They Don't Teach You This Crap In School

How, in God's name, do you inquire and coordinate professional counseling for yourself on the phone while at work?

Why was I charged $300 per credit hour to learn Life and Times of the Boring and Dead when I should have been learning Awkward Situations 101? (Followed up by Very Awkward Situations 102.)

The workplace, I have found, takes much trickery of the mind indeed. Things like "How to Poop in the Workplace", "How to Fart in the Workplace", "How to Poop AND Fart in the Workplace," are all legitimate, necessary lessons we must all be sneaky enough to learn. And, coincidentally, these are all lessons that you can find on the Internet.

What I want to know is, WHERE is the lesson on HOW to relieve your psychosis through professional means without declaring it on loudspeaker in front of all your curious co-workers?! I mean, can you just imagine?

Hello, what can I do for you today?
Um, I'd like to receive [mumble] because I went through [mumble] and I'm now [mumble mumble].
I beg your pardon?
I SAID, I'd like to receive [mumble] because I went through [mumble] and I'm now [mumble mumble].
Ma'am, you're going to have to speak up, I can't hear you.
I SAID I NEED SOME FREAKIN' COUNSELING BECAUSE MY FAMILY F'D ME UP AND NOW I'M F'N' UP MY F'N LIFE!!
*awkward silence*

Whoever thought of giving mental health practices the same 9-5 hours as everyone else OBVIOUSLY wasn't a counselor him/herself, otherwise he or she would have known that this would force poor patients like me to come up with ridiculous tactics to contact heresaid mental health practices.

My eyes are always flitting back and forth to stare down anyone who could be listening. (As if it weren't bad enough that yesterday I announced that I was trippin' on drugs during the company meeting, now I look like a paranoid schizophrenic.) I take short walks past the kitchen to contemplate whether THIS time I could be brave enough to make the calls in there. Finally, I grab my purse and my cell phone and take the elevator 4 flights down to the ground. Yes, you guessed it, I have resorted to making my calls inside my car. There I am, sitting in the back seat with one leg hanging out of the open door, calling psycho services on my own ass. What's worse, one of my co-workers walks out to his car to drive to lunch, only to see me chillin' in my car. "F it," I thought. "It's good to have a range of reputations. Might as well hone my crazy rep right here."

Still deciding on who to go with. This crap is expensive. Will let you know.

Taking It Up The Ass

I have a few things to say. I don't expect anyone to read this since I haven't been good at keeping up with other blogs lately, but we are naturally egocentric people. "It's all about me." So here I go. My shitty, dramatic, whirlwind week in review.

1. I love slow dances. Call me names, I don't care. The whole world slips away, your whole body sways in a trance, and you melt inside your partner's arms. That's why I gave Jason permission to get krunked at Friday's wedding. It was the only way he'd let me drag him to the dance floor. He kept grabbing my ass. Imagine trying to blow your fantasy bubble and your boyfriend keeps popping it. Nevertheless, for a few 2-second spurts, I was gazing into big green eyes and a smile that was just for me...and I got to pretend I was doing that while wearing white.
2. Freiburg Orthopedic, the bastard clinic that dismissed me as a patient, stuck a second finger up my ass. They sent me on a fruitless mission to the post office where I did not find my X-rays that I had requested, but ANOTHER dismissal letter. Turns out they had ignored my request to send them. Then Kim promised me she'd drop them off at my house. KIM, I TAPED A THANK YOU NOTE TO MY DOOR, YOU BITCH. The weekend came and went, no X-rays. I called and you coldly told me off and forced ME to come get them. Bite me.
3. Jason pointed out this weekend what I never realized: I'm a real PMS piece of work. In my defense, my habit of continuous, irrational crying and picking parked cars to do it in is an oscar-winning trait. I'm writing my thank-you speech now.
4. I also realized this weekend that I need counseling. Not in a "I'm psycho" kind of way, but in a "I'm fucked up from my family, I thought I put it behind me, but now I see the baggage I've dragged into my first serious relationship, so please help me so I don't fuck up my future marriage and kids" kind of way. Already in the process of finding a few counselors. Will let you know what happens.
5. One of my co-workers cruelly snapped and called me out in public today. I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she's having a bad day. Or MAYBE, as Jason's bestfriend suggested, she needs to get laid. I suspect the real reason she yelled at me is because my measely intern work has been picked for several projects over her senior status work. Get over it, Adrea, grow up, and tell your man to lay you.
6. I brought a laundry list of ailments to the doctor today. I'd never met him before, but if it's possible to have a doctor crush, then I have one on Dr. Jay Rissover. He's not Mr. November, but he told me a joke about deer nuts. Ironically, he won me over during the most uncomfortable part of the exam: when I was taking it up the ass. I was laying on my side as he did his thing when I heard him snort and remark "Sorry, I know this isn't the greatest way to meet people." I gave him a rectal squeeze. It was my way of saying, "Nice to meet you too."
   

