Luckily, my coworker pointed out my unknown accessory while I was getting coffee in the office kitchen.

“You’ve got something stuck to your pant leg there,” he told me. “A candy bar wrapper or something.” He had just walked in for a coffee refill and was standing a couple of feet behind me, waiting for me to finish.

I craned my neck over my shoulder, trying to see this so-called candy wrapper. Just then, Sushi Girl strutted by, no doubt on her way to the women’s room. Without slowing she told me, “Hey you have a tampon wrapper stuck to the back of your leg.” As the words shot from her lips, the wrapper came into view; I immediately recognized the shiny yellow and white wrapper. How had this happened? It wasn’t even mine…Gross.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, snatching the wrapper off my leg and trying to fling it into the trash. This took more than one try, thanks to the static. Then I whisked my coffee off the coffee machine, making way for my coworker. “Thank you,” I told him. “I have no idea where that came from.”

He shrugged. “No problem.”

I still had to add milk and Splenda to my coffee. Plus, I wanted to wash my hands after handling someone else’s trash.

“Yeah, it actually wasn’t mine,” I continued as I turned the faucet on.

“What?”

“The wrapper.” WHY was I still talking about this? “It didn’t belong to me. I don’t know where it came from.”

“Oh.”

Like he cared either way. Like I even needed to go there. But the little incident had fallen outside of my control in a way that made me feel hot in the face. Talking about it was my flimsy attempt to try and rein it in. But now there was nothing else to say. I’d washed my hands of the situation.

Just then Sushi Girl reappeared.

“FYI,” Sushi Girl said to me in a hushed voice, still perfectly audible to the male coworker at the coffee machine. “One of the toilets is clogged because someone tried to flush something down it that everyone knows you can’t flush down these toilets because they are like super sensitive. Just wanted to let you know so, um, someone doesn’t make the same mistake twice.”

“It’s not mine,” I hissed at her as I furiously shook a Splenda packet. “I don’t even have my period right now.”

The male coworker swiftly departed from the kitchen.

“The evidence indicates otherwise,” she retorted, eyebrows raised.

“Whatever,” I rolled my eyes, jerking open the refrigerator and adding a generous dollop of milk to my coffee.

“Whole milk, huh?” she asked, eyebrows still raised. “Ugh. Too heavy for me.”

“What do you add to your coffee?” I snapped. “Water? Laxatives?”

“I mean, just skim milk,” she replied calmly. “Someone’s in a testy mood. I guess I’ll let it go since it’s that time of the month.” She started walking away.

“It is NOT!” I yelled after her. “That was not my TAMPON!”

I turned away in a huff, only to come face to face with my boss, who must have emerged from the men’s room just in time to hear my futile shouts. Mondays are the worst. Period.

The article skims over the details of the incident, almost immediately launching into the details surrounding the painting’s restoration. I, on the other hand, began obsessing over this woman’s fall. Did she trip over someone’s outstretched foot? Did she faint due to low blood sugar? Did someone push her? Was it another person in the class that was envious of this woman’s superior standing? Was it the teacher fed up with her incessant dumb questions? These questions continued to spiral until the inevitable…It turned into an episode of Gossip Girl…

Serena van der Woodsen wandered aimlessly around the gallery, occasionally tossing her head to throw back her untamed golden mane and wondering if anyone could tell that the dress she was wearing was actually supposed to be a shirt. She loathed pants and generally refused to wear them.

Serena was mesmerized by the shapes and colors of the paintings. She had never been inside of the Met before even though she used to eat lunch on the steps of the museum quite often when she was in high school. Art is cool, she thought. Maybe I’ll be an artist.

Thirty seconds later, she was bored. Why had she come here? Oh yes, it was because she’d received an anonymous note saying that she should meet here for some important information regarding her father–an elusive man for whom she’d traveled to the ends of the earth (Europe) to track down. When her detective work failed, she attempted to capture Mr. van der Woodsen’s attention by having the European paparazzi take pictures of her nip slips. That too failed.

So now she was at the Met in the room she had been told to go, but after waiting for 15 whole minutes, she was nearly ready to throw in the towel. To keep herself occupied, she sexted her latest potench BF Nate, the boy she had long ago sexed while he was dating her best friend, Blair. Nate was having a bromantic coffee date with Serena’s ex-boyfriend turned step-brother, Dan. Dan was full of insecure whiny-talk about how he was in love with Vanessa, Nate’s ex-girlfriend. Nate was bored of Dan and he’d been bored of Vanessa for months now, so he was relieved to get Serena’s sext:

@ the Met in just my shirt. Meet me soon b4 Picasso steals my <3

Nate leapt up. “Sorry, Dan. Gotta go.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Serena forgot to wear pants again. She needs my help.”

“Uh, yeah, forgot,” Dan said, holding his fingers up to quote the word.

“Whatever, man,” Nate said as he buttoned his overcoat. He dashed out of the coffee shop and hailed a cab. Dan went back to reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being and dabbing the corners of his eyes.

