It was Thanksgiving and my family was over to celebrate my fifth birthday party. My cousins and I put on a Thanksgiving skit, a tradition that should be all fun and games. But as soon as the play was over and we were taking our bows, I began crying hysterically. It was as if someone told me my American Girl dolls had been stolen. My family tried to console me as they wondered what could have possibly been making me so upset.
“They didn’t eat the apples!” I screamed. My creative idea was for everyone to take a bite out of their apples as the pilgrims and Indians united post Thanksgiving feast, and when this didn’t happen, I had a nervous breakdown.
My name is Erica and I’m a worrier. The littlest things irritate me, whether it’s an ignored text, a new Facebook album from a party I wasn’t invited to, an unpleasant encounter, or an email that begins: “I regret to inform you.” I worry and complain so much that sometimes I don’t even know what got me so upset in the first place. I feel terrible about myself for worrying about these things because I know I have no good reason to cry, worry, or complain.
I tell myself all the time, “Today is the day I’m going to put all of my problems aside and just take things as they come. I’m going to be carefree and happy, and I won’t let anything get in my way. I’ll live a positive life full of love, laughter, and pink frosted cupcakes.” Instead, I’m a nervous wreck. I’ve got 99 problems and then some: OCD, anxiety, claustrophobia, perfectionism, jealousy, and regret, to name a few.
To most people, I come across as a calm, cool, and collected girl who knows what she wants out of life and doesn’t let anything get in her way. I walk around campus like I own the place—leading every group, dressing to impress, and cutting the line at bars. On an average day, I go to class, write an article or two, search for a full-time job, spend way too much time on Facebook, text boys, go to dance, tutor, spend time with friends, sort my emails, do homework, call my family, eat, sleep, repeat. I constantly make to-do lists, whether the task is something important like “Finish paper” or something insignificant such as “Repaint nails and toes.”
Most days, I wake up happy and ready for anything that might come my way, but soon I’m bombarded by negative thoughts and the inequalities of life. It’s little things like failing my road test without ever making it onto the road, taking seven AP tests but not receiving any credit, and hearing boys serenade the girl nextdoor, inviting her to a formal I wish I were invited to, that remind me of every little thing that has gone wrong in my life. I still cry when I have to get shots, often swat away the doctor during strep tests, and can’t swallow pills without a banana. I worry about being unemployed and dying alone.
Many people would probably get upset about some of these things, but they would also know when to let them go. I, on the other hand, am in a constant state of stress. I overreact, jump to conclusions, and expect the worst in most situations. Even though I know the past can’t be changed, I constantly dwell on it. I’m anti-tattoo, but in hopes of ending my chronic worry habits, I’ve considered getting this Tupac quote tattooed across my forehead: “You can spend minutes, hours, days, weeks, even months over analyzing a situation; trying to put the pieces together, justifying what could’ve, should’ve, would’ve happened. Or you can just leave the pieces on the floor and move the fuck on.”
Although I’ve always had food, clothing, and shelter, I still let the less-than-perfect moments define my daily outlook on life. I’m desperately trying to change my pessimistic way of life and achieve a happier, more relaxed state of mind. Anti-anxiety medications aren’t for me, I refuse to smoke weed, and I almost had a panic attack in yoga class. I have read many self-help books and am ready to help myself, which is why I decided to write this memoir.
The specific events I’m going to share with you seemed earth-shattering at the time, but in retrospect, these anecdotes make for laughable memories. I hope to carry this “look on the bright side” mentality with me more often. Whenever I feel like the world is crushing down on me, I’ll remind myself that things aren’t as bad as they seem. I hope that after reading about my crazy life of cooking mishaps, dating disasters, rejection, and roommate issues, you too, will learn to laugh at the spilled milk.
