color wheel and tried Worcestershire sauce next. That wasn’t quite right either, and the spot was getting rather fragrant at that point. The last attempt was coffee. Well, coffee may stain teeth to the color of my bedroom carpet, but apparently it doesn’t do the same to other materials. As we were contemplating not only how to return color to the carpet but how to get the smell out, my bleary-eyed mom came in the room to see why we were still up. We jerked our heads up guiltily and her Momvision focused in on the spot. “Pat!!” she shrieked. He pointed at me. “Kelly!!” she corrected. She was livid and practically pushed us aside to get a better look. “What. Have you done,” she measured. I just looked at her pathetically. There’s nothing you can do in a situation like this. She won’t feel sorry for me no matter what I say, so the best course of action is to back away and let her attack the blotch herself. “For Pete’s sake…” she mumbled. “Who’s Pete?” I whispered, to which my mom glared a response and my dad stammered something about going downstairs and “makin’ himself up an Alka-Seltzer.” The next day, the spot was covered with a small blue rug that my mom threatened me not to mess up under penalty of death. Luckily the treadmill covers the spot nicely now in their new room.

I don’t know if I expected my parents to freeze time and keep my room in tact as an homage to their little princess’ youth. Okay, I do know. That’s exactly what I wanted. I’m an attention whore. Maybe light a scented candle each night under my framed senior portrait? Nothing big. My dad presented me one night with a bag of “cremains” from my room. Looking at the bag of pink dust that once was wallpaper made trite, melodramatic tears well-up in my eyes and an equally banal montage course through my mind. The projection TV in my head showed me at 3 watching Sesame Street, coloring peacefully at my table, and singing along to the educational anthems of our youth. I then saw myself at 5 pretending to be a Hallmark cashier ringing up all of my treasures for unseen customers. I was a strange child. That scene faded—no, this is a good place for a star wipe—into me sitting on my bed at 11 crying about having to get glasses and wiping my nearsighted peepers on Teddy’s absorbent, furry ears. Alright, now fade into me at 15 crying, again, about not getting asked to the Homecoming dance, and then segue into me packing my most-prized possessions to take away to college, not knowing at the time that my room would never again truly feel like it was mine.

Somewhere under all that paint and new pictures are the scarred walls of my childhood. I’ll admit that I was slightly bitter about the transformation for a while, but it’s hard to ignore how good the room looks without me there to muck it up. There are still relics of the 18 years spent there that will never go away. One can still hear that god-forsaken Woodson High School marching band clearly on a crisp fall day, enjoy the same view into the house behind us, and know that the bleached-out spot will one day be unearthed again to taunt my mom with its unnatural color and faint scent of everything brown in the kitchen.

Keys on a Lanyard and the Future in Your Hands

The first year of college is like a suspension of time and reality in which you learn to ride out extremes. You learn who you really are by your position amongst people who are on academically and statistically even ground with you. All of the prior years in school are futile in preparing a first year student for college. These four years are a social psych experiment disguised as an education based on book learnin’ from high school. The first, and most important, thing I learned at UVA was that I’m not smart. I was thrust into mediocrity the day I arrived in Charlottesville. And I have to tell you, that was fine with me. Luckily the majority of students realize within the first few weeks that school isn’t everything. Only half of the actual benefit of college is understood while one is a student there. Those benefits involve karaoke that’s so bad it’s good, student discounts, stories that start with “allegedly I,” football games, and bonding with people whose last names you never find out after four years of being good friends. What can compare to the giggles you get over people whose names have been replaced by elaborate monikers to distinguish them from the rest, like Pledge Dave, Hot-Not-Soccer-But-Actually-Lacrosse Matt, and Hairy Theta Delt Guy?

Thankfully, college is the gift that keeps on giving after graduation. Forget the benefits of a college degree in the work world. I’m talking about every time you see your school’s team win a close game, going back for homecoming, knowing that someone is a decent human being just because they have a UVA license plate, and the knowledge that you’re part of a population that, since 1819, has found a way to leave a legacy (or stain) on the serene landscape of Central Virginia.