Top 10 Wedding Etiquette Lessons

From a girlfriend to her boyfriend.

DO agree to slow dance with her.
DO NOT squeeze her ass the entire time (especially while she is trying to pretend she is the star in a romantic movie, where boyfriends gaze back into his girlfriend's eyes instead of squeezing her ass)

DO take pictures and say "awwwww".
DO NOT lick the side of your girlfriend's face when it comes time to have your picture taken OR take a picture of your boss and loudly declare that you are going to photoshop his head onto a donkey.

DO tell her you easily have the hottest chick in the entire place.
DO NOT grab her breast, butt or unzip her dress. No matter how horny you are.

DO try to parallel park while drunk, confusedly and violently cutting deep criss-crosses into the grass and finally settling on a "half on road, half on yard" parking job while your horrified and thoroughly bemused girlfriend looks on from the car behind you.
DO NOT try to deny allegations as your girlfriend falls out of her car, laughing uncontrollably.

And when you get home...

DO love her.
DO NOT fart while loving her.

iFart

Jason and I celebrated our 6-month anniversary this past Sunday. Somewhere amidst my "how could you forget" cry, his "I gotta smoke a cig" frustration and our make-up "I still think you're hot" dinner and walk along the river, I discovered one thing: the many ways a person can fart.

Some my family taught me: the blurp-while-walking fart (mom), the lift-a-cheek-during-dinner fart (sister), the outright-obnoxious fart (dad), the fart that sounds like a trumpet (sister), the discreet yet deadly fart (me). Jason taught me a few more: the after-makeout fart, the sideways leg lift fart, the I'm-sleeping-so-I-don't-know-I'm-farting fart, the "or else" ultimatum fart, and the "I can fart but you can't because you're a girl" hypocrite fart.

This Sunday, Jason's ass continued to enlighten me. Observe:

The "while we're spooning, vibration in my lap" fart
The "leg straight up in the air" kick fart
The lean over while we're in a fancy restaurant to say "I just farted, but it was 5 minutes ago" sneaky fart
The "distort my face to horrify my girlfriend while we're in public" pretend fart

So, my stinky friends, how many other farts can you name?

Crazy Talk

I drove to my parent's house last night, otherwise known as the funhouse, if drilling holes into the sides of your head is fun. (I had to, ok? I needed a ton of my things that they still had.) Mom was still at work (an act of God all on its own), but Dad followed me around the house as I scrounged up everything I had written on a list. The mission: Get in, Get out. The following is a glimpse of my dad, my actual dialogue, and and my inner devil.

*burrowing in the downstairs closet*

Hi.
Hi.
Here we go.
How do you like the new job?
It's fine. New culture, lots of people. Some people bother me, but all in all I like it.
*blank stare* WHAT is that smell?
Huh?
*sniff* UGH you reek! Have you been around people who smoke?!
I can't smell anything, but maybe I wore this shirt to Jason's. Everyone he knows smokes except for him and his mom.
You know full well that Jason's family and friends smoke. It's a nasty habit, I KNOW. Personally I prefer their bad habits over yours.