I Kiss Better Than I Cook
I cook just about as often as I sky dive. The rest of my family whips up potatoes au gratin and cedar plank salmon like it’s their job. I bake cookies and forget to put in the sugar. My eggs aren’t sunny side anything. And the chicken I cook tastes like badly seasoned rubber. I write off cooking as something I’m not cut out for, just like I do with driving long distances on freeways, taking elevators, and being a pro basketball player. Instead of taking risks, I let my irrational fears and worries get in the way of my ultimate success. It took me until junior year of college to boil my first pot of water. I always thought the steam and sizzling noise from leftover water on the burner meant the pot would go up in flames, and I don’t do well with fire. Cooking and cleaning aren’t for me; I’ve got much better things to do, like blog about my nonexistent love life and pin inspirational quotes that warn me to stop worrying so much.
My parents never ask me to cook anything, just like they never ask me to mow the lawn. One day last summer, I was feeling rather generous and volunteered to make chicken tortilla soup for dinner. It was June and I still didn’t have a summer internship, and cooking seemed more productive than watching House Hunters on repeat. I must have ignored the fact that my usual kitchen responsibilities stopped at setting the table, pouring the drinks, and tossing the salad. I may not be a top chef, but I sure do know how to get the right water to ice ratio.
The chicken tortilla soup recipe was a crock-pot recipe so I assumed all I had to do was throw a few ingredients into a pot. As soon as I got to “let simmer until thickens,” I knew I was in over my head. I couldn’t even open up the cans without calling my mom for help. Soon I realized we didn’t have any chicken broth. This whole cooking thing was really starting to annoy me. My mom had left ingredients on the kitchen counter so I assumed they were all there. We didn’t have chicken broth, but we did have Boullion cubes, a food particle that had always grossed me out. How does a grainy square-shaped substance turn into chicken noodle soup? I ignored my initial unpleasant feelings about Boullion cubes and filled a pot with the tiny amount of water that was listed on the Bouillion cube jar before dropping in two cubes. The water didn’t boil and the cubes didn’t dissolve. I called my mom again. She told me to put the water into a mug and boil it in the microwave. Finally a step I was familiar with.
After I made the soup, I decided to clean up the kitchen. I rinsed out the cans and managed to cut my finger on one of the lids. Stupid cans. I panicked and called my mom.
“I cut my finger on one of the cans and my finger is gushing blood!” I said.
“How bad is it? Is there a lot of blood? Do you think you need stitches?” my mom said.
“I don’t know? Maybe! It’s scary and the blood won’t stop!” I replied.
A few minutes later, our neighbor, Mrs. S, arrived to fulfill her nurse duties. I was in tears at this point and couldn’t stop looking at the bright red blood oozing from my finger. I imagined the newspaper headlines: “Girl dies while making chicken tortilla soup.” Mrs. S was very sympathetic and spoke to me as if I were a small child, never mind I was 21-years-old. Looking back, I realize I was overreacting, but at the time I literally thought I was going to bleed to death. How was I supposed to know if I needed stitches? I’m not medically trained and I’ve never been the type of person to brush off the dirt or laugh off a bruise.
After I calmed down and finished cleaning up the kitchen, I ventured into tortilla strip making—a special addition to the meal to impress my family. I thought for sure I would win “World’s Greatest Daughter” and maybe even land on the Food Network. All I had to do was cut a few tortilla shells into strips, place them on a lightly greased tray, sprinkle on a little seasoning, and put the tray in the oven at about 350 degrees. This was an easy assignment, even for a novice cook like me. Five minutes later, I saw smoke pouring out of the oven. My fear of fire was colliding with my inability to cook. I should have just watched HGTV and let someone else do the cooking. I ran outside to call my mom. She didn’t answer so I called my dad.
“DAD, THE KITCHEN’S ON FIRE. THERE’S SMOKE COMING OUT OF THE OVEN AND THE KITCHEN’S ON FIRE,” I said while hyperventilating.
“What, Erica? I can’t understand you. Calm down. What happened with the kitchen?” he said.
“IT’S ON FIRE!!!” I repeated.
