“Someone’s testing you this week,” she said.

“Someone?”

“God.”

“Oh. Well I don’t know if God necessarily is testing me,” I said, “But whatever it is, I’d be okay if it decided to stop.”

I sat with my legs held tight, my fingers fidgety, and tears threatening to surge. I had progressed to the point where I saw my therapist once every few weeks, but after the past few days unleashed themselves on me, I was folded in her chair yet again, less than a week after my last session.

It was a combination of several things that led me back to her office, the least of which was hearing several close friends express doubt that maybe I had gone off my meds too fast. I needed her confirmation that I did the right thing, that I was breaking down in my car because of environmental stressors and not because of my own internal mechanisms.

I struggle with remembering that my sister? Is a bitch. There’s no getting around it. So no matter how many times I yell at her or my parents yell at her, her sense of entitlement is always going to make me flee the house. In my head, I keep a running countdown of when she moves out – I think that’s the only thing that keeps me from throwing a fork at her head daily.

Of course, it was just my luck that the day I fled the house to escape her and arrive early at work, I got pulled over. Though the police officer walked away, giving me a lesser fine for one that he could have given me, it was enough to send me over the edge.

My car has become the place for tears. It doesn’t get much more pathetic than sobbing on the wheel of one’s car in the middle of a vast parking lot of a suburban mall.

When I was finally able to compose myself enough, I walked into work with red, but tear-free eyes. That lasted for approximately two minutes, at which point, I locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed, surrounded by rolls of toilet paper, moisturizers from Bath and Body Works, and an errant can of hairspray. Ten minutes later, having washed my face repeatedly to try to take the red out of my eyes and dissolve the puffiness, I wondered if there was a miracle crying remover.

I find myself volunteering to pick up extra shifts at work – not only for the extra money, but to avoid my sister and the inevitable drama that she creates. (Example: She decided life is not worth living anymore because she has no plans for the 4th of July, and my parents do, plans that don’t involve her. Yeah.)

“I just feel so angry, all of the time,” I told her. “I yelled at two people at work, and I feel as though I am so close to exploding or breaking down all the time,” I said.

“Is it anger or is it frustration because you can’t do anything about your situation?”

“Both? I don’t know. I just…feel so isolated. Like…I can’t escape, at all.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Well that’s understandable. You don’t know where you’re going, and you can’t go anywhere till you get a job, so you’re stuck at home, in an environment that is more harmful than helpful. You can’t talk to your parents about what’s going on, and when everyone around you seems to be communicating poorly, if at all, it’s no wonder that you feel so frustrated.”

“I don’t want to be this frustrated though,” I said.

“Think of it this way. The frustration and the anger comes from you feeling isolated and knowing there’s nothing you can do to change that.”

“Am I allowed to tell the economy to suck it?” I asked.

She laughed. “You can try, but I don’t think that would make much of a difference. It’s just a bad time to be job hunting right now, and that, mixed with everything else going on right now is putting a lot of stress on you.”

“And for the miscommunications?”

“You can’t change people. Though it sounds like the guys are playing games, and unnecessarily so, while your friends and family are just being inconsistent.”

“I just feel like life is happening all around me, and I’m not moving a single inch. I’m so tired of being stuck.”

And I am. I really, really am.

I may have neglected to mention that I quit my meds.

As in, when I wake up in the morning, I no longer take a little blue pill that is supposed to monitor my potential for insanity, panic attacks, and breakdowns.

I did it cold turkey. I chose not to meet with my psychiatrist to get yet another lower dosage. So I stopped.

DK (formerly known as Thailand) was with me. He had just returned home from his two year stay in Thailand to celebrate my birthday with me, and to prepare for pharmacy school in the fall.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he asked.

“Not a clue,” I said. “But I hope so.”

I put the daily pill tracker on my desk and said a mental goodbye. Every morning, I feel as though there is something I am forgetting to do, before remembering that after almost a year on meds, I’ve sworn off.

The problem comes from remembering how to deal with life’s stresses without having that little blue pill to subconsciously make me feel as though I can take it all on.

There’s the return of my sister and the inevitable problems that come from her being home. There are the fights that I still moderate between mother and father – only to have them enhanced when my uncle chooses to tell me the day after my birthday that my dad is a cheap asshole – using a euphemism of course. There are the boys who show extreme interest only to back off and leave me with mixed messages. There’s the frustration with having achieved my Master’s, and yet still be living in my parents’ home, working at a retail job with almost full-time hours and no benefits. There’s the panicky feeling of having no escape, of having nowhere to go – simply because there isn’t. This is suburban New Jersey after all, or at least the middle of bumblefuck nowhere.