*burrowing in my room upstairs*

How's the back? Are you swimming? Are you going to the chiropractor? Don't you love the chiropractor?
NO, dad, I'm really very busy. I'm handling it though, I'll let you know what happens. And no, I never loved the chiropractor.
You JUST asked me the same questions yesterday. Get a new topic. Except for bowel movements, I don't like prune conversations.
How do you like the job?
As I said earlier...
Dejavu.
Has mom mentioned anything about a check?
What check?
I did some business with her. She owes me some money, but it's been a while and she hasn't paid.
What's the big deal? So she hasn't paid you. She's busy.
I did work for her. She needs to pay me. Is this how she treats her clients?
I'm not a fucking child! I do REAL work. Work that does not involve Barbies or Playdoh.
You're not a client. You're our daughter. Geez, if we were really doing business, I should be charging you for all kinds of things.
You know what, dad, forget I mentioned it.
Can I charge you for emotional abuse and unhygienic cooking for 22 years?

*back in the downstairs closet*

Seriously, you smell like a chimney. GROSS.
Sigh.
You smell like grease and poop.

*burrowing in the kitchen pantry*

So are you coming with me to Kings Island this Saturday or not?
I guess so, as long as I can be back before 5. I'd like to have time left to hang out with Jason.
Oh God, I said the "J" word in front of him. Brace for missile launch!
*Stiff silence* Oh. Jason, huh? Are you guys still spending the night over whole weekends?
Actually, we only see each other once a week now.
Patience waning...
But you guys ARE spending the night?
I SAID we see each other ONCE a week, like ONE day a week now. You know what, dad, it's really none of your business what I do.
Shit, did I really say that?
You know, the last time I spoke with him, he said he had 2 or 3 years left in school. TWO OR THREE? WHY is it going to take THAT long?
He's an undergrad. He switched majors.
LOOK. He's 26. He's a sophomore in undergrad when most people his age are well into their careers or have PhD's. He was a druggie and an alcoholic. He was a fuck up, I GET IT ALREADY. But he cleaned up and he's going back to school AND he's working when most people would just give up. Plus, he has a good heart and he adores me. I know you hate him, I know you don't think he's good enough. But you know what? I DON'T CARE. This is MY life, this is MY man, and you WILL NOT ruin this for me!
*deep sigh of disappointment*
*Throwing things blindly into my bag*
Abort mission! Abort! Get out now!
Oh look at the time, I gotta fly. Guhbye dad, guhbye!
Red alert! Patience quota overflowing!

I threw the last bag into the trunk of my car, jumped behind the wheel, and closed my eyes. Somewhere in the back of my head, someone was laughing.

This One's For the (Not so) Girlie Girls

You know of whom I speak.

Those girls that come into work every morning, looking picture perfect, their platinum fingers wrapped around an ornate mug of Starbucks coffee. Their hair is coiffed, their lashes are dark and curled, their eyeshadow matches their retro skirt and mini heels. Meanwhile, you straighten your Def Leopard shirt, wrinkled from being tossed against the floor too many times. You secretly hope that wearing the same shirt every two days will make it look like you have an extensive wardrobe. The girls begin to chat about how many calories they injested for breakfast, proudly displaying the other half of the bagel that they defeated by not eating. You're rubbing the zit on your chin, cursing yourself for eating the entire bag of Ruffles the night before. They notice you standing there, shuffling your feet, but what is there to say? "Hi, my name is Leslie and I'm a dirty pig, so hand me that donut"? So you don't say anything, which makes them think you're shy and stilted. You look at their tan toes peeking from little stillettos, and you rethink your practical choice of padded sneakers. For one moment, you wish you were "Miss Perky-Go-Getter" than "Miss Put-It-In-A-Ponytail". But at the end of the day, you are who you are. Might as well embrace it and surround yourself with people who do the same. Know what I mean?