Eventually I went back inside to throw out the burnt tortilla strips and air out the kitchen. Next time they can crumble Tostida chips on their soup. The meal turned out just fine and the kitchen didn’t burn down. I often wonder if I’m really that bad of a cook or if maybe I just don’t give myself enough of a chance.
I’ve since gotten more adventurous in the kitchen. My greatest cooking accomplishments include: homemade spinach pie, chicken stir-fry, and Pinterest cupcakes. And no, that Instagramed photo of last night’s dinner was not a frozen meal.
I’ve learned to be braver and more confident through my cooking catastrophes. I might not be ready to open up my own restaurant, but I’m getting better at trying new things and stepping out of my comfort zone.
Mr. Right, Where Are You?
I came to college thinking I would find my future husband—a tall guy with dark hair, dark brown eyes, medium tanned skin, a natural-born athleticism, humor, kindness, and a sort of womanizing effect that would land him on the Bachelor. Bonus points if he was studying at the business school. He’d approach me at the library and we’d talk and laugh for hours. He’d call me when he said he would and take me on dates. He’d teach me how to cook and show me off to all his friends. We’d hang out just because, and the sex would be great.
Unfortunately, my college “relationships” haven’t impressed me anymore than my junior high boyfriend who held my hand during an entire basketball game and stood outside my first hour class staring at the floor and asking me how my homework was. I didn’t find this little hand-holding gesture sweet at all. My hand was numb and sweaty and I wanted nothing more than to let go. But I was the lucky girl dating the most popular boy in seventh grade so I kept my hand in its locked position and my mouth shut. Two summers ago, a similar incident occurred as my date reached over and grabbed my hand while he was driving. I pretended to like his sincere move but could only bare the clammy hand-holding for a second before asking him to drive with both hands on the wheel. Ironically, when I’m drunk, I want nothing more than to hold a guy’s hand.
It’s become obvious that college guys don’t know how to interact with the opposite sex. Unless they are drunk and looking to get laid, they rarely pursue. The courtship of yesteryear is nonexistent, or maybe I’m meeting guys in all the wrong places. Finding a guy who will take you to a nice restaurant and get to know your parents is harder than winning the lottery. Now the only thing going through guys’ minds is, “What do I have to do to get her to hook up with me?” I’ve gotten my fair share of one-night stands and drunken make-outs, but never the real deal.
I want to fall in love, but instead I give in to the sweet talk of guys I meet at bars. And although the guys probably think I’m just another naïve girl looking for some late night fun, I always hope for something more, something real. I want to know how it feels to be in a real relationship. I want him to pick me up at my door and take me on dates instead of us “hanging out and watching a movie” aka making out. I want my face to light up when I see it’s him that texted me. No drunkenness involved, just a sincere “I’m thinking of you, let’s hang out.” It seems like wishful thinking because my happily ever after has yet to happen.
We all know how the saying goes: “What’s meant to be will find its way.” Instead, I’ve taken it into my own hands to meet the guys, but then it bites me in the butt. Once, on a Saturday night, I walked into the bar at 2 A.M. because naturally this is the best life decision when you’re drunk and lonely and want someone to walk you home. One of the bouncers, we’ll call him Army Boy, took my number and texted me the next day. This in itself was a sign of interest. A couple nights later, he took me to a dive bar and our conversation resulted in him telling me he was a heavy drinker in eighth grade. I was not impressed. Nevertheless, I kept him around because it was better than having no one around. He had an armful of tattoos, combat boots, and a love of the outdoors. I have a strict no tattoo policy, a closet full of stilettos, and an affection for resorts. Still, I continued to hang out with him and tried to look past his camouflaged attire. A part of me wanted him in my life, just so I could fall asleep in someone’s arms. Each time Army Boy said he had feelings for me, I wished I had feelings for him too. I was going through the motions of a would-be relationship, but the sparks weren’t there.
Sometimes, I think the idea of liking someone is better than actually liking them. I wanted so badly to like Army Boy and almost agreed to wake up at 6 A.M. to go fishing with him. I later gave in when a guy asked me to go running with him, but luckily I opted out of this early morning fishing outing. I am not a fisher or a runner. A month or so into our “fling”, Army Boy went to Georgia for training. He casually mentioned that I should fly to Georgia and stay with him for a weekend. I cringed when I saw that text. Did he think we were a couple?
