The Bachelorette: Sixth Grade Megan Style

Valentines Day. Oh, Valentines Day.

A day that I feel almost everyone has bipolar attitudes toward. I really thought things would’ve progressed by now. Alas, they have not.

In elementary school, it was a day to look forward to. Everyone got valentines from everyone and you decorated little mailboxes to put them in. In first grade I wore my tights with different color hearts and purple Uggs and the fact that I didn’t have a boyfriend from that outfit alone still blows my mind but here we are.

In middle school, it was just. Well. Lots happened.

Middle school was an awkward time for everybody. People started “going out” and “dating”. I for one, was never the type to have a young love, or an old love, because once again, here we are, alone.

But regardless, it was a time when boys starting getting heart necklaces and putting them in the girl that they loved’s locker. Or for me, a time to watch a boy put a heart necklace in a girl’s locker that happened to be right next to mine. Are you sure you got the right locker number sir? Hm. Okay.

Valentines Day circa 2014. It doesn’t get better than this folks.

Middle school was also the only time I can say I had a boy on Valentines Day. That’s right folks. I had a boy. But not just one. I had two boys the Valentines Day of the sixth grade. But don’t be fooled. It wasn’t like that.

I don’t mean to toot my horn but, these two boys fought over me. Now, these two particular boys were not really boys that I hung out with. Perfectly nice, for sure. Just not my speed. But we don’t discriminate against chocolate givers and card writers, now do we?

Bachelor #1 gave me a hand-written letter in Tech class. It was written in pencil and folded up. I don’t remember exactly what it said but it had to be something along the lines of “I like you”. So heartfelt. Unfortunately I didn’t feel the same way. I probably didn’t handle it great, because you know me, Little Miss Heartbreaker over here.

Bachelor #2 who was in my core classes was one that I always caught staring at me. Staring at me so much in fact, to the point where I had to bring it up to our TA and tell him to knock it the heck off. I like attention but not that much attention.

He gave me a card that had cartoon chocolates on it that were talking saying things like “be mine” and all the cheesy cheese stuff. He wrote something in it that I also assume said something along the lines of “I like you”. But what made Bachelor #2 stand out the most was the fact that he gave me the rocks. The bling.

A ring.

He handed it to me outside of my locker. It was in a plastic ball, fresh out of a coin-operated machine. It was something else. I said thank you and that was that.

A girl I was sitting next to on the bus broke it by accident. Cheap.

That was the last time a boy ever bought me anything for Valentines Day, even if that last thing was 25 cents. And quite frankly, it’s sad. Do you see how I looked in middle school? Did it seriously not get any better?

Boys, if you’re out there. Feel free to reach out. I don’t bite.

Serious inquiries only.

Live Love Ladle

It’s been a while since I felt like I was really good at something.

Growing up playing soccer, I always felt like I was contributing to something. I loved the leadership role I took on because I loved being able to help people be better, feel better and the sense of accomplishment I felt whenever we reached success of any kind, regardless of whether we won or lost.

I can’t help but feel like I lost that sense of pride and achievement.

For those of you who know me well, you know about this little job I had in high school. A job that I poured my absolute heart and soul into - no pun intended.

I worked at a shop called Ladle of Love. There, I ladled soup with lots and lots of love. It was the perfect job for me and if I could make a solid living for my future husband and four children off of ladling soup, I would. In a heartbeat.

Within the first few months of me working there, I raked in the most tips out of any employee. I had weekly regulars who I learned by name and by order. I started to become the go-to when they needed someone to pick up shifts or do anything. I even started to learn how to cook to help out with orders. After the year and a half I spent working there, customers were bringing me flowers for my birthday and regularly asking me about my senior activities and college.

I felt acknowledged and wanted and like I said before, like I was really making a contribution somewhere.

Eventually, they asked if I wanted to hostess at the restaurant next door. I was hesitant at first but they knew and I knew deep down that I was the girl for the job. Although I was the youngest by far working at both those places, every time I went to work I felt like so much more than a high school junior or senior. I was treated like an adult and had expectations of an adult professional.