Jason embraces and loves who I am, especially the low-maintenance part of me. If I apply the slightest makeup, he will scrunch his nose and say, "Ew, makeup! You don't need it. You're beautiful without it." He encouraged me to wear sneakers instead of heels or flip flops because "I think it'll help your back much more." He even turned me against shirts that showed too much cleavage. He tells me I'm sexy when we wake up in the morning and when we fall asleep. He finds me so attractive that he believes that every man who talks to me has an ulterior motive, which has led to fights about his irrational jealousy and discomfort around my male friends. But even in those fights, I know how blessed I am to be so deeply adored. Thanks baby. Love you too.

An Update and Thanks

Thanks to all the women who wrote and encouraged me after my post the other night. Your empathy and compassion was truly touching and inspired me to look forward, not back. You are in my thoughts as well.

Jason apologized almost immediately after what he said. We're still working on his habit of putting his foot in his mouth, but he's become quite adept at taking it out. =)

After my entire family wrote me seperate emails to scold me, my mother wrote another condescending email that I chose not to read. They are who they are, and though I cannot control them, I can control how I handle them. I have decided not to talk to my family for a while, as long as it takes to get my emotions back in order.

Last night I experienced a stroke of grace. My suitemate invited me to have dinner with her and her date. His job? Health insurance. I immediately explained what happened. He agreed that, although the doctor did not do anything illegal, his actions were way outside the bounds of human decency. He recommended a few actions, and even referred me to another respectable orthopedic practice.

Thanks again to the ladies. I'll get through this!

What I Remember.

Tonight, my tears are in the thousands. One for every painful thought and memory. They fall furiously to my lap. And I remember.

I remember living inside a secret hell hole for 2 years under the finger of a con man, wearing a body brace that was so thick I could not hold my head up in confidence, but too thin to cover my anguish.

I remember my parents. I remember their fights, I remember the numbness. I remember thinking, "I will be the parent they never were. I will show them it is possible to love."

I remember one doctor after another, each made of stone, none who could help me.

I remember a time when I could stand and walk, pain-free, for more than an hour at a time. I remember flowing flower dresses and bare feet in the spring, running to another adventure with no end in sight.

I remember my jealousy, the first time I discovered that, for some reason, I couldn't go to the bathroom like the other kids. I remember my shame.

I remember the measuring tape my grandmother used to compare my large waist to my sister's thin one. I remember my 5 years of a deep, dark depression. I remember hating myself.

I remember the day I decided that life was worth living. I remember climbing out of my hole. I have never looked back.

I remember my secret wish that this doctor...THIS doctor....would be able to help me. He would say, "Leslie, you can be fixed. You qualify for surgery. You will be well." I would have a solution to my disease. Then I would cry, I would laugh, and I would raise my arms in victory.

I remember this morning's phone call, the day before my rescheduled appointment. The secretary told me the doctor had permanently dismissed me as a patient. I was not to see him or any of his surgeons in the group ever again. All because I asked for possible monetary compensation for last week's appointment. Jason and my parents had patiently waited, then he had called in and cancelled the appointment. I didn't think it would hurt to ask consideration for compensation. I remember my heart dropping through my chest.

I remember telling Jason. He said he would fuck him up, and I laughed. Then he reconsidered and said, "In hindsight, [asking for compensation] was a really stupid thing to do." I remember my lips trembling. I mumbled something and hung up the phone. I covered my mouth to muffle a possible cry.

I remember writing my parents. I remember my mother's cruelty in her response email. Her disappointment, her anger...it was my fault, all my fault...I was the one to blame, I was always pointing fingers, she was the victim. I remember my hands were ice cold from gripping all of my insides, trying not to weep.

I remember the loneliness that settled upon me like an unsettling shadow. I could not cry at the office, what would they think of me? So I tightened my muscles and squeezed all the pressure into my temples. I still have the sinus headache.

