Keeping the romance alive.

I would like to start with my defense: I have never been big on Valentine's Day. I know this is a common stance, the whole, why-do-you-need-a-day-designated-to-show-someone-you-love-them-you-should-show-them-every-day-or-at-least-on-a-random-Thursday-in-April-not-on-a-day-of-overly-priced-candy-and-roses. So I do very little to acknowledge it. I used to be very romantic in general, in a cheap/silly way, like getting Scott a random m&m's dispenser and candy to fill it when he finished a big test. But as the years have passed, I've slacked on my random acts of thoughtfulness. And Scott was always right there with me, with the exception of our first Valentine's Day, when he did the whole roses-chocolate-perfume thing (and which I have to admit was very nice). But mostly, we haven't put much effort into our gifts to one another.

Until a couple of years ago. Scott, remembering my long-standing rule that flowers on Valentine's, anniversaries or birthdays were not a good gift because they didn't show any thought or originality, and that roses were pretty much always a waste of money on me, actually put some thought into his gift to me: A giant rose-scented Yankee candle. As I opened it, I could tell by his boyish smile that he was proud of this gift. "You said never get you roses! But you love Yankee candles, and so I thought the rose-scented one was romantic for Valentine's Day." "It's great! I love it!" But he could tell by my face and my fake enthusiastic voice that I didn't. Lest you think I'm heartless, I really thought it was a GREAT idea. He clearly thought about it and came up with a clever alternative to flowers, and I do love Yankee candles. But, in my further defense, the reason I told Scott that roses, while pretty, are never a good idea to give me is because I can't stand the smell of them. So rose-scented candle ≠ my favorite Valentine's Day gift ever. However, I had never explained my aversion to roses in particular, so knowing how excited he was about his gift (and Scott rarely gets excited about anything that doesn't involve football) I tried to act really excited about it, lit it up and burned it the rest of the evening. Then I never burned it again. Every once in a while he'd notice it and comment that he knew I didn't like it.

Flash forward to today. Now, we both stopped and got cards and gifts after work, and we both acknowledged that we only got something because we were afraid if we didn't the other would and we'd feel bad. (For the record, I feel bad anyway.)

Scott got me a very sweet card about how we are great together because we understand one another and have our inside jokes and other-romantic-like stuff. And he got me a book, which he hurried to explain was from Hallmark and that he got as an afterthought instead of the picture frame with a sentiment about dogs (granted, I love my dogs) that he'd been carrying around. I don't want to go into what the book was, I'm sure I'll mention it later, but no, it wasn't dirty, just related to something we've been "discussing," i.e. trying to convince the other we're each right.

It totally made me tear up while apologizing for how janky his gift was. Here's why:

The card I got him says:

(Outside) "Some nights I lie next to you and feel like the luckiest woman in the world." (Inside) "Other nights I feel like a woman who should never serve chili for dinner ever again."

True? Absolutely. Sweet or romantic? Not at all. To further defend myself, I did write some very sincere/sweet sentiments inside. And when I was coming up with questions for a newlywed game for my friend's wedding shower one of the questions I found was "If you were blindfolded in a crowded room, how would you find your man? By sight, smell or taste?" And I totally said smell. Scott has a musk. Sometimes it's a little fresher than others, and sometimes I tell him he has to shower before he can come to bed, but he has a distinct smell.

Anyway, couple that card with the gifts I gave him -- a box of white chocolate-covered pretzels (that I told him he had to share with me) and a small heart-shaped tin with a picture of two frogs and a thought bubble that says "Toadally in love" and containing a "passion cookie" (really, a flower-shaped shortbread-ish cookie in alternating petals of "chocolate" and "vanilla") -- and keeping in mind that I spent a total of $6.97 at Wal-Mart for this display of affection and you'll totally get why I teared up when his gift wasn't just as janky as mine.

The next time I jokingly say that Scott isn't the most romantic guy in the world, someone please remind me that I'm the girl that got him a card that referenced farting in bed.

Just another reason I'm glad my parents are internet-illiterate.

Scott and I are going to a concert tomorrow night with one of my cousins and his wife, in Tulsa, which means we're going to spend the weekend with my parents. Now, I love my parents, they are wonderful people and I enjoy spending time with them. But they are the most conservative people I know, which can put a damper on things.