Ever since I could remember, I’ve always held very high expectations of myself. I don’t want to call myself a perfectionist, because that sounds very intense. But, I didn’t like to lose games knowing I messed up or my team didn’t do their best, and I don’t like to accomplish things that aren’t “great” in my eyes.

Everybody messes up. It’s just the way it is. Whether it was me mistaking the truffle parsnip soup for the potato leek, overbooking with reservations or something else, making mistakes is something that everybody does. But it’s something that I don’t like to do. It’s something that I’m not used to doing all the time and now that I find myself making them I don’t know how to handle the aftermath.

I find myself now second guessing everything I do and think and say. Like whatever I’m doing isn’t good enough already and I panic. Right when I’m done fixating over something I did a week before for about two days, my mind clears up for a few hours and then I find something else to worry about. It’s a never-ending cycle that I haven’t been able to put a stop to. Similar to the cycle of never-ending requests for Matzah Ball soup that were never truly answered. Sorry folks. It was out of my control.

Admittedly, I had a love-hate relationship with the jobs. There were times where I felt like things weren’t being done right or fairly, resulting in me not wanting to go. I had complaints, just like everyone else. But looking back on it, it was probably the best thing that has ever happened to me.

Soccer too. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about playing, or my old teams and teammates. A part of me even regrets not pursuing it in college.

I wish I could go back to ladling soup and making conversation with strangers, and leading a team and not to mention, being in shape.

Much simpler times.

Mask Off

Back in September, my school experienced an outbreak of HFM (Hand Foot Mouth) disease.

During the outbreak, everyone became overly cautious about themselves and germs in relation to the attempt to stay healthy. So cautious in fact, that people would start to wear surgical masks to parties that said things like “no hookup” or funny things to get people to stay away. As if that thin little surgical mask is going to stop you from getting HFM. Not the grinding on people, not the sweat dripping or the sharing of drinks. The mask.

Now, keep in mind, HFM has really fizzled out and hasn’t really been an issue here for about a few months now. So, you can understand my surprise when I was walking behind a girl on my way to class this morning, in brisk but not unmanageable temperatures, who I overheard say to her friend that she was “too lazy to find a scarf so she wore a surgical mask instead.”

I sped up and around so I could see for myself.

Low and behold, a girl definitely older than I, was wearing a blue surgical mask to mask the cold. Literally. Mask the cold. Get it. Because it’s a mask.

I’m not saying that I have never been lazy before. I was quite the couch potato and still am sometimes. But I would never. Under any circumstances. Wear a surgical mask if I couldn’t find a scarf. Screw it , I would be cold. But at least I wouldn’t be walking around looking like I just came out of the operating room.

I just have so many questions.

Who has surgical masks in abundance just hanging around ready to be used?

What would make you think that a thin piece of paper would protect you from the cold?

Was it really that difficult to find a scarf?

Or did you not own a scarf? Which in that case, I would recommend that purchase.

There are a lot of smart people that go here. Many of them aspiring engineers. So why can’t people figure it out? Asking for a friend.

My First Murder Trial

I know what you’re all thinking. I do. So no. The answer is I did not send my friend into anaphylactic shock by peanuts…again.

If you don’t know what I’m referring to please catch up (www.operationhappiness.squarespace.com/new-blog/2019/1/27/the-day-i-almost-became-a-murderer)

I did, however, go to court yesterday and report on an actual murder trial for my school paper.

My dear friend Sarah and I, blonder and girlier than life itself, took the drive to Easton, PA, to the courthouse to report on the attempted murder case of a man who went to Lehigh who tried to kill his roommate with rat poisoning.

I know what you’re thinking again. What the heck is going on here? Why would he do that? And I can tell you that from every college student’s perspective, or maybe just mine, having alone time is really hard to come by. It is. Who wouldn’t want to have a single? But RAT POISONING? Nuh uh. Nope. Not happening.