“Uh oh, he wants to make you his army wife,” my sister said. I missed Army Boy while he was in Georgia, but not because I missed him. I missed the idea of having a “him”—whoever he was.
I’ve given up on finding Mr. Right in college, but that’s okay because my dating life has been anything but boring. I might not have gotten a lovey dovey long-term relationship, but I did meet a lot of guys—monkey man, MBA student, Joey Jew, barn dance boy, motorcycle man, 6’4” guy, Sweden, and many more. Who says you have to fall in love in college and then get engaged right away? For now, I’ll continue to navigate the college hook-up culture, but without the expectation that each guy I meet is “the one.” Instead I’ll laugh, talk, flirt, kiss and tell because my stories are way too good to keep a secret. And when my latest crush doesn’t answer my text, I’ve got this new Tinder thing to keep me occupied.
I’ve learned a lot in the complicated college dating scene and I hope that you will learn from my mistakes. When a guy tells you how beautiful you are, it doesn’t mean he wants to date you. If you continue approaching guys at bars, you’ll probably get a free drink and maybe a goodnight kiss, but you’re not going to get a four-course dinner or a boyfriend. Even if you’ve kissed a lot of frogs like I have, you can’t dwell on your past decisions just because they didn’t result in the happily ever after you’ve always wanted.
We all want to find love, but it might not happen when we want it to. In order to be happier, we have to stop looking for love in all the wrong places and instead learn to love ourselves first. Remember that we will find our Mr. Right one day if that is what we want, but in the meantime, we have to keep telling ourselves that we are special and worthy no matter what our relationship status is. I don’t need a man to make me happy.
Paying for Friends is Stupid
I always wanted to be in a sorority. The sisterly bonding, philanthropy events, and matching Greek Life gear all sounded so appealing to me. Who am I kidding? I just wanted to party and meet guys, and joining a sorority seemed like the easiest way to accomplish these goals. My older sister never “went Greek” because she always says she’s an independent woman. My mom didn’t join a sorority either. Even though I wasn’t a legacy, I had the personality and looks to get me a bid, or so I thought. And plus, I was used to chanting and team bonding from all of my years on dance team, so I assumed Greek Life was where I belonged.
Recruitment started with a mass meeting at the Union that looked more like a science fair, except instead of homemade volcanoes, sorority girls stood with forced smiles plastered on their made up faces. Each booth had pictures, posters, and scrapbooks of overly cheery girls posing in formal attire. I left the meeting hoping that the phrase “sisterhood is forever” wouldn’t be stuck in my brain. A few days later, I attended the Panhellenic mass meeting, which was essentially the same as the first mass meeting. A room full of perky girls ready to meet their “sisters for life” gave speeches about how incredibly awesome their lives became after they went Greek. I already have a sister thank you very much and my life is awesome. I was starting to wonder why I had been so psyched to rush a sorority.
A few days later, the sorority mixers began. We spent two days visiting all 16 sorority houses. It became obvious which ones were the “top” sororities and which ones were begging for members so they wouldn’t lose their houses. If you’re not a fan of speed dating, then you wouldn’t be a fan of rush. If you like bragging about yourself and mimicking the body language of the girl sitting across from you, then you’d fit right in.
Entering each house elicits a similar feeling to entering a dog show. It’s like the first day of student council camp mixed with an episode of Toddlers & Tiaras. You get the idea. I put on my best smile, straightened out the part in my hair, and picked my wedgie before strutting through the doors of sorority house number one. The girls were all so pretty, and then I noticed a ginger hiding behind the staircase. I’d later come to find out certain sororities make the less fortunate looking girls lay low during recruitment events and sit out of serenades. Where’s the sisterhood in that?