You need to understand that when I say conservative, I mean that I think Jesus was more liberal than my parents. No cursing (you don't even say "butt" as in your ass, or "sucks" as in this sucks big fat hairy balls, around my parents), no drinking, no deviant behavior of any kind. I hid my belly button ring from them, until it was ripped out about 4 months after I got it (which hurt like hell, but I digress). I hid my tongue ring from them for a few months, then when I gave up on that, my mom was so disappointed that she called my Nana and asked her to tell me she didn't like it. Luckily that plan backfired because when Nana saw it she said she thought it was cute. They still don't know about my tattoo. And I will never forget this conversation, as I lliterally had my hand on the front door knob, about a month before my wedding, about to meet up with Scott for a three-day trip to find a place to live in northeast Missouri:

Dad (apparently all too aware that Scott and I would be spending two nights, unchaperoned, in the same hotel room): Now, don't you go up there and be having sex and getting yourself pregnant.

I froze, mortified, despite the fact that there was only my parents and myself in the house. I had no idea how to respond.

Mom: Oh, don't worry, that's why I made her that doctor's appointment for next week. She's going to have a female exam and get on birth control.

At this point I just wanted to get the f*ck out of there, but seeing as how I was unable to do much more than stutter, "I-I, uhh, i-it's, wu-well..." I was pretty much stuck until I figured a way to extricate myself from the most uncomfortable conversation anyone has ever had.

Dad: Well, that's good, just remember, you're not married yet.

I should mention here that Scott and I had been dating for over three years, while we each had our own apartments in Norman he pretty much lived with me and we had been having (safe, responsible, birth-controlled) sex for most of our relationship. However, my parents remained blissfully in the dark about most of that. Any time they came to town, we rushed to hide any trace of Scott in my apartment. When we visited my parents, not only did we (obviously) have to sleep in separate rooms, we had to be on separate floors. Seriously. I had to sleep downstairs with my mom in my parents' room and Scott and my dad would each take one of the upstairs bedrooms. But I was not about to call attention to my sexual history just to prove to them that I was a good, responsible, pregnancy-wary daughter.


Needless to say, I finally got away from the most horrible conversation anyone has ever had, we found a place to live, got married, and so on. Now, even though we are both pushing 30, any time my parents come to visit, instead of hiding any trace of Scott, I hide any trace of alcohol. I actually have cabinet space devoted to last-minute wine rack stashing.

But you're an adult, you can do what you want, you argue. You make a fine point, but with my parents I prefer to avoid the conflict that would no doubt ensue, fueled mostly by their disappointment in my lack of adherence to the singular direction of their moral compass. Also, I truly love my parents and have so much gratitude for everything they've done for me over the course of my life that what some people might consider a serious case of vaginitis when it comes to standing up to my parents, I prefer to look at as respect for our differences and a desire to help them maintain their peace of mind.

Back to the dilemma of the weekend. Scott has big plans to get wa-wa-wa-wasted Saturday, and I would very much like to be right there with him. My cousin's wife recently found out she's preggo, so we have a designated driver (safety first, kids), so the only thing limiting the level of my potential drunkenness is the fact that, post-concert festivities we'll be returning to the site of my childhood sheltering and repression. I pointed this out to Scott when he mentioned his plans to get (I shit you not, but I love him so don't judge) "crunk" Saturday night and he countered with, "Oh, come on, your parents go to bed so early there's no way they'll still be up when we get back." I will grant him that my mom will likely expire for the night no later than 9 or 10 p.m. But my dad still has a tendency to wait up, despite my 28 years on this earth and my five and a half years of marriage.

I have, over the years, gone out and enjoyed a few drinks with friends while staying with my parents' but I have always managed to reign it in before I reach the point of obvious intoxication, and I always make sure to have a mint or a gum handy, and I don't think I've ever greeted my dad reeking of alcohol. But while I certainly don't want to be Debbie Downer and cut Scott off tomorrow, because to be quite honest we could both really use a night of drunken debauchery right about now, I am concerned that we will be found out. And I have a valid reason for concern, and it honestly has nothing to do with being afraid of how he'll act: for some reason, after even just a few beers, I can always smell the alcohol on Scott.

Perhaps I'm just accustomed to his natural musk (sorry, I don't know what else to call it). Or perhaps I'm overly sensitive because of the vodka-church incident. In college my friend Miranda and I convinced Scott and her boyfriend at the time to accompany us to church. We had arranged to have the two of them share a place, seeing as how they both pretty much lived with each of us in our own apartments but needed a place of their own to avoid scnadalizing our parents. This particular weekend, we had a party at their place Saturday night and apparently they stayed up until the wee hours, sitting on the roof, killing a liter of vodka. I leaned over to Miranda during the service and whispered that Scott either forgot to shower or else he was seeping alcohol from his pores. She said Josh smelled like a brewery. We were both embarrassed beyond belief, especially since it was a full house and the guys definitely had people close enough on their other sides to catch a whiff anytime we stood up or sat down. And if you've ever been to a Baptist church, you know there's a lot of up and down before the sermon starts.