I won’t go into much detail about the actual case, but rather the experience itself.

Going into a courtroom is NOTHING like what it seems like on TV. We are not on an episode of SVU people nor are we about to hear their stories. Maybe it will be once the real deal comes around, but yesterday was a lot different than expected.

It was a small courtroom, only eight pews, and there were maybe a dozen people in there, if.

It was really weird being in there. I definitely felt out of place and like I was being looked at. When the suspect walked out unannounced RIGHT in front of us, I can’t even describe what it was like. It was so weird. He was sitting literally right in front of us and it was surreal.

It’s safe to say that out of the 12 people there we were by far the youngest and the blondest. I have never felt more like a dumb blonde in my entire life and I have never felt that way or used that term.

We carry ourselves very maturely, Sarah and I. We were called charming and attractive, but were reassured we were not being hit on, which we love to see. We do. We managed to become best friends with the defense attorney and the judge. And on top of all of that, we got great slices of pizza across the street as a reward.

It was a long day at the office, let me tell you. I loved it though. In fact, Sarah and I decided that we are going to drop out of school and start our own business. What that business is, we aren’t sure of yet. Perhaps our own paper.

Stay tuned dear friends and suspects of murder.

Gains Gains Gains

We have had it etched into our brains since kindergarten that we learn something new everyday. Whether it be a new word, a new song, a new fun fact or a new way to lose weight while still eating pizza for every meal (if you have learned that please enlighten the rest of us) we are always learning.

The world is your classroom, they say. I think.

But today, the gym was my classroom. I learned three really valuable lessons that I can’t wait to share with you all.

Valuable lesson #1: You actually can judge a book by its cover

As I was running on the ‘mill, looking down at the world of young men trying to get swole, (shoutout to the three ladies down there) I saw a male looking at himself in the mirror. Many of them do that as they are lifting weights, I guess to see how big they could potentially become? Not sure never done it. But. You see the thing is, this male in particular wasn’t holding any weights. In fact, he wasn’t doing anything at all EXCEPT lifting up his shirt and looking at his “abs”. I swear people. You just can’t make this stuff up. It is an absolute definite no from me dawg.

Valuable lesson #2: Def Leppard is the ultimate gym jam

I have this uncle named Preston, Uncle P, P-Diddy. Kidding it’s just Preston. But, ever since I was younger, he has always tried teaching me the importance of learning and appreciating rock and roll. ACDC, U2, The Stones, Def Leppard and all the other greats in his eyes. He cringes at the sight of young girls wearing vintage concert tees from HIS bands, knowing that they can’t even name one song. I can say that I have been victimized by his interrogations, having me name three songs by his boys. I didn’t know any songs. He was probably disgraced to have me as a niece. But, now that I’m older and wiser, I have come to understand the greatness behind DL. Anything of theirs is the ultimate gym jam. May I recommend Photograph or Rocket? Just did. Now go. Hope I’m making you proud, Uncle P, after a long 18 years of you listening to me rave about country and Z100 hits. It’s your time now.

Valuable lesson #3: Watch out for the quiet ones. And the ones who run with their hair down

I will literally never understand girls who do any sort of exercise with their hair down. It blows my little paranoid mind.

When I was younger and just started playing soccer as a wee 5-year-old, my mom did my hair in a little half-up half-down hairdo. Super cute, super youthful, super appropriate for a young athlete like myself who just stood there watching her dad try and teach little girls how to kick a ball.

When I was 12, there were STILL girls on my soccer team who played with their hair down. Just embarrassing. Makes you look so unprofessional in my professional opinion.

Now, I am 18. I unfortunately don’t really play soccer anymore, but I frequent the school gym. Today, I saw a girl, clearly older than I, step onto the treadmill with her hair down, airpods in, ready to roll. Is she kidding? She can’t be for real. Doesn’t the back of her neck get sweaty? I simply will never understand.