I remember the subsequent emails from first my father, then my sister, who I had purposely left out of the situation, but my parents had heaved her in. Their words were a blur, mere additions to my mother's...words about the law, my mistake...I remember feeling utterly alone.

I remember the sobs escaping from my lips in a loud gasp, heaving from my chest after being repressed every minute for 12 hours. I buried my head in my arms and wept.

I remembered to write it down.

Not Just In The Movies

Chris and I share a passion for exploration. Now that we both work downtown and carpool, it's become easier to explore together on a whim. As of late, our explorations have taken a romantic turn (not with each other...well okay we are with each other but it's not...oh nevermind). Last night, we took a quiet stroll through downtown against a blood crescent moon. (Normally such romantic gestures might raise eyebrows, but we have been bestfriends for 9 years. While I have other bestfriends, none can claim the time and depth of understanding that he can. Although he's declared his love for me from the first day he met me, I have never returned the sentiment, and thus here we are 9 years later, the best of friends.)

Tonight, our curiosity took us back downtown. He wanted to show me an international friendship garden he'd found. We parked and started to walk....and walk...and walk...after the first mile, an aching back (damn scoliosis) and a few knats up my nose, I began to rethink this venture. But the evening was quiet, and I could not argue with the serenity of the river and the lights of the Kentucky shore. Three miles later, we sat in the middle of the garden for a chat. He massaged my back while we spoke up our most frequent topic: love. Chris hadn't eaten all day, so we stopped by Montgomery Inn for dinner. The glass pane reflected the nighttime glow of the river and the low lamp glowed on our faces as we ate.

By the time we headed back, it was completely dark and I was glad for the invention of light. Our stroll along the river took us through Sawyer Point (a large park). Along our walk, the path broke every few steps with a cove that stood closer to the river, illuminated by a tall street lamp. Chris was chatting about the history of our city, but I became distracted by a stir in one of the coves. A young couple were holding each other. The girl threw her head back in a soft laugh, and they began to dance....slowly...to the music of their own hearts. A few coves later, an older couple stood silently forehead to forehead in the shadows, gazing with eyes just for the other. We saw a few more couples, one hand in hand, another holding wine goblets and toasting to a new life.

I found myself wondering what it was like to be romanced like that and wishing I were them. I thought of Jason and wondered if he'd ever do anything like that for me. I thought of his warm, protective hands and the soft spot on his temples that I love to smell and kiss. I wished he didn't live so far away, that we weren't so busy, and that we spent less time arguing and more time sweeping each other off his/her feet.

But at least now I know. I know that the nose-to-nose, heart-to-heart, hand-in-hand, dance in the moonlight, throw your head back and laugh, kind of love does exist. And not just in the movies.

Buy Your Friends With Jello

Last night, Chris took me to Cam, the largest Chinese grocer in the city. (It is unimpressive by national standards, but for this bleach-white city, it's better than nothing.) My desk at my new job has been bare this whole week, and no living space of mine will ever be without the most necessary decoration of all: FOOD.

I can't read Chinese (I quit Chinese school in the 4th grade and I do not regret it thankyouverymuch), but I've grown up in its culture enough to have a strong sense of what I want. So I roamed up and down every aisle, looking for foods that struck my fancy.

Among packets of squid and pickled lettuce (oh shit, I just realized I forgot jellyfish and seaweed), I bought a large tub of lychee jello cups. I'd been trying to fit into my work's hip culture all week, and suddenly, I had an AHA moment.

"Christopher," I said, "I am going to buy my friends with jello."

He laughed.

"No really," I insisted. "No one knows what lychee is, much less seen a tub of little lychee jello cups. I will set it on my desk. People will flock to my desk in curiosity, we shall converse, I shall have friends, and voila! I shall be integrated. It's brilliant."

I lugged that tub, a pack of dried squid, and a pack of beef formosa to my desk today. Within minutes, our secretary spotted the tub and came right over. "What is that? I'm scared of it. Can I try it? What does it taste like? Is it a jello shot?" One by one they came, asking the same questions.