Over lunch they told us just how much they had drank and quite frankly we were impressed that they weren't stumbling around and slurring their words. But ever since I took Scott to church sweating vodka, I've been a little paranoid that whenever he decides to tie one on, everyone can smell it on him. Maybe I'll just make sure to leave his cologne in the car and spray him down when we pull in the drive. Did I mention we'll be going to church with my parents Sunday morning?

Tripping down memory lane.

This weekend Scott finally got around to unpacking/sorting through about 8 boxes of stuff that's been sitting in our "office" since we moved in (i.e., since July). While the boxes included mostly textbooks, binders full of class notes and old mail, rousing no real interest on my part, there were a few gems:

1. A newsletter from a hospital that he worked at a couple of different summers in college. He pulled it out of a file folder, looked at it a minute, turned to a certain page and showed me the picture of a guy, covering up the name.

Scott: Who do you think that is?

Me: I have no idea. Should I?

Scott: Come on, who does it look like?

Me: Well, it looks kinda like C-----, but I know it's not him.

Scott: (triumphantly, as I finish my last sentence) Yes! Doesn't it look just like him? (Starts to chuckle). That's why I saved this! That guy totally looks like C-----!

Me: (laughing hysterically) You really kept that - (almost falling off the couch from laughter) - because that guy kind of looks like C-----?

Scott: (somewhat proudly) Yup! This is from (checking date) July of 2000.

Guys, I knew my dear hubby has a sentimental streak (he has, in the past, saved various Valentine's/Easter/Christmas candy given to him by me, as well as a chocolate racecar Valentine from his little brother, despite my insistance that when people give you candy, they intend for you to eat it) but this momentarily surpassed even my comprehension capabilities (hence the hysterical laughter when I realized he was serious). He kept, for over a decade, a newsletter with a picture of a guy who kind of looked like a friend of his. Yet every time we move he complains about the amount of stuff I have...

2. You might see these tickets and wonder what concert or game we're going to soon. Well, friends, look more closely and you'll see that these tickets are from 2007. To be more specific, the January 1, 2007 Fiesta Bowl featuring Oklahoma and Boise State, which was a sad, sad day for Sooner fans, but that's beside the point. To fully appreciate this story, I have to take you all the way back to December of 2004. OU was going to the Big 12 Championship game, and it being our last year we wanted to go. Scott then suggested taking my parents with us since they'd only been to one other OU game. What a great, sweet, fun plan, right? And so he got the tickets. Only instead of the 4 tickets we needed, he got 10. His plan was to sell the other 6 on eBay, hopefully making enough to pay for all four of our tickets in the process. Only he didn't consider that the Big 12 Championship game is never a sellout. And our tickets were way at the top of Arrowhead Stadium. He did manage to sell 2, at face value, to a girl he worked with who wanted to take her dad to the game, but the other 4 sat there, never even listed on eBay, and equalled a loss of about $300. Between December of 2004 and December of 2006, he had often hinted at wanting to buy several tickets to games or concerts and make big money off them, but I had always managed to convince him that it wasn't the smartest thing he could do to try to make some money.

Then one cold December day in 2006 I came home from Wal-Mart and was greeted with, "I did something that might not have been a great idea." "How many tickets did you buy?" I asked, knowing what he had done without even having to ask. "Six. And some parking passes." "Well, at least you didn't get ten this time." "They were $135 each." Silent stare. "But I'm really gonna put them on eBay, and the Fiesta Bowl will definitely sell out, so I shouldn't have any trouble selling them. Even if I end up selling them at face value, we won't lose money. At worst we'll break even." Raised eyebrows. "I promise, I'll really sell them. I mean, it would be awesome if we could figure out a way to go, but if we can't, I'll definitely sell out of them." But we didn't go. And he obviously didn't sell them. So every once in a while, if he starts complaining about a particularly costly purchase, I can sweetly say, "Remember that time you bought those Fiesta Bowl tickets?" I have a feeling that's something we'll both always remember, mostly because I'll always remind him...