So there. Three very valuable and important things for you to takeaway and apply to your everyday life. Until next time.

Me and my Uncle P

5 going on 30

In a world where people get paid to be an Instagram influencer and post videos on Youtube, I can’t help but think about what my goals were when I was younger in terms of my future.

When I was five, I decided that when I grew up I was going to be a librarian.

Whenever my class went to the library, I made sure to be the first one to be checked out so that I could stand and watch the librarian check out everyone else.

Open. Stamp. Close. Swipe.

It was the process I knew I was destined to learn and follow. The moment I got my own library card was the moment I became a woman in my eyes - the day I became a Bat-Mitzvah was just for show.

When I was maybe six, I decided that on top of being a librarian, being a cashier was also my calling.

I went to the grocery store with my mom just so I could watch the cashier do her thing - that and the fact that I wasn’t allowed to stay home alone.

They always seemed to have really long fake nails that made the perfect sound when met with the keys on the keyboard. I also loved hearing the popping beep noise that was made after the food or item was scanned.

Clearly, to me, it was the little things in life.

Everyone else that age wanted to be a princess, or for those who lacked a true sense of reality, a pro baseball player.

Granted, I have found bigger aspirations in life than my two previous dreams, and come to think of it, those two jobs will most likely not be around for the duration of my adulthood. Technology nowadays, it’s crazy kids. You can order groceries AND buy a book from the comfort of your own home.

I have always felt more comfortable around adults than kids my own age. I love having conversations that maintain a maturity status greater than who liked your Instagram post and what filter was used on the most recent addition to your profile. Sepia, Valencia, Gingham, I DON’T CARE.

And unfortunately, ever since my generation got sucked into the dominating world of social media, that is all it has been for the past eight years.

In December I decided to take a break from social media and focus on myself. I went from subconsciously checking Instagram whenever I had a second, to not going on it for weeks. I moved it over three pages from my home screen and it’s gotten to the point where I forget I even have the app. It’s a beautiful thing.

I tell people about my hiatus and they seem to be taken aback. Truthfully, before I backed away from the ‘gram, I never could’ve imagined myself not being on it and not wanting to post all the time. Yet, it has now become overwhelming for me to scroll through the endless posts of reassuring good times.

Although I probably won’t become a librarian or a cashier anytime soon, it’s funny to think about my 5-year-old self behind the register. On a step stool. With a name tag. With my name probably spelled wrong. Because again, I was five.

“Oh how the turns have tabled.” - Michael Scott

It's Always Sunny in The Nail Salon

There are some types of people out there in the world that I will simply never understand.

People who eat cream cheese and jelly sandwiches. People who eat cream cheese period. People who don’t like The Office. And most importantly, people who wear sunglasses inside.

I rarely get my nails done, one because the money and two because I try to avoid being around all the moms in my town. Here is why.

I walk in this morning, hoping and thinking that I would be the only one there, considering I walked in two minutes after opening. But no, of course not. Why would anything that I want actually happen?

I get plopped down next to this woman. Who may very well be the nicest woman on the planet. However, I can’t help but judge the book by its furry cover.

She was wearing sunglasses. Not on the top of her head, but on her face, along with a long, black fur coat. I’m just wondering where she thinks she is and if she was maybe confused.

As my mom always says, “take your coat off; stay awhile!” ESPECIALLY if you are indoors and getting your nails done. My god.

What makes matters worse is her manicurist sneezed and she didn’t say bless you. You know who did? ME. BECAUSE THAT’S THE POLITE THING TO DO.

This is why we can’t have nice things. Or why I can’t have nice looking nails. I cannot DEAL with people.

Dumpling Demolisher

Every family carries their own wonderful traditions that bring them close together. For some, that might include movie nights, family outings or family dinners.

Not here. Not in this house. When we order Chinese food, it’s every man for themselves. We all have something that we like and that we essentially claim.

For example, my sister is a BIG sesame chicken girl. I don’t think I’ve ever had more than five pieces tops and it’s a known rule that you cannot finish the leftover sesame chicken without her having some first.