I try to remind myself, this is a short term situation. The job market sucks. Boys suck. I try to remind myself that I have too much faith in people – I give them the benefit of the doubt when really, our relationships exist only when they are convenient for them.

I try to remember that I do have some of the best friends in the world. When I was beginning to feel utterly dejected that I would be ringing in my 25th year with only Doctor Long Island and DK, as all my other friends had backed out, I got two of the best surprises. Techny Besty was able to come after initially having to work on my birthday. And Avocado surprised me by flying cross country for the weekend just for me. Having a day with some of my closest friends from my adolescence and college years reminded me that sometimes? People are worth having faith in. The right ones will always be there for you. Sometimes it’s just a matter of knowing who the right ones are.

Yet when I sob in my car because I’m just so tired of wanting to get out of this rut, out of this state, this place and everything that comes with it – the lack of autonomy, the regression to a seventeen year old version of me, the inability to change my environment because as my therapist puts it, some things are simply out of my control, I end up worrying that maybe I did go off too quickly.

Am I unable to cope with life’s stresses?

Or do I just need to relearn how to deal with them without the safety net of that daily dosage?

Most people on the East Coast are asleep now, and it’s not something I’m used to yet. I’ve been here two months, and I’m not used to being one of the few people online at the end of the night. However, today has been a contemplative sort of day, where thoughts jumble in my mind and spike up at the most unexpected moments. It’s involved me having lengthy entertaining conversations of the philosophical sort on AIM, reading a book in its entirety, and more or less taking myself out of the real world. I haven’t exchanged words with a single person in California today, and I love it.

I discovered that my penchant for red grapes, but white wine, and complete aversion to raisins (they make me throw up) only highlight my contradictory nature. I chose to be candid in my statements with friends and let them into what my thought process has been. I thought about how October has been a bad month for me for the last three years. Last year, it was when my hyposomnia started, where I resorted to Tylenol PM to get through the night because I hated the idea of taking anything heavier and growing dependent. I have severe issues with dependency, as you can see – I not only fear it, I loathe it.

I was indulged in my bike humor, which I greatly appreciate. For the record, it’s still spending nights at my office. But that’s not where I am today. I finished reading a fourth installment of a series that I’ve come to adore over the last few years, and the protagonist is a college graduate looking for answers, hoping they’ll be given to her rather than having to develop her own. She gravitates towards something that has always provided the answers to her in the past, before being asked a tremendous question by that very same source. It’s only when she talks to the most unlikely sources of comfort that she gets a better sense of what she wants, but she still wishes for a clear-cut direction. I’m beginning to learn there are no clear cut answers – we just need to choose the lesser of two evils.

A few days ago, I got told some pretty harsh stuff from my boss. Things like, “We’re not sure how things are working out right now with you,” among other things. It hurt to hear that I moved across the country to do this and was now being asked to take a less proactive role; to wait for someone to give me something to do. I wanted to make a difference, change the world, be the idealistic 20-something we all have inside us at some point. As it is, my days consist of making one or two phone calls, sending out a few e-mails, maybe doing some research that takes all of an hour, and then idling away while reading blogs and chatting with friends online. It seems that the board is uncomfortable with me finding projects to occupy my time. Incidentally, the slightly unprofessional board member from a few weeks ago told my boss that she thinks she may have overreacted because I remind her of her daughter, and they’re going through issues. While it was nice to get a semi-apology, it still made me feel like I made the wrong decision.

I began questioning my motives, as I’ve been doing the last few weeks, and wondering if maybe I’m being feckless and irresponsible by choosing a job where I make barely enough to pay my rent and the bills, especially if I am generating so much controversy right now. As of now, I still don’t know. I’m willing to give it a shot, but not if it means I end up feeling useless and unhappy. I don’t think there’s ever a good enough reason to stay in a place that doesn’t make you happy.