By far, first year is the greatest of the four years at school, but that’s simply because it’s the only year you can never recreate, no matter how hard you try. There’s no way to reinstate the fear, excitement, innocence, and freedom of being away from home for the first time. Not only are there no parents around, but everyone is the same age and within walking distance.

The only thing a student can come armed with is a willingness to resign to naiveté. No one can give you adequate advice on going off to school; however before my parents left me that first night, my dad offered me three recommendations: 1. Never drink anything that was mixed in a trashcan, 2. Fix myself up and study at the med school library often, and 3. Make myself look pretty and approachable, and go sit on the steps of the law school. My parents had invested a lot in me during the past 18 years. As my dad once told a boyfriend of mine at dinner, “After all of the dance lessons, hair appointments, and clothes I’ve paid for, I think that it’s about time I got a return on my investment. Don’t you agree, son?” He didn’t. It’s okay. I’m quite a handful. I didn’t follow my dad’s first piece of advice, and I thoroughly rebelled against the last two sagacious bits. I’m still trucking along just fine, well, other than that nasty addiction to trashcan punch.

My first year of school mostly consisted of practicing with the cheerleading squad, stealing things from the guys’ suites below us, going fratting in too-tight black pants, and gallivanting about Charlottesville knowing that anything stupid I did could be absolved by the phrase, “I’m a first year, hehe.” One of my more challenging experiences was learning how to live with not only a roommate, but eight other suitemates where there was no kitchen, no free laundry, and no privacy whatsoever. Surprisingly, it was great. Not do-it-again great, but it was appropriate for the time and situation. I learned to live without shame. For example, the journey to the laundry room could be a tricky mission. I had a strange paranoia that I would drop my underwear on the stairs without noticing on my way to the laundry room. That, in itself, wasn’t the terrible thought. What’s terrible is the return trip upstairs to see the fallen undies. Nobody wants to be the one to claim ownership. So, what do you do? Do you pick them up, chancing that someone will witness you plundering stray underwear from the ground? Or, do you leave them there, not only losing your drawers, but having to pass by them repeatedly until the laughing cleaning guy hoists them up with the end of his mop? I lost sleep over that for the first month of school; however, when I adopted the mentality that whatever doesn’t kill me will make a great story, I loosened up. I’m now known for sporting undergarments on my head and answering the door in a towel (sorry Crystal and Jeff…). I call that personal growth.

Isn’t growth exactly what first year is about? We learn that there are other people in the world besides us, and that they are nowhere near as judgmental as you think they’ll be. The first year of college is the formative time when you can free yourself from the shackles of parentally-instituted decorum, learn that no one will take care of you if you don’t take care of yourself, and find that a family isn’t necessarily the people related to you, but those who will be there to listen to your ridiculous stories and eat cheap pizza at 3:00AM , even if you do occasionally drop your underwear on the stairs

Careful! That Cheese is Sharp

I think there are very few people out there who have not been broken up with over something that seems unreasonable. If you haven’t yet, just wait. It’s like the chicken pox—the longer you ward it off, the worse it’ll be when you finally get yours. I sit with my friends for hours and hours discussing what might have been different if they had not gotten on the guy about leaving the seat up, scratching himself in front of Grandma, being the cheapest man alive or dead, or forgetting that they hate onions on a burger. What have I learned in my old age? Well, I’ve learned that nothing would have been different. The apocalypse was coming and you didn’t know when or where, but apparently the four horsemen dragged in a real doosey of a ridiculous argument that has nothing to do with the root of your relationship problems.

My dad has a friend who used to come home every night and slice a piece of cheese off of a block that was big even for a Costco purchase. When it got moldy, she just scraped away the mold and sliced more cheese, because that’s just what she did every night. One night she came home and looked in the fridge to find a void where there once was cheese. Her husband nonchalantly said he had thrown it away. She then packed her bags and left.