I on the other hand love me some dumplings. HUGE dumpling girl over here. Same rule applies for me and my dumps.

I came home for the weekend so of course we ordered a little bit of Thai and a little bit of Chinese - truly the best of both worlds. Last time I checked there were at least four dumplings left.

In this house, we’re also big on eating leftovers first thing in the morning. Actually no. I take that back.

In this house, I am big on eating leftovers first thing in the morning. So, at 9:40 a.m. I cracked open my beef pad-see-ew and finished that sucker before the clock struck 10. Delicious and nutritious.

I purposefully left the dumplings in there to eat at a later time, like lunch.

Walking into the kitchen, I say hello to the ‘rents. I’m mid-convo with my dad as I open the fridge and abruptly stop talking. I look over to my dad sitting at the dining room table. His mouth is filled with rice cakes and his eyes are open real wide. He knows what he has done.

“Dad.” That’s all I had to say.

“Want me to take you to get something else for lunch?”

No Dad. I don’t. I actually wanted the four dumplings that were in the fridge an HOUR ago. You just walked in the door TEN minutes ago. HOW DOES THIS HAPPEN.

The look on his face was the same one that a five-year-old has after he gets caught sneaking cookies in his shirt. Priceless. Hilarious. DEMONIC.

Until next time, my precious little dumplings. And beware, of the Dumpling Demolisher.

He looks cute here. Don’t be deceived.

Rock and Roll My Way to an F

I have a question. Since when is identifying rocks a common skill that everyone seems to have but me?

I knew that taking Geology of War was not going to be an easy feat. I’ve always hated science and I was never the kid who spent hours playing outside in the dirt looking for buried treasure. But man, I’m less than two weeks in and boy have I made a mistake.

In class today we were learning about different types of rocks: Igneous, Sedimentary and Metamorphic. I learned this in elementary school so I was thinking it would be a breeze.

“Okay class. Identify a mineral.” What. A mineral? Sure. Okay.

I grab something that to me looked exactly like quartz, maybe one of three types of rock that I actually know, courtesy of my Girl Scout Training (Troop 1414 forever).

My teacher came over and I said, “Is this quartz?!”

“No. It’s not.”

I proceeded to pick up another rock that looked exactly like the non-quartz, so of course I say, “What about this one?”

“Nope. That isn’t quartz either.”

At this point I’m thinking I wasted my young years being a Girl Scout and taking field trips to a place called Mother Earth or Mother Nature where we could "dig rocks” out of a hole in the wall with sand.

Meanwhile, all of my table mates were answering questions left and right correctly. All I needed to do was get one right. Just one. And that would make me feel a lot better.

My teacher put a picture of a type of rock on the board, maybe Limestone.

Ally, who sits across from me was holding the rock that most resembled the one on the board. I grab it from her and said this is my time to shine.

I hold it up to my teacher with the most confidence I’ve had in a while, only for him to say, “No.”

I sighed with defeat.

What happened to people being able to name old Taylor Swift songs for fun or knowing all 50 states in alphabetical order? Apparently the cool thing is knowing all about rocks and I am not here for it.

Tryin' to Catch me Ridin' Dizzy

As a child, I rarely rode shotgun in the shopping cart at Target. I remember thinking it was so cool and so fun to push the cart, with my forearms leaning on the bar and me walking with a little swagger. Oh young Megan.

Fast forward about 12 years and here I am, in Target with my friend Sarah, riding shotgun in the cart. Yes, it was a tight squeeze. Yes, there were yogurts on my feet and I crushed the case of Oreos. But I was all in.

It sounded like a great idea. I would sit back and observe while my dear friend, who happens to have mono, struggles to push the cart with her aching spleen.

No. It wasn’t great.

Me, being prone to vertigo and unable to ride rollercoasters, felt as if I was in fact on one.