I also had to decide whether or not I was ready to take my relationship with J to another level. We remain content in our unofficial official status, and a situation arose that would have contested what the limitations of our non-relationship is. I wasn’t ready to start asking those questions. In the past, I would have had other boys on hand to call when something wasn’t going right with the one I was with. It was never cheating, as the relationship was never official, but it was one way of keeping my feelings protected behind the wall that was raised years ago. I had the choice of having a friend visit, which would have been very clearly more than friends behavior, or not pushing the boundaries and seeing where things continue to grow. I chose to try the more “mature” thing and just deal with the feelings straight on without the complications of adding another relationship to the mix. J didn’t let me down. He continues to make me laugh, answers my pointless, meandering questions, tells me little inane details of his life that make me feel that I am getting to know him even better, and makes me feel like I am wanted, even when he is 1500 miles away.

What is it about where we are in our lives right now? It seems anything can change overnight, as I’ve learned in the past, but we’re so resistant to change. When we create expectations, they only get knocked down and it hurts that much more because we didn’t see it coming. I got the chance to talk to S and L simultaneously tonight (a hilarious and comforting exchange because we know each other so well, the jabs and teasing comments flew) and it occurred to me that we hadn’t been in the same place for at least a year. I honestly can’t remember the last time we all saw each other, and we realized that we may not see each other next until someone has a wedding. I never really thought about what happens when you graduate. People move away, try new things, fall in love, and so on. It makes me feel as though I missed a few steps on the ladder and while I watch people my age experience these things, I’m still scrambling for support that won’t come from the smooth siding. I don’t envy their happiness or success – I know it’ll come to me someday. It just amazes me how so many people find themselves so sure of the answers while I can’t get much further than deciding to have french toast for breakfast.

All in due time, I suppose.

This post is a part of 20SB’s Looking Back Blog Carnival, and Ben & Jerry’s is awarding free ice cream to lucky bloggers and readers!

I still don’t like red wine. Nor can I eat raisins. Some things just won’t change.

[Scene: Retail Store, late evening, after Jess has returned from the beach with a mega sunburn.]

Jess knocks over a garbage can in the back of the store while trying to get a bunch of stuff for a customer.

A offers to clean things up.

Jess sells something.

E tells Jess the floor is a mess and she should have not left it as is.

Jess goes back to clean up and asks A what happened.

A says, “I was going to clean it, but then it turned out there was more stuff than it looked like, so I figured I’d let someone else clean it.”

Jess says, “You should have let me know that you weren’t going to clean it. It was my responsibility, and now I look like I am okay with leaving messes on the floor.”

A says, “Okay.”

Jess groans. “Stop being so damn passive aggressive! You’re so inconsistent. You say one thing and do another.”

A goes, “I do?”

Jess says, “Yes!”

“How?”

“Just….everything!”

“Well. Tell me if I’m being passive aggressive so I know.”

“Fine.”

Jess tries to clean floor. Floor is slippery. Jess almost falls.

Jess gets goo gunk cleaner thing and makes the floor even more slippery.

Jess attempts to get mop and discovers she has no idea what to do with a goddamn mop.

Jess tries to put water into a bucket to give the mop some water, but after using a coffee cup to pour water into the bucket, Jess gives up.

Jess goes to the back room. “Can you help me?” she asks.

“With what?” says A.

“I have no idea how to use a mop.”

A walks into bathroom.

Takes mop.

Brings it into back room.

Jess asks, “Don’t you need water?”

A says, “No.”

A mops.

A gives the mop back to Jess.

Jess looks at it and decides it looks like a fork in spaghetti and swirls it.

Then she decides to bring it to bathroom.

Jess puts the mop away.

Jess pulls on the bathroom door.

Freaks out because it’s not opening.

Continues pulling on the bathroom door.

Continues freaking out.

Then Jess remembers one has to push the door to open. Not pull.

She staggers out of the bathroom and almost falls into A and S, and is so waggled, she almost bursts into tears and laughter simultaneously.

The end.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who thought she was above all the insecurity and paranoia that comes with boys.

Then she met one who looked oddly good in a t-shirt and his shoulder blades turned her on. Not that she ever knew she was attracted to shoulder blades before, but there’s always something to learn, one might suppose.

There was a strange attraction between them; one that dared to step over the line but never completely succeeded. He reminded her of past boys that she had adored, and the conversation between them flowed honest and easy.

Mixed messages were the theme of the friendship though. She never could tell if he wanted her or not, until one night, he kissed her in a dark basement. The next morning, no words were exchanged as she led him out the front door, just that it would stay between them.

