It’s taken me 34 years, but I’ve decided to become a sports fan. For love. Please let me explain. First, you should know I was born into a family of accomplished jocks. My father played college basketball and my brother played college football. My grandfather and uncle were tennis pros. When they discovered I was left-handed, my parents had high hopes that I would grow up to be a star first basewoman with a mean backhand. No such luck. I was a chubby, allergy-prone child, destined to be nothing more than a ball magnet on the field. My hand-eye-coordination is on the low-functioning end of the spectrum. And my spatial intelligence is completely non-existent. Meaning, I regularly bump into walls.
As a kid, I played soccer for two seasons and softball for one. My positions were respectively fullback and first base, where I tried to move as little as possible and spent entire games imaging a series of slapstick-style vignettes involving the other players until, inevitably a soccer ball or softball popped me right between the eyes and knocked me out. In gym class, I was always picked last, except on days when I had a doctor’s note (which were as many days as I could get away with). Keep reading »
When you turn 25, it feels like an alarm goes off and all of a sudden everyone is buying houses, getting engaged, and reproducing. Each time I log on to Facebook, I’m met with an onslaught of hearts on the side of my feed that tell me about all the engagements, weddings, and babies that have happened since I last checked in. That’s why everyone gives me the side-eye when I tell them that I’m actually moving out of the apartment that I’ve shared with my boyfriend, Chris, for the past three years and away from the only city I’ve ever called home (I didn’t even leave for college). Not only that, I’ll now be a plane ride away. Chris will stay put in Syracuse, New York, and I’m off to Charlotte, North Carolina, to once again pick out girly shower curtains with a roommate.
Normally when someone moves out of the apartment they share with a significant other, there’s a messy breakup. Clothes are thrown on the front lawn, locks are changed, and one partner may be acting out the entire list of instructions from “Before He Cheats” in the parking lot. In my case, quite the opposite is happening. My boyfriend and I are not breaking up. In fact, he fully supports the move. He’s helped me find apartments to check out, and he’s making the drive down with me to get settled in. The weirdest part is that my job allows me to work from home, so I could technically stay put. But I just can’t accept buying a house across from my high school and calling it a day just yet. There’s nothing wrong with that and a lot of people in my town do it, but I still have some adventure left to get out of my system. When you’ve only lived in one city your entire life, it becomes pretty uninspiring after a while. I need to experience someplace new in order to fully appreciate my hometown and keep growing as a person. Keep reading »
I’ve had some sucky breakups in my day. The guy who dumped me after we had sex. The guy I had been living with. But no breakup has hurt for so long afterward as the friendship ending between me and my best friend, James*. James and I became close in 8th grade and stayed thick as thieves through high school, college, and our first few years living on our own in New York City, when we never lived more than walking distance from each other’s apartments. James was more than a friend; he was family. When our friendship ended, I mourned the loss as if he were a brother. He had been more like a brother to me than my own brother over the years.
Now he’s engaged to his longtime girlfriend. And I found out about it over Facebook. Keep reading »
Originally appeared on Role/Reboot. Republished here with permission.
I threw away all my underwear today. Scratch that. Today, I threw away all of my underwear that would be classified as “lacy little things,” “thongs,” or, in Victoria’s Secret parlance, “cheekies.” Scratchy, itchy, barely-there? It had to go.
I have never lived alone, but in two weeks I will be moving into my first solo apartment. I will be sans-roommate, single girl-ing all up in this city; I am woman, hear me roar! Among the many horrid chores of moving, there is one beacon of joy: the Great Purge. I am a packrat by nature — note every 5K bib I’ve preserved, the melted plastic cup twisted by a deck fire, the tile from the floor of a hostel in San Juan — but moving is the kick in the butt I need to separate what I hoard sentimentally (all of the above) and what I hoard lazily.
The underwear is lazy. No pair has been purchased in the last four years. No pair has been worn more than five times. No pair brings a smile to my face or a steamy memory to the forefront of my mind. The truth, quite simply, is that I hate them all. About a hundred bucks and eight ounces of lace and elastic are now buried by garbage and I feel fantastic. Keep reading »
For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted people to like me. For years, I tried to please everyone, tried to juggle countless personalities and identities, hoping to please everyone and be universally liked. I tried to be everything to everyone, to the point where I didn’t know who I actually was. But as I’ve found my voice and begun to embrace who I truly am, I’ve come to realize that it’s not only impossible to try and please everyone; it’s harmful.
In the tattered scrapbook of old friends and extended family members, we all have one or two people with whom we continually clash. Perhaps it’s religious differences. Maybe it’s politics. It could be even be bad blood between other relatives or friends of yours. It could be anything. You may even learn to embrace the tension, to learn from the discord. But what if that relationship becomes more than a simple clash? What do you do when it turns toxic? Keep reading »
It is simple, what happened. I was an eager-eyed and relatively coy 18-year-old who was convinced that I was going to attend any four year university for acting, because I was a Capital A Actress. I applied to many schools for acting, I performed earnest monologues in front of expressionless adults behind a folding table. They thanked me for my time, my tights and sensible flats making me feel pulled together and adult. I wrote an essay about moving to California. The first paragraph contained the word “plucky,” which my eleventh grade English teacher Mr. Green circled with a red pen and scribbled “Good!” in the margin. I applied to Emerson College on a whim, as a backup plan, on the off chance that one of the prestigious and extremely competitive acting programs I applied to wouldn’t accept me. I navigated the hell that is the FAFSA, calling my father on the phone every night to make sure he got the papers and filled them out, pressing the papers into my mother’s hands, making sure that she did her part. I gathered all these things, I sent them in, I waited.
Emerson accepted me as a freshman — for writing, not acting — for the fall of 2000, a welcome relief after two weeks full of skinny rejection letters from various acting programs. I awaited the bounty of financial aid money that I would surely receive. Thanks to complications and a couple of sticky conversations about finances I mediated between my father and stepfather, it turned out that despite how it actually was, on paper, it looked like my combined parents made too much money to qualify for much financial aid, despite the fact that my mother and stepfather had already informed me they were not contributing to my higher education. What came was a paltry offering, an insult really, and not nearly enough money to pay for even one class, let alone an entire semester. After a week of tears and debate and gnashing of teeth, I had two options — apply to the state school in Buffalo, start in the spring semester and go to college in a town where it snowed from October to April, or defer admission at Emerson and reapply for financial aid. Deferring admission seemed the lesser of two evils, so I packed my bags and flew back to New York after high school graduation where I’d wait out my self-inflicted gap year. Keep reading »