Being at the eye level of a 7-year-old in a cart is really difficult to process with everything whizzing by you all at once.  All I saw was a mish-mosh of colors and different shapes out of my peripheral vision and I was approaching the point of being carsick. Or should I say, cartsick.

Sarah pushed me into the shoe section, and coming at us from the left was another mother pushing her son, who was probably at most 4 years old. Before I knew it, I found myself in the middle of a staredown with the toddler.

He won. And we retreated to the book section.

We didn’t find a 4-year-old, instead, we found a 40 year old employee.

“You know, that kind of purchase isn’t a refundable one,” he said to Sarah.

“It’s okay. She’s defective anyways,” she replied.

He thought he was clever. But as he was saying his line, his pile of overflowing books in his cart all fell over.

I laughed and said “That’s what you get,” and we rode away into the sunset.

Non-refundable my ____.

Sisterhood of The Traveling Panics

At many schools, Greek Life is a major factor in social life and making friends. Or rather, making sisters.

How do you make a sister? I’m asking for a friend. Because I have never been nor will I ever be a sister to anyone else but my biological twin sister.

I have never had trouble making friends and I have never had an issue with self confidence. Not in an overzealous obnoxious way, but I have never felt insecure when it came to meeting and greeting new people, or had to worry about trying to make a great first impression.

So when it came time to rush, naturally, I wasn’t nervous at all. I went into it with a very relaxed attitude. I knew that everything was going to work out because I had gotten close with some of the girls in the sororities that I had wanted to be apart of. Or, so I thought.

Girls can be a bit much. Coming from a girl, I can say that. Boys, shut up.

But it’s true.

Girls are very good at putting on a show. And that’s what sorority recruitment is - it’s a big broadway show. Everyone is all dressed up, made up, getting ready for a new crowd of people every few hours. Butterflies in the stomach and nervous sweat dripping from your armpits. During rush, everyone turns into Lin Manuel Miranda (no disservice to Lin Manuel Miranda of course).

Throughout my week of rushing, I was miserable but confident. I assumed that everything was going to work out the way it was supposed to. And in my mind, that way was something different than what actually ended up happening.

I was the only one out of my friends that got dropped from the sorority that at the time I could so perfectly see myself in. It was shocking initially; I couldn’t help but think about what I did wrong. What did I say? Did I smell like BO? Was it my outfit?

A million thoughts were running through my mind and all I could think about was how I wasn’t going to be with my friends. I also couldn’t stop thinking about the so called friends I had made that were already apart of that chapter, who had been so kind and amazing for months. Was it all an act? Were they ever really my friend? What changed?

Long story short, I was dropped by one and told that “this place could be your home,” by the other, only to find that neither of them would be.

That sting of rejection was hard at first. Once you mess with a girl’s confidence, it’s hard to gain that back. How could every single one of my friends have gotten accepted except for me? Was I not normal enough? Nice enough? Pretty enough? Rich enough? Was it because I didn’t love going out or because I don’t like getting around?

I will probably never know. And not for nothing, I don’t need to know.

People keep telling me what I did was a very mature decision, and by that I mean walking away. I’m not sure if it was mature, but it was just something that felt right for me. Regardless of what sorority I could have ended up in, I would have dropped it. I know myself well enough to know that I wouldn’t be able to handle that sort of regiment and togetherness.

While all my friends are going out every day and every night, barely having time to sleep, my day ends at 6:00 p.m., with me and Parks and Rec. in my bed.

All I can say is I am very well-rested and thoroughly enjoying learning about the city of Pawnee.

The Ultimate Benchwarmers

Growing up in the town my dad grew up in, I always wondered what it was that made him want to stay put and raise his own children there.

Was it the fact that there were four different places to get a slice of pizza, five different places to get a mani-pedi or the fact that the Clintons were everybody’s neighbors?

While applying to colleges and getting ready to finally leave the nest that I felt cooped up in after years of never-ending high school drama and seemingly entitled people here and there, I couldn’t wait for the moment that I would leave The ‘Qua and never come back.