A conversation was had where both parties agreed that there were no regrets about what happened; in fact it could happen again were it to be spontaneous, but neither should enter with the expectation of a repeat performance.

She left slightly confused but slightly relieved. She recalled a similar situation in the past where feelings had built up only to explode one night. Unfortunately, several weeks later, the boy of the moment told her it was all a mistake. She didn’t think she could be told she was a mistake yet again.

Two weeks after that night in a dark basement, she finds herself regretting what happened. His attention span towards her seems nonexistent outside of work. Her insecurity grows with every passing day, a feeling that makes her most certainly uncomfortable.

Add to the mix a third coworker who has made no bones about her interest in said boy and boy’s apparent reciprocal interest despite his claims they are just friends, and girl finds herself regularly annoyed at work. In fact, she prefers when it’s just her and boy, and not a triangle, for girl is tired of triangles.

When coworker girl and boy whisper to one another and sit together, girl tries to remind herself, “He’s done that with me too. It doesn’t mean anything.” Yet, somehow she leaves off feeling as though maybe she’s not good enough for boy.

Ultimately, girl wishes she knew why she felt the way she did. She doesn’t think she has any longings or passionate flames burning for boy. But then girl wonders: is it him that she’s upset about? Or is it the attention?

Once upon a time, girl decided she needs a new job, and now. And also, to remember her rule about not getting involved with coworkers.

When I was younger, I used to imagine this sort of tropical sanctuary where all I would need is a hammock, the ocean, a tree, and a book.

Realistically speaking, I would have probably needed a mosquito net, electricity for when the sun went down so I could keep reading, and my laptop as well just to survive. So there goes that plan.

But the fascination with books still holds true. There’s something about them that lets me transport to a completely different time and place. Admittedly, it was only until maybe college that I started reading books written by non-American authors – it’s easy to forget that literature is not just an American term. There’s something about reading a book that takes place in another culture though – it somehow teaches you so much more about the human condition than living life itself could.

For instance, the elections in Iran. Names like Ahmadinejad and Ayatollah Khameini would mean nothing to me if I hadn’t read “Reading Lolita in Tehran.” When I first picked it up, it felt like one of those books you always hear that you should read but somehow never get around to doing. I have a whole list of books that I should read but simply haven’t. As I delved further into the book of a literature professor teaching in Tehran, literature and revolution somehow twined together to create a book that probably explains what happened to Iran in the late 70s more than any history class ever could have. Granted, the perspective is told just from one woman’s side, but it introduces one to the mindset of Iranians and what it meant to be a female Iranian on the brink of the reintroduction of radical Islam. I don’t think an article in a newspaper could ever capture that mentality so well.

Now, seeing Tweets and facebook messages and news reports about what is going on in Iran somehow seems so much more real. It’s not something that’s going on in the Middle East, far away from here, where I sit cocooned by my books and creature comforts. It’s something that I’ve been able to touch upon when reading, and seeing Iran in the middle of yet another potential revolution strikes much closer because as a reader, I was able to experience what the revolution was like the first time around.

That’s the beauty of literature. Though people seem to be moving away from it more and more as technology advances, it’s amazing just how much it can bring us right back.

It started with a hot dog.

Red solo cup in hand, I asked him for a hot dog as he appeared to be the grill master for the evening. I hadn’t quite figured out how I would maneuver being tipsy, holding beer, and eating a hot dog simultaneously, but that hadn’t occurred to me yet.

A few witty lines exchanged and suddenly I offered my hand.

“I’m Jess,” I said.

“I’m C,” he replied.

As the night progressed, we talked. And we talked. He told me his job might scare me as it involves being really smart. As in the intimidating kind of smart. I said, “Try me.” So he did. And while he’s not intimidating in his intelligence, it’s safe to say that I more or less have no clue what he’s doing because it’s so far beyond my concept of math and science I could only nod and go, “Uh-huh.”

Fortunately, I’m fairly certain he had the same reaction when I explained to him what it was I went for a degree in and what I want to do, for it was his turn to nod and say, “Uh huh.”

“I think I stepped on a hot dog,” I announced.

“And…I have absolutely no idea how to respond to that. Wow.”

“Sorry. I’m the queen of non-sequiturs,” I offered.

“So I see. Normally I would have a witty comeback, but I just don’t even know what to say to that,” he replied, shaking his head in bemusement.