My friends, the cheese does not, in fact, stand alone. Hi-ho the dairy-o, the cheese comes with a whole platter of issues. When questioned why she would leave her husband over a block of moldy cheese, my dad’s friend rolled her eyes and sighed, “Pat, sometimes it’s not just about the cheese.” Like a lactose-intolerant friend of mine once claimed, the cheese broke her will to press on. It’s that one last issue, act, or argument that makes one up and leave. While it’s the last issue, it’s rarely the first. We can beat ourselves up over what might have been, but honestly, did you want what might have been to actually be? Despite the heinous break-up moment, the person pulling the trigger really is the savior. Just think, if you both stayed silent, you could be spending the rest of your life with someone who, if he doesn’t now, will never put the seat down, will never stop scratching himself in front of Grandma or even your pastor, will only become cheaper when he doesn’t need to impress you, and seriously, if he doesn’t remember now that you hate onions on your burger, he’ll forget more important things as well.

You, my dear, are also not without your faults. We, as women, nit pick. Stop. Don’t argue. This is a habit that, if unchecked, will eventually turn us into our mothers. In turn, this nit-picking is what crushes us for far longer than a guy in a break-up. We rehash, create alternate scenarios, and think of what we could have changed. But sometimes it’s not just about the cheese.

I’ve come away from college with only a few true lessons. 1. Dining hall trays make excellent make-shift sleds, as do Rubbermaid under-bed storage containers; 2. 19th Century British literature does not impress as many people as I feel it should; and 3. I make the same mistakes over and over. One of the mistakes is not looking at the big picture. Does it really take 12 years of boyfriends and pseudo-boyfriends to learn how to do this? I’m not sure yet. I haven’t quite mastered this ability. You can’t change who you are and how you deal with the majority of situations, but you can learn to let yourself go and accept that you are a whole person, not a list of transgressions in a relationship. Someday we all will find the other whole person who understands and appreciates us; the one who loves us and our moldy cheese.

Home Is Where the Fart Is

At the end of my 3rd year of college, I made a dramatic decision. I was ready for life on my own, or at least, on my own with my parents footing the bill. Unlike my sorority sisters who had begun to announce engagements and family plans for after graduation, I decided to, in essence, marry myself and engage in the ultimate test of one’s maturity and strong will: living alone. My parents had their concerns for my safety and about my potential loneliness, so they came down to Charlottesville to see the places I had chosen. The decision came down to a one-bedroom in an old building slightly away from the action on Grounds, or a brand-new one-bedroom beauty in an excellent location. Now, you’d think the decision would be simple, but there’s a catch. While we were able to walk through the former and visualize what my living situation would be like, the latter was only a concept and an artist’s rendition. After some convincing that this majestic domicile could be put up with no problem in what was then a small parking lot behind another building, I decided to take a gamble and sign a lease on my new, theoretical home: Apartment 401, Camden Plaza. Like parents who go on faith that a child will turn out as a positive mixture of their genes, I was confident that the description and the sketches of my new home would come together to be as wonderful as I hoped.

Two months after the proposed due date of August 28th, I was still sleeping on my friend’s futon and living out of a duffel bag. The contractor had fallen behind, but he eventually threw together a structure in the period between August and November. When the residents were allowed to move in, we noticed some…quirks. Our dear Camden Plaza, while attractive to the casual visitor, had troubles in its first year. One explanation is the apparent drinking that had gone on during the last trimester of construction, as I found a satisfyingly crushed Budweiser can lodged in my bathroom vent. The colicky fire alarm cried out night after night with piercing screams, barely letting us sleep. The slightest wisp of steam would wake it from silence and set it off again. The residents would stand outside late at night waiting for the fire department like embarrassed parents, knowing that our child’s shrieks were disturbing those around us once again. It took a few months of the contractor’s time for Camden Plaza to mature out of this period, but eventually “Cam” quietly passed the night in a less sensitive watchful rest.