I lasted three weeks at school before I found an excuse to come home for a night. Granted, that excuse was the highly contagious Hand Foot Mouth Disease, but an excuse nonetheless.

I’ve been running errands with my dad every Saturday for as long as I can remember. And for as long as I can remember we drive by a group of four grown men standing at the bench on the corner of South Greeley Avenue outside of Wells Fargo every Saturday morning catching each other up on their weeks.

No matter what the weather, the four of them are always there. Last Saturday we drove by and it was maybe 20 degrees.  But there they were all bundled up in a circle, blowing on their hands and drinking coffee. There is no such thing as a rain check when it comes to these men. They have a standing appointment every Saturday morning and there is nothing that will interfere with it.

I think that’s why my dad wanted to stay and keep us here. He wanted us to experience the sense of community that was so strong to so many, and to make lifelong friends like those four.

I just wish that I hadn’t been so frantic to get out and move on to something new. Now, I wish that I was still home every Saturday running those errands and driving by the benchwarmers - it’s what I call them.

Guys just being guys, drinking coffee and living life. Talking about their families, work, drama, whatever it is that men talk about. I’m not too familiar with that domain.

All I can do is picture myself and my four best friends from my childhood standing outside of Wells Fargo on the corner of South Greeley Avenue drinking coffee and talking about our future kids. What a time to be alive - or at least, what a time it will be.

To All The Claires I've Ever Known

When I was in the third grade, I would doodle in class. Not of puppies or flowers or random shapes and shades, but I would draw my daughter and son. Or at least, the daughter and the son that I envisioned having in the far far future.

I drew one curly hair on each that made them both resemble Alfalfa from Little Rascals and they both had diapers with a safety pin. The only thing that distinguished them were their names on display underneath: Rebecca and Toby.

Ironically, Rebecca was the name my teacher thought I had for the first three months of school, and even after meeting with him one-on-one for a half hour after previously exchanging emails. And yet, he said, “Have a nice day Rebecca.”

Oh please, call me Megan. That’s what they call my daughter. I can’t wait to use that when I’m older and people try calling me Mrs. *insert the last name of my future husband here*.

Whatever my name is to anybody, I have decided that I am going through an identity crisis. A midlife crisis, if you will. Yes, maybe I’m a little young to be going through one, but I was also a little young to have vertigo at the age of 12 but I did that didn’t I?

No, I haven’t dyed my hair pink or gotten any crazy tattoos. I did get my cartilage pierced but that was pre-crisis and just plain fun. I haven’t divorced my husband and started dating a man twenty years my junior and I also haven’t quit my job to open my own Goat Yoga Studio. To many, these could all be great signs.

There are times, however, where I found myself not being able to trust my own gut. Those were the times I found myself most vulnerable and susceptible to my anxiety, who I named Claire. All the Claires I have ever really gotten to know super well were always just really conceited and overbearing, meanwhile they were wrong 99% of the time. Hence, Claire was born.

Claire is so annoying. I will tell you straight up and there is no tiptoeing around the matter. It’s just a fact. She doesn’t shut up and I HATE people who don’t know when to stop talking. Like. I didn’t ask you? We aren’t friends and yet she decided that it’s cool to literally invite herself and accompany me wherever I go. Whether that be the few times I leave the house or a trip to the bathroom, she just assumes it’s fine. Like. I didn’t invite you? God she really grinds my gears.

Claire, if you’re reading this - wait no.

Claire, I know you’re reading this because you are watching me write this from over my shoulder. Back. The. Heck. Off.

Stand down Claire. You are no match for this emotionally unstable -chunky -somewhat blonde- less pimply faced thanks to the low histamine diet- girl.

Emetophobiacs and Their Sweet Sweet Dreams

Along with sharks, a fear that I have always had is throwing up. Not just the action of doing it, but the smell, the sound, the idea. Emetophobia is the correct term.