A random girl linked arms with me and escorted me to the living room as if we were the best of friends. “Hi, I’m *Samantha. I’m from L.A,” she said. For the next five minutes, Samantha and I talked about what we were studying, where we lived, and what we wanted to be when we grew up. I would have much rather been getting to know the guys in my dorm. Occasionally, other girls joined the conversation as if they just so happened to walk by. I could tell they were judging me before they even heard me speak. “*Molly, meet Erica. Erica, meet Molly.” It was another superficial conversation that was supposed to determine if I and the girls of sorority house number one were destined to be sisters for life. It was only the first day of recruitment and I was already annoyed by it.
That night, I went to a party with my older sister and her friends. Alcohol was flowing and everyone was having a great time; this was the college experience I had been looking for. I imitated the rush process and had everyone in tears they were laughing so hard. “Ben, meet Amanda. Amanda, meet Ben.” It was obvious that I thought recruitment was ridiculous, yet I still put on my cutest attire the following day and lined up eagerly at each house as if one-upping the girls in line and dissecting each sorority’s stereotype was the best way to spend my first weeks on campus.
Soon it was time to rank the houses. “It’s all mutual. If you like the girls in the house and they like you, it’s a match!” said every older sorority girl. I was confused when I got my house rotation invitation a few days later—none of my top five ranked houses appeared on my list for the next set. I felt like Elle Woods felt when Warner dumped her. Everyone I knew had told me I would definitely get bids for any house I wanted, and I believed them. I went through the second set of rush just for kicks. Not only did we get to have superficial talks this time around, we also got to watch the sorority sisters perform a comedic skit. My laugh was just as forced as my smile. I thought to myself, I’m way funnier than these b*tches.
I got back my invitations for the next set, and was invited back to houses I hadn’t even ranked. I didn’t click with the girls in those houses or have anything in common with them so why would I want to be in their sororities? I thought it was all mutual. Instead, it was a complete joke. I cried and then called my best friend: “Guess what?! I get to live with you guys next year!”
A month later, a sorority that had been kicked off campus announced that it was starting up again. There would be no formal recruitment process, but instead an application and interview. I decided to give it a shot. For whatever reason, I thought I needed to be in a sorority in order to have the ultimate college experience. I put on a dressy yet simple outfit so I wouldn’t look like I was trying too hard and cheerfully bragged about myself to the sorority recruiter. In the back of my mind, I couldn’t shake the nickname this sorority had when my parents were in college: “Zits, Tits, and Armpits.” I got a rejection email the following week.
You would have thought I learned my lesson about the Greek system, but I decided to rush again sophomore year. This time I had friends in all of the top houses and they assured me they would put in a good word. I spent an hour choosing the perfect photo to use in my recruitment paperwork, and purchased a rhinestone cross necklace so the Jewish sororities would know not to pick me. I have nothing against the Jewish community; I just didn’t want to be the only non-Jew in the sorority.
I was now the odd girl out for a different reason. Rushing as a sophomore is like trying out for a junior varsity sport your senior year of high school.
“You realize you’re going to have to look really good and say all the right things because you get less points when you’re a sophomore,” said *Lauren, a friend of mine who had joined a sorority freshmen year. I smiled at her but inside I thought, how completely stupid.
I bonded with the girls in line and filled them in on the sorority nicknames even though I knew it was wrong to be so hypercritical. I felt like the older and wiser house mom. My second set invitation was even worse than the one I got freshmen year. I crumbled up the stupid piece of paper and went to the nearest bathroom to cry. I was not alone; there was a crying girl on her phone everywhere I looked. At this point I was pissed off. How could an organization that prides itself on sisterhood and happy feelings create so much sadness?
I never got into a “top” sorority like I wanted, and whenever I see girls wearing their Greek letters on campus or picking out their dresses for semi-formal, I get a sour feeling in my stomach.
Going through rush taught me that following the status quo and doing what’s “popular” isn’t the only option in life. We have to accept things as they are and understand that it is what it is. Life went on even after the Greek system rejected me. I went to date parties and mixers and bonded with my friends without paying a penny. Whenever people ask me what house I’m in, I answer them just as my sister would: I’m an independent woman.