It took me some time to decorate and arrange the furniture into the perfect reflection of myself. Eager to show off my long-awaited home, I invited some friends over for margaritas. The morning of my margarita party, I scrubbed my already sparkling apartment from top to bottom. The bathroom smelled of Summer Breeze Lysol, the mirrors shone, the floors spread in a crumbless expanse, and I was ready to spend the rest of the day sitting at my computer writing a paper. As I typed I heard the pipes in the building rumble. After living in a building that was still under construction for a few months, it didn’t faze Camden residents in the slightest to hear crashes, rumbles, and pile drivers throughout the day. I typed more and heard the rumble again, but this time closer. “Geez, Cam!” I called out. “Someone’s got gas today.” The noise sounded closer the next time and the thunderous growl came from the belly of the building up to what sounded like my apartment. As I sat outside the bathroom at my desk, I noticed that the smell of Summer Breeze Lysol was dwindling and slowly being replaced by a fouler, yet unidentifiable stench. “Lord almighty, Cam. That smell better not be you,” I muttered. In response, my toilet rattled. I got up to investigate. When I opened the bathroom door, I was hit with a tangy, eye-wateringly awful smell. “Oh my GOD!” I cried out, recoiling from the fumes. A gurgle from my bathtub drain caused me to throw back the curtain. I screamed and hastily returned the curtain to its former position. The entire bathtub had filled with the building’s raw sewage. What was I supposed to do? The toilet then shook. I cautiously stepped toward it and lifted the lid. Same fate as the tub. Now, what does one do in this situation? You can’t just roll it all up in a diaper and dispose of the contents of a building’s bowels. I scrambled for the scrap of paper with the leasing center’s phone number. When the receptionist answered the phone, I was almost offended by her nonchalant tone. What can she help me with? Are you kidding!
“There’s crap in my tub!”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, exactly! There are 4 inches of crap in my tub! Oh! And my toilet.”
“Oh my…where are you? I’ll send someone over in the next hour or so to take a look.”
“The next hour? Do you seriously understand what I’m saying?”

What do you do when your apartment building soils itself? You call Dad. It doesn’t matter than he’s 100 miles away. It’s an involuntary reaction. Once he stopped laughing he said, “Well, you should probably take the laundry out of your washer and also the dishes from the dishwasher.” What. “Well, the construction workers are pumping air in the pipes, you know. Waste doesn’t say, ‘Hey, I’ll make sure not to go into Kelly’s dishwasher.’ It goes where it can.”

After hours of terrible smells, a bleaching process, and giggling maintenance men, I felt as if I’d had enough of Cam’s antics. I called off the margarita party on account of noxious fumes and decided to spend the rest of the day away from the apartment. When I finally came home that night, I went to bed in peace, as the smell has dissipated—or at least I was finally immune to the smell. I would guess that parents eventually feel this way after being covered in unspeakable fluids, and that they either ignore the horror, or they accept that they, and all that is around them, will reek of the worst smells until the source matures and can hold its functions. When I laid down in bed, relieved that I had survived the whole ordeal, I drifted into a poopless dream, only to be jolted awake by the fire alarm. Apparently there is no rest for the weary.

Disney lied.

When I say that I’m dating a new guy, the first question my parents ask (well, first question after “He's not Catholic, is he?”) is, “Does he open the door for you?” Apparently this is my parents’ litmus test of a decent guy. For years I’ve fought with them, saying that they are out-of-touch with today’s world, solely out of embarrassment that my new guy did not, in fact, open doors for me; and as always, my parents are so annoyingly right. In actuality, most of my beaus have barged ahead and let a door slam in my face if I didn’t catch it soon enough. Luckily I have slowly acquired cat-like reflexes and can catch a door without any tongue clicking, head shaking old ladies noticing the etiquette transgression. It appears that girls and parents of girls have not yet gotten the memo that chivalry is dead. Gone are the days when society turns its collective nose up at the brutish young man. It’s almost celebrated among young guys today that they won’t do anything, pay for anything, or step out of their way for a girl.

I blame the girls in middle school who, out of impatience and eagerness for their male counterparts to mature, started calling guys and asking them out. All hail the empowered woman and equality, but come on, ladies; our awkward, middle school selves created monsters. And we didn’t even get a date to the 8th Grade Dinner Dance out of all that. Sigh.