With an innocent face, I replied, "Oh this? Oh you should try it! C'mon, you know you want to..."

Ahhh...one more brilliant Leslie plan, deployed and accomplished.

I have a mosquito bite on my ass.

It itches.

Men Jokes!

THIS

TO

THIS

Last night, Jason walked into the living room, and with a sly expression that clearly meant he was about to say something he thought terribly clever, he said, "What do you call a woman with two black eyes?"

I sighed. The only thing worse than a woman joke is hearing a woman joke over and over again because your boyfriend forgets he recycles the same 3 jokes like a bad menstrual cycle.

(The answer, by the way, is "Nothing. You done told her twice.)

As a short asian woman, you can only imagine the many corny jokes I've had the misfortune to hear. They don't irritate me. On the contrary. Never one to turn down a battle of wits, I've finally decided to give it back.

To all women who've been at a loss for a comeback (but knowing full well that there is plenty about men to ridicule) and to all men who've never gotten their comeuppance - this is for you.

How are husbands like lawn mowers?
They're hard to get started, they emit noxious odors, and half the time they don't work.

How do men exercise on the beach?
By sucking in their stomachs every time they see a bikini.

How do you keep your husband from reading your e-mail?
Rename the mail folder "Instruction Manuals."

How does a man show he's planning for the future?
He buys two cases of beer instead of one.

How many men does it take to open a beer?
None. It should be opened by the time she brings it to the couch.

How many men does it take to screw in a light bulb?
One-He just holds it up there and waits for the world to revolve around him.

How many men does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Three. One to screw in the bulb, and two to listen to him brag about the screwing part.

What did God say after creating man?
I can do so much better.

What do you do with a bachelor who thinks he's God's gift to women?
Exchange him.

How can you tell when a man is well hung?
when you can just barely slip your finger in between his neck and the noose.

Why do men whistle when they're sitting on the toilet?
Because it helps them remember which end they need to wipe.

Why do only 10% of men make it to heaven?
Because if they all went, it would be Hell.

Why does it take 100 million sperms to fertilize one egg?
Because not one will stop and ask for directions.

What do men and mascara have in common?
They both run at the first sign of emotion.

What do men and pantyhose have in common?
They either cling, run, or don't fit right in the crotch!

What is the difference between a sofa and a man watching Monday Night Football?
The sofa doesn't keep asking for beer.

What is the difference between men and women?
A woman wants one man to satisfy her every need. A man wants every woman to satisfy his one need.

What's a man's definition of a romantic evening?
Sex.

What's the best way to force a man to do sit ups?
Put the remote control between his toes.

What's the best way to kill a man?
Put a naked blonde and a six-pack in front of him. Then tell him to pick only one.

What's the difference between Big Foot and intelligent man?
Big Foot's been spotted a several times.

Why are all dumb blonde jokes one liners?
So men can understand them.

Why can't men get mad cow disease?
Because they're all pigs.

Why do men like smart women?
Opposites attract.

Why is psychoanalysis a lot quicker for men than for women?
When it's time to go back to his childhood, he's already there.

Why is it difficult to find men who are sensitive, caring and good looking?
They all already have boyfriends.

And now, a Leslie Tribute.

I am a...

Pure Nerd 60 % Nerd, 17% Geek, 21% Dork

For The Record: A Nerd is someone who is passionate about learning/being smart/academia. A Geek is someone who is passionate about some particular area or subject, often an obscure or difficult one. A Dork is someone who has difficulty with common socialexpectations/interactions. You scored better than half in Nerd, earning you the title of: Pure Nerd. The times, they are a-changing. It used to be that being exceptionally smart led to being unpopular, which would ultimately lead to picking up all of the traits and tendences associated with the "dork." No-longer. Being smart isn't as socially crippling as it once was, and even more so as you get older: eventually being a Pure Nerd will likely be replaced with the following label: Purely Successful. Congratulations! What are you?