Living with a Lunatic
Some people can’t wait to leave their childhood houses and live on their own. I would live at home forever if I could. I’m part of a happy, loving family and I grew up in a house that was always clean with my own bedroom, home-cooked meals, and family game nights. When you live with the same people for the first 18 years of your life, you get used to a certain lifestyle and it’s hard to move out.
I always knew I wanted to go away to college and although I was nervous for my new living situation, I figured I could handle it. I roomed blind my freshman year and got along with my roommate just fine. We were different from each other in terms of personality, looks, and interests and it took some awkward moments before we considered each other friends. I remember sitting on our lofts the first night in our dorm room and waking up in the morning not knowing how to get down because our ladders hadn’t arrived yet. She was taller so she threw some pillows on the floor to use as a cushion and jumped down before sliding my desk chair under my loft so I could safely get out of bed. Moments like this brought us closer together. I watched her take her first shot and saw her dance on a fraternity party table for the first time. I was so proud. Sophomore year, I roomed with a family friend who I’d gone to school with since first grade. We decorated our room with Paris memorabilia and had study break dance parties. She’s one of the happiest people I know. Too bad her positive personality didn’t rub off on me. I lived in an apartment junior year, and that’s when things got weird.
I met *Jessica through mutual friends the summer before my sophomore year of college. Jessica, my best friend *Stephanie, and I were all short and living in the dorms sophomore year. We instantly became friends and decided to live together junior year. I committed to being Jessica’s housemate, but I knew very little about her except for the fact that we shared the same shoe size and she was “supposed” to be on the University of Michigan swim team. Jessica’s best friend *Claire was going to live with us too.
We calculated how much each girl would pay prior to moving in and used the floor plan to split up the rent by square foot so everything would be fair. We divided the shared living spaces into four equal parts and split the price of Jessica’s bedroom in half since her and Claire were sharing the room. A month or so later, Jessica sent us an email with the subject titled “PIE FLAVOR.” The email was not about apples, cherries, or peaches. It was about her unhappiness with the way we split up the rent. According to our calculations, Jessica and Claire were each going to pay $100 less than Stephanie and I, but Jessica still wasn’t happy. We agreed to meet in the dining hall that evening to discuss the rent. I was not looking forward to the conversation, but I knew it was better to address any issues before we moved in.
“I just found out my parents are getting a divorce so I’m not going to be able to pay as much,” Jessica said as the four of us picked at our French fries and chicken broccoli bake. Was a conversation about rent really the place to tell us about her parent’s upcoming divorce? I was not about to fall for Jessica’s sob story.
“We already decided how much each of us is going to pay and budgeted everything out with that price. I’m sorry about your parents, but we are all responsible for paying our portion of the rent,” I said. Jessica agreed to pay the original rent price. Claire later admitted that Jessica made up her parent’s divorce hoping that Stephanie and I would let the two of them pay less. I’m glad I stuck up for myself.
The first few months living together were great—we shared clothes, partied, and drank girly cocktails together. Jessica never complained about rent and we got along like the best of friends. Although living in an apartment for the first time was different from my childhood home and two years living in the dorms, it was exciting and it forced me to become more self-sufficient. I finally tackled things like boiling water, writing checks, and vacuuming.
As the year progressed, Jessica spent less time at our apartment and more time at her boyfriend’s place. She only came home to shower and make grilled cheese sandwiches. Jessica’s stories became more exaggerated and I had trouble deciphering if any of the words coming out of her mouth were true. She explained to us that her freshman year roommate once sprayed her with hairspray and asked if she could pee on her. I caution you to do a full background check on each of your roommates before moving in with them.
Aside from telling outlandish stories, Jessica acted like an expert in everything. She was studying engineering, but she thought she knew the answer to every medical or cooking question. Jessica was quick to correct each of us whenever we did something wrong and talked in a monotone voice that made her sound like a know-it-all little boy. Our perfect living situation was now not so perfect anymore; in fact, it was really starting to bother me. As I look back, I wish I would have been more cautious before agreeing to live with someone I barely knew.