3. As I already mentioned, Scott's kinda a softy. He has a file case full of cards, notes, photos and invitations to weddings, graduations and parties. The final laugh we got out of the weekend's reminiscing came courtesy of a dear friend of ours. I was opening the cards and invitations and reading them to Scott as he sorted through other stuff. There was an inviation to OSU's graduation, and Scott first guessed it was his older brother's. Then this fell out, I started reading it and we both instantly knew whose invitation it was. (I will mention here that this friend is recently engaged to an adorable girl, but hopefully will always maintain his irreverent sense of humor and quick wit.) Click to enlarge and enjoy:

You know who you are, and we love you for it.

Friends don't let friends give a four-fingered shake.

A couple of weeks ago I spent the weekend with Scott at his residency program's callback weekend. Essentially, they invite med students they've interviewed and are considering offering residency spots to come and spend the weekend hanging out, meeting more residents and faculty than they could squeeze into the interview and try to get a better idea of who will be a good fit for the program. The first night I met a female applicant and her husband and both instantly moved to the bottom of my (admittedly completely irrelevant) list of desirables. Why the instant disappoval, you ask. They both had horrible handshakes. And yes, in a setting where you are surrounded by other professionals and you are trying to get a job, I'm judgy. (Also completely irrelevant here is my current lack of a job only because I am confident that if there is one part of an interview I can nail, it's the handshake.)

WTF?

A weak handshake is probably my longest-standing pet peeve. I remember judging little old ladies as a child in church during the weekly "let your neighbor know you're glad they're here" hymn when they gave me the four-fingered shake. I now realize that some of them may have had arthritis that made a real handshake painful, but others could get around just fine, so they really had no excuse. My hands are the same size as Scott's nine year old brother and yet I manage to fully grasp even the chubbiest, man-ring wearing and cigarette-stain bearing hands and give them a solid shake. (I hope you're imagining me shaking hands with a gold-chain-sporting, greasy-haired mafia boss from Jersey right now, because that is totally the mental image I was going for.) Anyway, both halves of this couple gave me the same four-fingered old-lady shake, and I was instantly annoyed by both of them for different reasons.

When I get a four-fingered handshake from a man, I'm a little insulted. The feminazi in me silently flares up and I think What, you think I can't handle a real handshake? Afraid of hurting a poor little girl? Would you shake a man's hand like that? Listen, pal, (I'd totally fit right in with the aforementioned mafia, btw) it's time you learn to respect women like you respect men. Now give me a real handshake or go ahead and pussyfoot it out of here.

But seriously, guys? You aren't going to break my hand if you actually grasp it to shake. This may come as a shock but most of you aren't gifted with freakish strength. If you are, (or just think you are as is more likely the case) don't be an asshole and try to crush my hand just to show off your masculinity, but also don't insult me with a half-assed handshake. It's 2011. Don't make me give you the anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-in-heels schpiel.

As much as the husband's finger-shake irritated me, the wife's irritated me more. I mean, come ooooon. You're a few months away from having M.D. after your name. You're obviously not a complete idiot and you have at least enough ambition to have survived medical school. You're a professional trying to make a solid, professional impression. I'll grant that this was a casual evening at an attending's home, but the weekend was still more or less a second interview. And I know I'm not one of the residents, but you also don't know what I do, and I could be someone you want to impress. (I'm not, but she didn't know that.)

Frankly, I'm always a little confused by women who give other women the four-fingered shake. It always ends up looking like you're giving me your hand to admire. Guess what? I'm not a 19th century suitor. You're not curtseying, I'm not bowing and I'm not going to kiss your hand. Unless you just got engaged you have no reason to show off a ring to me (I know, wrong hand) and manicures don't really do it for me. Look at the above picture. Ridiculous. If you're used to men just shaking your fingers it's one thing, but woman to woman, I just don't get it. Again, the feminazi in me silently seethes, Heard of the women's movement? Yeah, you're setting it back with that puny excuse of a handshake. Dramatic? Yes. Justified? Absolutely.

Whenever I encounter one of these sad excuses for a handshake I have to resist the urge to say, "Let's try that again. Now, don't be afraid to really grasp my hand and give it a shake this time." However, since that is never really a socially acceptable thing to do, I can only hope that at some point someone will tell the offender that they really need to work on their grasp.

Part of me fears that it's kind of like reading or riding a bike. You should have learned how to shake hands in your formative years, so if your handshake sucks at this point it's probably too late for you. I kind of hope some day I'll be one of those crotchety old ladies who won't give a damn and I'll give any young chippee with a limp grip a handshake tutorial. In the meantime, if you know someone with a less-than-impressive handshake, and you can work it into a friendly conversation, give them a few pointers. They'll thank you for it if they have to greet me with a handshake in about 40 years.