I was walking to class at Mason last semester when I overheard an exchange up ahead. A girl, with her arms full of library books nearly dropped everything trying to catch a door slamming on her. “Whoa,” she said, “don’t worry, I’ve got it.” A guy turned around from his group, and in a thick New York accent scoffed, “Yeah, you thought I was going to hold that door for you, huh? Yeah? Well, homie don’t play that.” Well…“homie,” you must be single. There’s a difference in being a doormat and in being a polite, courteous citizen.

I have bad news, ladies. It appears that your White Knight isn’t going to ride up and take you to a land filled with glass slippers, frogs-turned-hot, and seven uniquely-personalitied dwarves to do your bidding. But, hey, that’s why we have college (or trust funds), the stock market, and nice cars of our own. That way, when your White Knight ends up riding up on a gimpy-legged donkey and admitting that he dropped a red sock in the wash with his white armor, you won’t feel so bad.

I believe I’m going to take it upon myself to be a modern-day Mary Poppins, and I shall go forth and teach all around me how to behave. I already have a penchant for giant purses. I’m sure I could pull something from one of them to knock some sense back into the world. It would be supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, to say the least.

Those of us in our twenties are still from a time when our mothers made us say the magic word (“please,” in case you’re rusty), tell little boys we hit that we’re sorry (even if we’re not and would do it again if he dared yank another pigtail), and write thank you notes to our relatives (Dear Grandma, Thank you for the ugly sweater that itches and takes two people to pull over my head. I will cherish it. Love, Kelly). It’s not too late to regain some order in this barbaric society. I may seem anal, and trust me, I am, but also know that there are other champions of my cause. You never know who's watching, and if I am, rest assured that I'll be there to shake my head and sigh in a resigned manner, "What would your mother say?"

The Hard Streets of Fairfax

Just one half of a neighborhood street holds almost all of my childhood memories. The better half (or, at least the hilly half) of Dansk Court not only had The Big Circle (known to arguably more sophisticated people as a cul-de-sac) but my best friend M.

Before M’s family moved in across the street, there was a lot of quality only-child alone time to be had. I was always content playing on my own, but one day the peaceful summer quiet was dreadfully interrupted. I had gotten brand new Fisher Price over-the-shoe roller skates for my 3rd birthday, and I loved them dearly; however, a 3-year-old doesn’t have the best balance ever. My mom solved this problem by getting me a 2-ft-long, ¼ inch diameter dowel from the craft store that was dubbed “Kelly’s Skating Stick.” I used my skating stick like a hiking stick, I guess, but regardless of how silly I must have looked, it did the trick. Well, one day I was happily shuffling around the driveway with my skating stick when, out of nowhere, the Doberman from two houses up came barreling down the hill at me and knocked me over. I was left with dirty Oshkosh B’goshes and skates in the air, wheels still rolling, silent, hardly knowing what to do. Obviously I cried after that pregnant pause. It was that day that I learned to fear dogs. Years later, our next-door neighbors had a wiener dog that they kept tied up outside, and I refused to walk on the same side of the street as that dog. You never knew what could happen if that vicious beast came untied.

Growing up, I spent a lot of quality time with the Stragands, our neighbors and my parents’ closest friends at the end of the street, who I remember best for always having Jell-O Pudding Pops. There are two stories that the Stragands still love to tell new neighbors at block parties—one of a memorable toddler rebellion and one tragic tale of my first big girl bike.

I think the only time before age 13 that I made my parents beyond furious was the Nasal Spray Incident. Mom and Dad were dressed up, ready to go out to dinner, and I was staying home with a sitter. Before leaving, my mom had sat me on the kitchen counter to give me a few squirts of nasal spray to alleviate whatever illness I may have had. I wasn’t having any of that. I pushed her away a few times, and once I realized that she was still persisting, I got the heck out of there. I shimmied off the counter and ran like my pants were on fire out the front door and down the street as fast as my 3-year-old legs would carry me, past the Stragands and my dad sitting on their porch, through the intersection, and down the other end of our street. It had only taken moments for Mom to fly through the front door, hot on my tail, delicately running in her heels. She was, as my grandma would say, “mad as hops.” My dad scooped me up and carried me flailing back to the house, plopped me on the counter, and said, “Now, Susan, this is how it’s done.” Not so much, Dad. I wouldn’t let him do it either, and he got so angry that he threw the nasal spray across the kitchen. Kelly: 1, Nasal Spray: 0.