We sat down to talk, having decided standing in the middle of drunk people was an idea more fun in theory. The conversation veered from work to school to friends to sex.

“How many times have you had sex in one day?” he asked.

“Three.”

“Nice.”

“Wait. Did you mean how many people in one day or how many times with the same person?”

“NICE!” he declared with a high five.

I didn’t need to be a more cleaned up version of me. I could talk to him about anything without feeling like I had to present the best side of myself. Somehow it came up that we should hang out outside of this backyard party. So we exchanged numbers just before I left to call it a night.

I got into my car to begin the drive home, when I decided to text him. “I really had fun talking to you tonight. Let’s do it again,” I wrote. Two minutes later, I had a response from him. We texted back and forth until I got home, teasing and flirting remaining the theme of the conversation.

The next afternoon, my phone vibrated. “What’s up trouble?”

And with that, a new chapter begins.

I woke up this morning with “Tramps” written on my hand and the marking of “Bitches” left on my pillow case.

The “Tramps” I remembered, as it had been written on my hand before I even got drunk. The “Bitches,” on the other hand most certainly did not come from me. In fact, I distinctly recall “Bitches” being written on my friend’s hand last night, but I had no idea it would later imprint itself on my pillow case.

True story.

After months of back and forth silly flirting, I dared him to kiss me and to my surprise, he did. And then he kissed me some more. And maybe a little more. And a little more turned into a lot more which turned into him spending the night at my house while my parents were gone and my sister was asleep.

You know what I forgot? Getting a taste of being physical with someone makes you want to be physical all the time.

As in, I want to call him and tell him to meet me in some abandoned park and bring a condom this time. Spur of the moment doesn’t always lend itself to preparedness. I want to tell him to come over tomorrow and do all sorts of things before I leave for work, to start making up for the last year and several months of chaste graduate student living. I want to text message him with naughty pictures, reminding him of how much fun we had and wouldn’t it be great if we could do it again?

And therein lies the problem. Friend? Is a coworker. One that comes with his own set of baggage and crushes and “God, I need to get laid,” stories.

He told me last night, “Stop thinking. You think too much.”

It was smart of him, as he’s right. I was thinking too much. I was thinking, “What happens now? No one can know. What does this mean, if anything? Does this mean he’s really liked me all along, and he’s been lying to protect his friend’s feelings? Or is he just really drunk?” But he wasn’t drunk, not when he first kissed me in a dark basement, and not when he kissed me again in the comfort of my bedroom.

So “Tramps” is still inked on my hand, as no matter how much I scrub it, it refuses to go away, while “Bitches” rotates in a spin cycle as I attempt to erase that evidence. If it’s only for one night, then let it be for only that one night.

I don’t need ink inscribed on my pillowcase or hand to remind me of how it feels to be wanted, desired; to want someone that you can actually have unlike a long distance fantasy that keeps returning. I may be on edge, waiting for my next fix, but until then, my body will recall the evidence of how it feels more clearly than any words ever could.

Almost a week after returning from Israel, I still haven’t found the words to say.

There’s the obvious, about my dad and sister driving me to the point of almost having a panic attack, making me glad I was still on Prozac. Nothing like playing tug of war and being the flag in the middle.

There’s the not so obvious, about falling in love with Israel all over again, but this time through my family’s eyes. I got to see the house (if you can call a one-room one-story building that) where my father was born and where my grandmother was born. I also got to meet yet another uncle who considers himself estranged from our family, yet welcomed us warmly with biscuits and lemonade.

There are the hotels where my grandfather worked as a young man in Tel Aviv, with three small children and a bride waiting for him at home, one he married after six weeks of courtship.

There are the gardens in the city of Haifa, which prove that Israel is not just for Jews – other religions such as the Ba’Hai can live here peacefully too.

There’s the fortress on top of a desert mountain, where two thousand Jews took their lives to avoid being killed or enslaved by the Romans. Seeing the rooms where they held banquets and weddings in the Northern Palace with its original architecture and artwork feels as though it can transport you back to a time where people lived, loved, and died upon a mountain.

There are the people dancing in the streets as music plays, fire swings, and actors hang from strings in the sky to celebrate one hundred years of being a city in a state that’s only sixty years old.

There are the ubiquitous soldiers, walking in their clunky boots and their chunky guns, sitting next to us on our bus ride to the kibbutz where we befriended a polish chicken. Or at least listened to it as it was impossible to not hear.