Loratadine + Dr. Pepper = The Keys to My Heart

That is, contrary to appearances, a key. "Penis to my heart"sounds painful.
Unless you're one of those women who can swallow a sword.

Today Scott went to get his haircut and came home with 2 surprises for me: a 60 count bottle of generic Claritin and a 24 pack of Dr. Pepper. I was so happy I teared up.

Lessons to be learned:

1. Guys, impressing a woman is really quite simple. Pay attention to the little things that make her happy. Take me for instance -- my day doesn't get off to a good start without a Dr. Pepper for breakfast and since I'm apparently allergic to life, I'm a snotty, red-eyed, carries-a-roll-of-toilet-paper-around-the-house mess if I run out of allergy meds. Of course, it's entirely possible that poor Scott was just tired of seeing a roll of toilet paper perched on the back of our couch as well as listening to reasons why Dr. Pepper from a 2 liter bottle is just not the same as the good stuff in a can and decided to end his suffering along with mine. But I'm choosing to believe that he just loves me and wanted to make my weekend better. Either way, mission accomplished, sir.

2. When a 24-pack of caffeinated, sugary deliciousness and a 2 month supply of antihistamines brings tears to your eyes because it's the best thing that's happened to you all week, you're officially a hot mess and should really find a hobby, or maybe volunteer somewhere. Or just watch Jersey Shore and feel pretty good about most of your life decisions.

Book (Cover) Review - Love, Lust and Faking It

I recently came across this gem while browsing celebrity gossip:

I have a few problems with this book cover. (I should clarify here that I have no real problem with Jenny McCarthy. Given the fact that she became famous in the first place for being a hot blond with awesome boobs, she's at least done stuff to somewhat maintain a career as an actress, plus she's used her celebrity to advance autism awareness, which is truly admirable. And I haven't read the book, which apparently has some decent reviews. The source of my rant is truly the book cover.)

First and foremost among my hangups is that Jenny McCarthy is identified as a New York Times best-selling author. I know she earned that accolade with the books she wrote about babies and autism and she's very dedicated to her cause. But seriously. I mean, she started out as a Playboy model and then got her big break with Singled Out. She starred in movies like Wieners and Dirty Love.* I also know many questionable titles, among them Sarah Palin's Going Rogue, have ended up on that list, which is really just a measure of sales and has nothing to do with literary or cultural merit. And yet it bothers me that this book cover (accurately) identifies its author in the same company as writers like Norman Mailer, Boris Pasternak, Salman Rushdie, John Irving, David Sedaris and numerous other authors I adore.

My second problem with this book cover is that it's just weird. The artwork is very Danielle-Steele-meets-Gothic-fantasy-with-a-modern-twist. Sunset on a jetty? Are your boobs obvious enough? Is he muscle-y enough? Did he just rescue you from the surf or is he about to whisk you away to that lighthouse? And there must be something pretty amazing on that cell phone you're distracted by to keep you from devoting all your attention to the serious smolder that guy is trying to rock.

Except for my third, and honestly biggest, problem with this book cover. Smoldering Steve there has a MULLET. A CURLY MULLET. That was honestly the first thing that caught my eye. Really Jenny McCarthy? And Jenny McCarthy's editor? And the art department at Harper Collins? I mean, if you wanted to emphasize the "faking it" part, put a picture of Jenny and Jim Carrey on the cover, because I'm guessing there was some faking it happening there. But to take what would otherwise be a solid artist's rendering of a hot guy and topping him off with a curly mullet just confuses me. And leads me to believe that whoever you're connecting with on that cell phone doesn't have a mullet, which means you will be leaving Smoldering Steve for Mullet-free Matt, and the whole sunset-on-a-jetty-before-hot-sex-in-a-lighthouse thing is just a tease. It gets even more confusing when you realize that the first chapter of her book describes how her mom reconnected with her high school love after divorcing Jenny's dad. Which is a sweet, heartwarming story that has little to do with giant boobs and sunset and lighthouses. So your bookcover is misleading. And you should be warned that cat-ladies everywhere are going to be disappointed when there is no mention of that gleaming mullet ravishing you in that lighthouse.

*You really should check out this review. Consider it my Christmas gift to you. And you're welcome.

Who did we think we were?