By the time second semester started, Jessica was hardly living at our place. I assume she stayed at her boyfriend’s fraternity house, but no one really knows where she was all the time. Jessica had always collected our rent checks to bring to the leasing office, but she was acting really weird one night in January when it came time to collect the next month’s rent.
“When are you going to be home so I can get your rent checks from you?” Jessica asked each of us separately through text. We told her we’d put them into an envelope like we always had, but Jessica said she would rather collect the checks from us directly. This seemed strange, but we all agreed to be home at a certain time. In walked Jessica followed by her mom and dad. I knew something was up since her parents hadn’t been to our place since move-in day.
“Hi girls, how are you? Can we talk to you for a minute?” Jessica’s parents said.
“Good. Sure,” we replied.
They asked us to come sit down in the living room. I did not like that they were ordering us around in our house. Jessica’s mom sat on a kitchen chair, her dad sat on our hot pink chair (which made him look really funny and out of place,) Jessica sat on a couch by herself, and Stephanie, Claire, and I sat on the other couch.
“So it’s obvious you guys and Jessica aren’t friends anymore. We’re here to talk to you about how you’re going to pay Jessica’s portion of the rent because she’s moving out,” Jessica’s dad said. I stared at him as if he were insane. I told him we’d be happy to talk through our problems but that we were not going to pay her rent. He told me they were way past the point of talking things out. I really didn’t like that Jessica’s parents were arguing with me, especially since they weren’t the ones living with us. Still, I stuck up for myself and remained in control of the situation.
“Well we’re not paying her rent. We all signed a contract and we are all responsible for paying. My mom’s a lawyer and I’ll get her involved if necessary,” I said.
“I appreciate your battling attitude Erica, but this is not a battle,” Jessica’s mom said.
For the next half hour, Jessica sat in silence as her parents yelled at us about how inconsiderate we were and threatened to call our parents. I wish they would have called my parents because my parents would have given them a piece of their mind. You can’t just randomly stop paying rent one day and expect your roommates to cover it. I decided to bring up some of Jessica’s lies.
“We have no problems with your daughter except for the fact that she tells some crazy stories,” I said. I then went on to tell them Jessica’s account of sailing around Alaska with her dad and her freshman year hairspray/pee incident. Jessica’s parents kept rambling on about how mean we were to their daughter. Jessica never said a word.
“I’m done here. I’ve got things to do,” I said. As I washed my dishes, Jessica’s parents kept yelling at my other (normally less assertive) roommates who shouted back at them with rage. I added in one more “story” before leaving the room.
“By the way, Jessica told us you were getting a divorce so she could pay less rent,” I said. Normally I wouldn’t have gone that far, but Claire had already told us Jessica made up the divorce so I knew it wasn’t true.
We didn’t see Jessica for the next few days. We alerted the leasing office of the situation and told them Jessica was trying to get herself off the lease. A few days later, Jessica sent us a detailed email discussing her plans to move out. We were worried she wouldn’t pay her portion of the rent, but luckily she kept paying for the rest of the year. I haven’t seen Jessica since the day she moved out and sometimes I forget she was ever my friend. It’s funny how quickly things change. People who mean a lot to you can be in your life one day and out of it the next.
I learned a few things from this unpleasant living situation that I will carry with me as I approach new phases of my life. You might think you know someone really well, but they’ve probably got some dirty secrets and flaws that you don’t want to see. From now on, when I meet new people, I’ll be hesitant before letting them all the way into my life or my home.
On the other hand, not everyone is all bad. Maybe Jessica had some issues that she was working through. Instead of remembering her for her manipulation and lies, I’ll try to look at the positive side. She did teach me how to make a delicious quesadilla!