There are the desert sands mingled with palm trees and dead seas, where people bathe and purify themselves in mud. Only in Israel do people willingly roll in the mud.

There’s Yad Vashem, a museum that can both overwhelm and stun one with its historical archive of World War II and its infliction on the Jewish people. One might learn more there than they might ever have from school, books, or lecturers.

There are the houses in the Germantown area of Jerusalem, which go back several hundreds of years, only to be put to shame by the millennia-old houses in the Old City, where people live, work, and jog.

There’s the Mediterranean with its waves that are more graceful than angry, yet still capable of rendering a bathing suit useless.

There are the extended family members who teach me more about my own history, background, tell stories that make me laugh and imagine a more peaceful time in a country perceived to be in a constant state of turbulence.

There’s only one Israel. And I’m so glad I got to experience it again.

In the last four years, I’ve only spent one Memorial Day weekend in the States. Mind you, it was a particularly memorable one as it was one of the most explosive dates I had with GDB.

This year, in 2009, I’ll be spending the weekend of barbecues and pool openings in a country where its peaceful nature is laid asunder by its turbulent history. I’m looking forward to walking the cobblestone streets of Jerusalem, laying out by the Mediterranean, in Tel Aviv, climbing the hills of Haifa, and snorkeling in the Red Sea. I’m looking forward to taking a break and celebrating my accomplishments, my goals, my past and my future.

But mostly? I’m looking forward to getting to see one of my favorite countries in a new light – the Israel of my father’s childhood.

…You somehow end up with a blue one.

Is it bad that I am contemplating having my new hearing aid be blue? It could be a fashion statement…

Discovering my graduation gown has wings. (For champagne glasses? Beer cans? Flying away during boring speeches?)

A spoken word performance, rather than the usual cliche student singer, which I loved. (And finding out my grandfather’s response was, “He went to college for four years to do this?”)

My grandparents actually making it to this graduation. I told them I went to grad school just so they could attend a graduation of mine, since they missed my undergraduate.

Flowers from my dad! (And no. My dad is not mature enough to do a family dinner. But he at least was there.)

A surprise piece of chocolate cake with a blue candle from the restaurant we ate at, after we all ate our desserts. They must have noticed the big purple gown in my hands.

Trying to use the bathroom and maneuver my graduation gown, wings, cap, and hood that reached past my butt. I think I understand the difficulties brides have on their wedding days when they wear those big foofy dresses.

My hat not falling off, impressively.

Having my hood redone at least four times while waiting in line for the processional because I am unable to follow instructions properly, or conform as necessary.

Not tripping across the stage.

Being able to wear my favorite dress from San Francisco, which I haven’t worn in a year.

Getting to see my advisor and introducing her to my family, despite the massively crowded hall in Lincoln Center.

My grandfather singing, “New York, New York!”

Laughing hysterically for no reason with my Pea during the diploma exercise.

Evaluating shoes because we were in the third row and had a great view of all the shoes crossing the stage.

Seeing the Empire State Building lit up in purple and white in honor of NYU.

The first time I ever pointedly stood up for myself was when I was sixteen.

I was a junior in high school, taking AP History, and I was in a class full of slackers. Our history teacher regularly assigned us a list of terms related to American history, which we had to define. It could be a president, it could be a scandal, or it could be one of the thousands of words that were coined during an era and stuck around to terrorize overambitious high school students.

When you’re sixteen, the world suddenly opens up so much more than it had before. There’s dating, there’s the prom, there’s your first after-school job, learning to drive, volunteering at the old age home to make your college applications look good, and on and on. School becomes an afterthought, and understandably so, when there’s sex to be had and money to be made! Adulthood, right?

Anyhow. I was sixteen and one of about twenty students in this one AP History class. We had been given a timeline to complete 150 terms related to history, as we were nearing the end of the year and the beginning of AP exams. Being the sort of person who thrives under pressure, I quickly developed a timeline. Even though I worked three days a week after school and volunteered on the weekends and had a boyfriend whom I saw regularly, I managed to get a few terms done a day. By the time the deadline drew near, I had completed all 150 terms and thoroughly, at that.

It was at school one day, during our lunch period, when someone came up to me and asked me to sign a petition.

I asked, “What is this for?”

“We want to ask Mr. R. to give us an extension on the terms.”