Trust the toad.

Last night Chris took me to a dinner and a movie. We said we were celebrating - I landed an internship at Barefoot Advertising, a premier agency in town - but in truth, it was just one more excuse for him to take me out and for me to get free food and good laughs.

He took me to Smokey Bones. Wow. For appetizer, we shared hot, moist cornbread with pecan butter. Mmmm! As an entree, he had turkey, ribs, and pork. I had a half rack of baby back ribs, mashed potatoes (the good kind with chunks of skin) and green beans. Oh and they had a sauce made of vinegar and peppers...my two favorite ingredients of all time! I poured it on. For dessert, we had fried donuts with strawberry dipping sauce.

I'd never gone to Smokey Bones before, but I'm definitely going to go back! Apparently it's a chain. Has anyone else eaten there?

We walked across to RAVE theatre. He doesn't like comedy and loves horror and drama. I love comedy and fear horror. So we compromised - The Brothers Grimm. Let's be honest - it's not going to win any Oscars any time soon. But Chris has a thing for Matt Damon, so off we went. The only quote I can remember is "trust the toad". Good advice.

Just as we pulled up to my house, I fumbled in my purse and realized I'd lost my keys. With my car dead as a dud in the driveway, the prospect of replacing a chain of lost keys, and the world as we know it going insane, I was beside myself. In these situations, the temptation is to do something that makes you feel in control. Some people cut their hair. Some people cut their wrists.

I cut my fingernails.

Hey they were getting long, okay? Then this morning I arrived at work and there they were, sitting on my desk, mocking me. I could just hear them whisper, "You're a dumbass." I was too relieved to argue.

Love Struck Dumb

I guess it started when I was just a freshman in high school. It was towards the end of the year. I heard a knock at my door. It was Michelle. She and her boyfriend, Dave, were upperclassmen and my very first friends at Syracuse University. We chit chatted. She told me she had a surprise. She whipped out her hand, sparkling with a gorgeous engagement ring. She screamed. I screamed. We all screamed for ice cr- you get the point.

It seemed like a dream. One moment I was a mere high schooler, reliving passionate scenes of too-good-to-be-true movies in prolonged daydreams. The next, I was a college student and everyone, everyone, was getting married.

The pace seemed to intensify once I became a junior. I made a feeble attempt to count how many friends were doing the crazy by writing them down. By the time I was a senior, I had given up hope. Over 20 friends were engaged. Now that I've graduated, I continue to hear about who is donning the latest rock. Even the people who swore off love, who committed their hearts and genitals to hating the opposite sex, are now engaged.

How did this happen? When did we leap from drooling youngsters into lovesick adults? Better question, did I miss the leap in my own life?

I'm 22. I'm young. I have a figure (sort of). My boobs don't sag. I'm at the start of a promising career. I just moved out of my parents' house. I pay my own bills. I bought car insurance. I memorize car terms and try not to look ignorant in front of mechanics. I lead a women's bible group. I am in a serious relationship with a not-so-serious boy. I've honed the quintessential, made-for-TV love-hate relationship with my mother. I'm a young professional, damn it.

I'm not ready for marriage.

So how does everyone who's engaged know they're ready? The same way I know I'm not, I guess.

I mean, Jason and I talk about it. No actual plans, just daydreams. Well, mine are daydreams. I think he seriously thinks about it...more often than he'd ever admit. He's made it clear that he wants to marry me and grow old together. We joke about our kids' names and what they'll be like. (Jason wants to name the oldest boy Paste. He says he'll eat paste, beat up kids, and be cool. Shoot me in the face, please.)

I'm always asking, "But how do you know?" "How did you know she was the one?" "How do you know you want to marry me, Jason?" "How did you know you were ready to get married?" "How did you know you were ready for kids?" How do you know?

I'm starting to learn that maybe it isn't about knowing. Maybe it's just about being happy where you are with what you do know, and being willing to take a leap and fly with what you don't.