Another time that all hell broke loose while my parents chilled on the Stragand's front porch was the demise of my first bike. I had spent many hours riding around The Big Circle on my pink-tired, training-wheel-bedecked first bike, which eventually resulted in a bald front tire with a node sticking out. On my bike’s final day, I rode it down the hill to the Stragand’s. I took a load off and had a puddin’ pop, and when we were done, my dad went to push my bike back up the hill. Unfortunately, he rolled that bulbous node over the pavement for it’s last time, and my pink tire popped. Obviously it was Daddy’s fault. It was even more Daddy’s fault when Toys ‘R Us didn’t carry pink tires to replace it with. I had to deal with white tires, and I was bitter forever after.

Luckily, before too much bitterness set in, M’s family moved in across the street. The first day I met him was Easter, when my mom forced me to share my gummy bears with him and his brother. M soon became my best friend. We watched Thundercats together, played He-Man and She-Ra, and made plans for the future. We told my dad one day that M and I were going to get married and live in my parents’ guestroom. He was going to beat up bad guys, and I was going to do all the cooking. Sounds like a plan. We spent our time playing outside, making forts with the boxes from his family’s new washer and dryer, and playing Legos in front of afternoon cartoons.

My first day of kindergarten, I wore a gigantic blue paper triangle on a string around my neck to denote that I was a part of the Blue Triangle table. This became a problem when I saw that M was wearing a huge red square around his neck. After kindergarten, M moved to a private school, and we started to drift apart as I met more of the little girls from school in our neighborhood. Boys suddenly got cooties, and it was way more fun to walk over to J’s house and play in her pool, or to play Barbies with K.

When M returned to public school, he was suddenly in a band and was a stud in all the other girls’ eyes. We didn’t hang out anymore, and I think it’s because, at least on my part, he was still M, my future husband and the little boy whose parents took us all to see “An American Tail” for his 5th birthday. Friendships may fade, but memories don’t, and it’s hard to shake off what you knew of someone to let in who they now are. M's family has moved away, I no longer live at home, and The Big Circle has been devoid of children who know it's proper name for years now. Let's just hope they learn that the best sledding is not on our hill, but in The Pit at the other end of Dansk Court, that you can cut through to 4 other neighborhoods on your bike if you look hard enough for the trail, and that the cemetery our neighborhood backs up to really is haunted...according to the older kids.

Carbon-14 Dating

I’m having my quarter-life crisis early, it seems. I’m at a crossroads of desperately trying to regain my recently-lost youth and being a big girl. When I go to the mall, I suddenly feel frumpy next to the svelte 17-year-olds shopping at Forever 21 and Abercrombie. Although I wish I still looked like them and still had their responsibility-free lives, I’m starting to realize the merits to being 23, which, as Jessica Simpson said, is “almost 25, which is almost mid-twenties.” And everyone knows that those in their mid-twenties have it all figured out, are dating someone seriously, or they have Tiffany settings so massive that they can barely lift their young-professional left fourth fingers.

There are 3 types of males that can be logged at the quarter-life: the guy who just wants to hook up, the one who’s messing with your head, and the guy who’s looking for a wife. Any girl who went to college knows how to deal with the first type, and almost appreciates the familiarity that the situations with these gentlemen bring. We know exactly what to expect, exactly what he’s thinking, and exactly what he’s going to say, and we accept or reject…no gray area here.