The 24 year old writer in me wants to say I peered curiously at the student in question, sending telepathic notes of irritation and disappointment through the air. The 16 year old memory says I simply said, “Why?”

“Well, everyone’s too busy to finish them.”

I recall taking insult at that, as though it implied I had nothing better to do with my time than define history terms. I was well aware many of my classmates had a certain perception of me, one that I didn’t bother to alter, simply because I didn’t care enough for them to know who I was and what I did. But on that particular day, the perception rankled me.

“Well, I finished them. And I’m pretty busy too,” I finally said. (Witty, yes? Stunning reply of disarming intellect.)

“Yeah, but just because you did doesn’t mean everyone else was able to also.”

Maybe it was the way she said it that rubbed me the wrong way. Or maybe I just didn’t see why I had to buy into the “Well everyone else did, so you should too” argument.

I shook my head. “If I finished it, you guys can too. I’m not signing it.”

She walked away with an exasperated huff (I’m allowed to take creative liberties, no?) and I assumed that was the end of that.

I was wrong.

When I got to class later that day, for AP history was after lunch, the petition was announced. Being a small class, it was fairly easy to discern who had and who had not signed the petition. One girl, T., had not signed, but she rarely partook in any sort of collective agreement, for the purposes of being contrary. My recognizably small handwriting was conspicuously missing from the list.

Our teacher stood. “So if I understand this correctly, everyone but Jess and T. have signed this petition.” I could feel the eyes of my classmates boring a hole into my back. “Any particular reason you chose not to sign, Jess?”

“I didn’t see any reason to. I already finished the terms.”

“Well…you can sign now if you want, and I’ll let the class have an extension,” he said.

Nothing like putting a sixteen year old girl on the spot. Was he doing this because he liked watching his students squirm? (Indeed, he was the same teacher who would send me to detention for throwing a Skittle at a friend, only to call me back into the room the minute I walked out just to tell me it was a joke.) Or maybe he wanted to see who would best define his idea of a capitalist society, choosing only what most benefits one’s self. Or perhaps, he thought it was pretty damn admirable for an impressionable high school student to defy the status quo.

My answer remained the same. I chose to not sign the petition.

I don’t recall whether or not he allowed my classmates an extension, or if he held firm to his original date. I don’t remember the aftermath of that class and how my classmates responded to me, though I imagine it was the same as ever – tolerance with a bit of annoyance thrown in until the next travesty occurred. I just remember it as the first time I ever outwardly stood up for myself, not just on principle, but because it was something I actually believed in, no matter how minute of a detail it was.

She was standing by a table when he walked in.

It took her a minute to realize who he was, and for her to realize that no, it wasn’t her imagination playing tricks on her or that it was just a passing coworker with a strong resemblance.

She didn’t know what to say, exactly. What do you say to someone who leaves you in a heart spin every time you speak? And sets boundaries that are impossible to break?

So she simply looked at him.

There wasn’t any grand romantic run, the kind that happens in every romantic comedy. Nor was there a tentative walk before they grabbed each other’s face and kissed. They just watched each other, as though they weren’t entirely sure what happens next.

A coworker sidled over to her. “Do you know him?” he asked.

She could only nod, still not sure if what she was seeing was right. She had imagined this on slow days, but never thought it could actually ever happen.

Finally, the interloper in the midst said something. “Hey,” he said.

She replied. “Hey.”

“So this is where you work, huh?”

“For now.”

“Yeah.” He shuffled, his blue Chucks scraping the floor while she ransacked her brain for something witty to say.

“So you’re here.”

“I am.”

“Why?” Wit failed her as curiosity leapt from her tongue.

He couldn’t hide the surprise on his face. “Why else would I be here? I’m here for you.”

“Oh,” she said.

In that one tiny slip of a vowel, the past and future fell to the floor, tangled as ever but no longer a question. Rising around them were the whispers of the present, finally answering, “And so here we are.”

And indeed, there they were.

You know you picked a great topic to write your thesis on when your professor announces his eleven year old daughter “borrowed” it for two days because she was so into the subject.

It helps when the conversation ranges from literature to media to gender issues to social networking to celebrities to literature, and you actually have a response to every question or thought brought up by three academics.

Another plus? Having your thesis committee announce they wish they had had you as a student because you’re so smart and would have greatly contributed to the class.

Thesis: successfully defended.

Me: Flying on a mega high.