That's what I asked when I sent my college roommate and still dear friend several pictures I dug up from our younger days. She had asked for photos to use in a slideshow in her upcoming wedding and I finally sat down a couple of weeks ago to go through old pictures so I could scan and send some to her that pre-date the advent of digital cameras. Most of them date back to 2001-2002, our freshman year at OU. As I looked through boxes of photos, I was struck by how young everyone looked and I couldn't help but laugh at our always-ready-for-party-pics poses.

The day we moved into the dorm.

I miss those girls. I miss them running up and down the dorm hall in preparation for a night out. I miss them getting biscuits and gravy from the student union and eating it in line outside the stadium at 4 a.m. so they could get good seats for the big game. I miss them riding around in the Explorer, rap music blaring and congratulating themselves on how bad-ass they were for nailing the entire song. I miss their anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better ambition, their sometimes overinflated but always unflappable confidence and their conviction that one day soon they would reach "the top." Those girls had everything going for them. They were young, cute, smart and fearless. I was dead-set on being a hotshot attorney, crusading for women and children and giving a voice to those without one. She was med school bound, with the goal of being a top cardiac surgeon and having a major impact on the world of medicine. They had big dreams and all the tools they thought they needed to make those dreams reality.

The night we ended up at the infamous Forum, or
the church-converted-to-a-nightclub-that-lasted-about-a-year.

But for all the book smarts God saw fit to gift them with and all the street smarts they were acquiring for themselves, they were missing a vital piece of information: You can't plan Life. When you try, it will shake your hand and tell you good game after it's beat you in a close race -- at best. At worst it'll roundhouse kick you in the teeth, spill your Dr. Pepper, steal your Coach bag, max out your credit cards, ram your car into a stop sign and then drop it off in your driveway with f*ck you keyed into it. Of course, being either hopelessly optimistic or a glutton for punishment, you'll throw yourself back into the milieu , bruised and broke, but hopefully not broken, and you'll start planning your next trip around the sun.

We made the most of the snow day we had that year.

I'd guess that about 90% of our plans didn't quite pan out, or at least not the way we thought they would. I could argue and say to Life, "Ha. You thought you changed all my plans, but here I am, married and a lawyer, just like I said. Sure I don't have three kids, but I have three dogs, which are much better than kids because they don't talk back, they don't touch all your nice stuff with their sticky little fingers and you can leave them unattended for a whole day." But the next week I feel my biological clock ticking and some kind of maternal instinct fighting for air, whereas the week before I was convinced that I never want the smelly, noisy, sticky little things. And let's face it, the road to (and through) law school was a bit bumpy, and right now the road to that hotshot career I envisioned has all but washed out. I'm sure Life is smugly gloating at my continued attempts to make plans and control their outcomes. The girl in those pictures would have flipped off her intangible nemesis and marched her headstrong self straight into the flood. The woman I am now stops and says, "Ok, I get it, I'll find another road."

I like to think that my mom is right when she says everything happens for a reason, and so there's a reason for all the dumbshit or hurtful stuff I've done just like there's a reason for all the smart, good or nice things I've done. But I also think it's bullshit when people say that they wouldn't have done things differently if given the chance. If the girl in these pictures would have been able to look ahead and see where she'd be in nine years, I'd hope she'd have been smart enough to do a lot of things differently. But that doesn't mean I'm not ok where I am, and it also doesn't mean that I think I'd be any happier -- I'd likely just have a different set of regrets and a different set of problems.

Proud of almost having finished our freshman year at OU
without getting alcohol poisoning or roofied.

While my friend and I have both been able to mark some things off the long list of things we set out to accomplish, we haven't quite conquered the world the way we thought we would. We aren't movers and shakers, travelling the world, making heads roll and hearts melt. We're living our relatively quiet lives, caught up in building our lives as part of a couple, planning weddings, juggling family holidays, fitting in girls' night and watching football with friends, all the while slowly carving out our niches, which by now probably appear to be series of unconnected tunnels that lead nowhere. However, if my mom is right, all those tunnels will join up eventually and we'll have had fun exploring them all along the way.

Circa October 2010. We still know how to rock it,
we just call it a night earlier.

It was good to be reminded of the girls we used to be. It made me appreciate who we've become and all the unexpected turns our lives have taken in order to make us comfortable with being women that our 18-year-old selves would have scoffed at. But it was also good to remember the I-can-be-anything-and-do-anything attitude we had back then. And I still think we'll both reach "the top." The mountain may be a little smaller and closer to home, but that's fine because we'll be able to recognize a lot more of the people and places that make up the view.