Although those in the group of head messers are the most hurtful to us, they are far and away the most important people we will meet. I’m not going to limit this category to just guys; almost every girl has entered this category at some point too. These are the people we learn the most from. Everyone has had one of these, and has looked back and said, “What was I thinking?” Anyone, no matter how good-looking, smart, or cool they are can act as this type. They become a pure emotion to you, and exist not as a person with strengths and faults that you see in a realistic way, but as an entity that represents something to you. Eventually they’ll become a walking, talking symbol of your own stupidity. I’m a total glutton for punishment, so I’ve had an overwhelming number of these guys in my life. I figure I’m the guinea pig for my group of girls, and what doesn’t kill me makes me better at giving advice to others that I am not yet smart enough to follow myself. Bottom line: if someone wants something (you, namely) badly enough, they’ll find a way to get it. My mom said that. I hate when my mom is right. I’m sure you think I’ll now reference the Sex and the City episode that said “he’s just not that into you, it’s that simple.” You’re right. I just snuck it in (little known fact—snuck is not a real word). And it’s true. The sign of maturity at your quarter life is to recognize these people as a learning experience, material for your next novel, or as an example of what you should not do to others. Recognizing this is the easy part. Maybe at my half life I’ll actually put my own advice into practice. But, I digress.

The final and by far most disturbing classification is the uncharted territory of the looking-for-a-wife type. This type did not exist at UVA, so we’re left defenseless to their seemingly-charming wiles. There are two subsets of this breed: those who want you to settle down and stop drinking so much darn Jager and those who already settled down once before, have since unsettled, and want you to settle for them. Are you ready to become a country club wife before the other side of 25? Great! Do you still have some party left in you? Run! The first subset tends to be older and has already lived the glory days that you have not quite finished. They don’t mean harm, I promise. You just need to take responsibility for living your life to what you deem to be the fullest.

The second subset, also known as “damaged goods” is one that should be avoided. Anyone can fall prey to these guys, because they are super-tricky. One guy casually said to me, “So, do you like kids?” I said yes without thinking deeply into it. Turns out that “do you like kids” is code for “I have (1+) kids or will have (1+) kids in 9 months or less. Do you prefer ‘Replacement Mommy’ or ‘Daddy’s Special Friend’?” For the love of cupcakes, guys! What makes me look like a good choice for a mom right now? In just the last year, I’ve run down a beach naked for no good reason, considered soft tacos to be a major food group, and hugged my teddy bear with fiercer intensity than my boyfriend.

Dating at the quarter-life changes drastically from what it had been before. I’ve reached a zen-like state of calm where I’ve realized that I don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to stand and talk to someone. I don’t have to go on that second date. I was talking to a guy who seemed reasonably nice, smart, and good looking while Mehrnaz and I were out in Arlington one night. Everything was cool until he said, “Yeah, and in my Match.com profile…” I’d tell you more of what he said, but it was right then that I thought I had hallucinated for a second, and I stopped paying attention. I quickly realized that, no, no hallucinations, he really said “Match.com profile.” I turned to him and stammered, “Hey, I’ll be right back, I need to…um…*shifty eyes*…bye.” I disappeared into the crowd with very little guilt. My new mantra is “he’ll live.” And he will. I’m not trying to be mean here, guys. But really, what’s the point of continuing a conversation, dating, and everything in between if you’re just not that into it? See, there’s that logic again.

Now, I’m far from a feminist, and may the sweet baby Jesus help you if you ever call me a liberal, but my 5-year plan does not involve a husband. After graduation, my dad said, “Alright, honey, you’ve dumped Al (a lawyer), and that’s all well and good, but how are you going to have the lifestyle you’ve grown so accustomed to?” I rolled my eyes and said, “Oh, Daddy, please. I have a college degree, good friends, and my whole life ahead of me. I don’t need a man to support me…I have you.” A few months and about two paychecks later, I realized that I have myself. And my daddy for backup. Come on, let’s not be rash here. But that state of independence is the very basis of quarter-life dating. It’s like deciding on a new pair of shoes. You know you don’t need them to survive, but you ask yourself if you want them and would continue to enjoy them next season. So, here's to the quarter life, the wrinkle cream I just bought, and the hope for full maturity by my half-life crisis.