Another lesson I’ve learned is to stick up for myself in all situations. If I wouldn’t have been so persistent about keeping our original rent prices or refusing to pay her portion of the rent when she decided to move out, I wouldn’t have been happy with the outcome. In fact, I would have felt like a coward.
I might not be the best at meeting the man of my dreams or cooking gourmet meals, but I am well-versed in speaking my mind and using my assertiveness to get what I want out of life. By fighting for what we believe in and standing up for ourselves (even when someone else’s parents are screaming at us), we have the power to live with the crazy roommates.
You’re Life is Over at 24
Change is scary. Up until now, I’ve had my life figured out. My parents raised me well and watched me succeed in everything from accelerated reading to competitive dancing. I took my first steps and said my first word and then it was time for kindergarten. I learned my ABC’s and how to write my name and then it was on to addition and subtraction. Before I knew it, I was in high school and my problems became much bigger than deciding whether to eat Dunkaroos or gushers for an after-school snack. I worried about maintaining a good GPA, joining enough after-school clubs to get into a good college, and going to prom with the right guy. My perfectionism and constant need to push myself harder has contributed to my stressful lifestyle.
Amidst all of these problems and concerns, life was good. Life was fun. Life was easy. Then I started college and the responsibilities piled up—studying, reading, leading club meetings, buying groceries, paying bills, and finding the perfect internship or job. My life changed once again and I had to adjust to this new lifestyle. Despite these challenges, college is a lot like summer camp. The freedom of living on my own for the first time was great. I could drink a beer with dinner on a Tuesday night, stay up all night Facebooking, and kiss as many guys as I liked. In just one short month, I will be a college graduate. And what do I have to look forward to? My life ending at age 24.
A lot of the things that are acceptable in college are not well-received in the real world. You can’t be drunk all the time, eat Ramen noodles for dinner, or sleep past 10 A.M. every day. I’m excited to graduate and enter the real world, but I’m also sad to leave behind my fun years as a college girl. It seems like just yesterday I was a freshman in college going to fraternity parties and eating in the dining hall. Now I’m in my last month of college and having a mini meltdown.
I’m worried about transitioning into the post-college world and becoming a “real person.” What if I don’t get a job? What if I don’t make any money? What if I never get a boyfriend? What if I end up living at home and having no social life? What if I lose touch with my college friends? These concerns circle through my mind on a daily basis. I imagine myself back in my hometown working at a diner and earning minimum wage. My hangout spots would consist of Taco Bell and the local bowling alley. For the most part, I’d sit on my coach and watch Lifetime movies. Although it would be nice to relax all day, I’d worry that I wasn’t achieving the goals I was supposed to be achieving, like becoming a top marketing executive, making big bucks, and marrying the perfect man. Because who graduates from a prestigious university to become a part-time employee and couch potato?
I’m going to miss the excitement of college and living so close to people my age, but there’s another part of me that’s eager to be done with college in a month. I imagine myself being less stressed when I graduate. I’ll no longer be balancing five classes, four extracurriculars and three jobs while searching for a full-time job and maintaining a busy social life. I will have my professional life and my social life, but I won’t attempt to overload my schedule with a million other things like starting my own non-profit and volunteering every chance I get. I’ll still be an overachiever, but I won’t overdo it. Hopefully I’ll learn that my sanity and health are more important than filling up every minute of my day with a to-do. For the first time, I won’t have people to guide me through every step of my life. I’ll have to make my own decisions and take care of myself as a responsible, independent adult. No time for complaints, worries, or regrets.
Instead of worrying about my exciting life ending at age 24 or trying to obsessively plan my future before it arrives, I will focus on the present and take every moment as it comes. I need to be comfortable with the uncertainties of the future and know that everything will work out just how it’s supposed to. I can’t beat myself up if I don’t get certain job offers or meet my future husband right away because these things are out of my control. My future will be amazing and I will end up just where I need to be.
I hope you learned something from these stories and can apply my lessons to your own experiences. Your life ends at 24 only if you make it end then. Be powerful, be exciting, be you. And remember, don’t cry over the spilled milk.
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