The last time I really threw up threw up was when I was seven. It was winter and I was dressed in my thermal pink and white nightgown. All I remember was waking up, looking at the clock, which read 11:00 p.m., and throwing up over my left arm and all over my comforter. I vividly remember sitting in the hallway with the lights on sitting against the wall waiting for my parents to remake my bed.

From that night on, in 2007, I didn’t throw up again until 2016. And even then, I wouldn’t count it as a real throw up. It was nothing, really. But traumatizing nevertheless, for I was in my shower mid-shampoo when I thought I was literally going to die and be found naked with Taylor Swift blasting from my phone.

I went nine years without throwing up. A truly amazing feat.

Last night I had a dream in which I had to run to different bathrooms to find an open stall so that I could puke. I ended up finding one right next to this girl from my high school, who also happened to be throwing up. When I say I was puking, I mean I was literally blowing chunks. My mouth’s diameter felt like it was the size of a basketball and it seemed as if it was never-ending. I woke up and cleared my throat, thinking that it was happening in real life.

Some people call throwing up purging. Purgers, sometimes having a bad connotation. But that was literally what I was doing.

When people dream about throwing up, it indicates a couple of things.

1. There is something in your life that brings you negative energy and makes you feel bad

2. There is something or someone that you should remove from your life because it causes you pain and bad feelings

3. That you should leave your past behind and move on

4. That a woman has a gynelogical issue or a possible sexually transmitted disease *

*it’s safe to say we can omit #4, but interesting for sure

It’s so fascinating to me how our minds input such metaphorical things into our dreams, and if we are lucky enough to remember them, we have to decipher the meaning in the morning.

It’s as if my subconcience is telling me: Megan, let ‘er rip. Get it out. Flush the toilet and then go brush your teeth.

Whether it’s real or imaginery, never, ever forget to brush your teeth.

Four-legged Friends and Foreign Boy Bands

When I was five, Webkinz were all the rave. My first one was a pink poodle named Rachel and I got her for my birthday. On random occasions besides birthdays or holidays, my sister and I would go to the toy store in the town over, Try and Buy, and each get to pick another one out. My parents couldn’t beat the 10 buck deal that would keep their young and restless twin girls occupied. There was one that they never had in the store that I had always dreamed of having - The Panda.

A year or two later, they were just as popular, if not more. We went to our best friend’s birthday party, the favors were the mini panda Webkinz. I was in awe. It was the perfect one to add to the collection. I carried it around with me for awhile, as I did with whichever one was most recently purchased. I want to say I named it Oreo, naturally, but I can’t remember.

My Mom’s best friend is the manager of a furniture store called Abode in Porstmouth. We’ve been going there every year when we visit and we always get random items that we would’ve never needed. When we were younger, they sold Webkinz. He gave my sister a snake and myself a chicken. It was the coolest thing; they weren’t sold near me and I couldn’t wait to show my friends. I was probably eight.

I am now 18, ten years later, and I encountered a similar experience last week when we went to visit Portsmouth for the holidays. We were looking around the store and I was drawn to the stuffed animal section.

I was suddenly taken back to Try and Buy, picking out a Webkinz while in the oh so humble Abode furnishing store. After assessing each for fluffy and soft qualities, I settled for the panda. It was love at first touch. I was suddenly 10 again and all the worries I had were gone.

Interestingly enough, I have acquired an obsession with the band who stole every middle school girl’s heart except mine:  One Direction. I play the songs on repeat to put me in a good mood, specifically Drag Me Down and Best Song Ever. I have rewatched all their music videos on YouTube and all the Ellen interviews I could find. And, embarassingly enough, I have Googled shirtless photos of Harry Styles. Sue me.

I cuddle my panda, which I have named Austin, every night when I sleep and I listen to 1D several times a day. Odd, but it seems like I am sort of regressing into my childhood, as if my “adult life” that I only just begun is too much to manage at the time being.

If only the toughest things in life were deciding which stuffed animal to get and wondering which band member would be most compatible to date you based off of a TigerBeat Magazine quiz.