Serena hoped Nate would arrive soon. Her platform heels were killing her. She had sexted him in the hopes that he would carry her out of the museum, or at least switch shoes since they both happened to be the same size. Nate pretended to be embarrassed about this, but really he enjoyed secretly trying on all of Serena’s high heels. She called them “sole mates” and thought herself very clever. Indeed, it was the most clever thing she had ever come up with.

Just then, a bald man wearing an expensive suit who played Caleb on The O.C. and Mr. Whitmore on Lost approached Serena.

“Oh my God,” Serena uttered with some difficulty–her mouth was nearly sealed shut by her extra-strength lip gloss.

“Serena,” the man sighed, embracing her.

“Dad,” she uttered again, still struggling to regain full mobility of her mouth.

“I had to see you, Serena,” he whispered. “But you mustn’t tell anyone that I’m here. My life depends on it.”

Just then Nate ran into the gallery. Typical! he thought fiercely as he saw Serena wrapped in an older man’s arms. “Serena!” Nate shouted. He bounded towards them and shoved the man away. “Lay off, Picasso! Whoever you are!” Naturally, Nate had interpreted the sext to mean that a man named Picasso was hitting on Serena in the museum.

Caleb/Mr. Whitmore/Mr. van der Woodsen stumbled back into an oblivious cluster of adults, one of the museum’s classes. He bumped into a woman and sent her flying directly into Picasso’s “The Actor.”

“Oh-ohhh!” the woman cried. Mr. van der Woodsen regained his balance and dashed out of the gallery. Serena tried to run after him, but between her torturous heels and Nate’s grip on her arm, she couldn’t move. An alarm had gone off and the room descended into chaos.

“Nate! What are you doing!” Serena cried. “Get out of here! Give me your shoes first though!”

“Serena, what is going on?” Nate demanded. “Who was that Picasso guy? Why was he all over you?”

Meanwhile, two museum guards had rushed over to the fallen woman and the Picasso painting. One helped the woman up. The other talked frantically on his radio.

“I…I don’t know what happened,” the woman cried. “Someone must’ve bumped into me.”

“Did anyone see what happened?” the guard cried out. People were now gathering around, frantically whispering and pointing at a six-inch vertical tear in the corner of the painting.

Serena managed to finally liberate her lips. “Yes! A woman tripped and fell into her! An…an older woman wearing a bulky cardigan and corduroys! She looked like she lived in Connecticut, or maybe even Massachusetts! She left the room as soon as it happened!”

“Serena,” Nate said in disbelief. “What are you doing?”

“Nate, give me your shoes, and go,” Serena demanded. She didn’t want to lie to him, but she didn’t have a choice right now. “I’ll explain everything to you later tonight. Just…trust me?”

Nate looked into the shallow blue pools of Serena’s contact lenses. He knew that she was hiding something, but mostly he was just disappointed that she didn’t want to come home with him and fool around at his apartment. Today was a bad day, he tweeted on his Blackberry.

“Nate,” Serena repeated.

“Huh?” he looked up.

“Your shoes.”

Nate sighed and slipped out of his brown oxfords. “You have some major explaining to do later,” he told her, eyes sulky underneath his mangs. Angry, dejected, and shoeless, he shuffled out of the museum. Oxfords on, heels in hand, shirt barely concealing her lady parts, Serena dashed out of the gallery to try and find her father.

Uh, oh. Looks like N.’s entering his Blue Period. And now S. will have to be quite “The Actor” to protect her secret. Good thing that on the Upper East Side, the art of lying is a timeless craft. You know you love me. xoxo, Gossip Girl.

UPDATE: I just discovered that the actual casting choice of Mr. van der Woodsen in the real life Gossip Girl show is none other than BILLY BALDWIN. Amazing.

Photo Credits: www.clevelandleader.com, www.people.com, www.chstv.com, www.gossipgirlinsider.com

I looked at the small, carefully sketched pictures of a Dachshund, a Beagle, a Yorkshire Terrier. And then I turned to–oh no–my “WHY?” page. The “WHY?” page was a manifestation of my adolescent existential crisis: a page covered in questions beginning with the three-letter word. The center of the page contained the carefully penciled, all capital “WHY?” to both clarify and dramatize the purpose of the page.

Here are some of my favorite “WHY?” questions:

Why does Kelly G think she’s SO MUCH BETTER than everyone else? * Why can’t I be good at soccer? * Why do my palms sweat ALL THE TIME? * Why doesn’t Justin Bowman know who I am? * Why isn’t “good” a good enough answer when Mom and Dad ask me how my day was? * Why does everyone get so excited about Friday dances when the same things always happen? * Why do people have to be so mean to Ashley L.? She’s a really nice person. I don’t get it. [Scrawled below in scratchier, more “upset” handwriting] Not necessarily true!

I guess Ashley L. and I had a little tiff. I haven’t the slightest idea what it was about.

After rediscovering my suburban adolescent “WHY?” page, I started thinking that perhaps it would be cathartic to have a “WHY?” page for my modern-day self: the twenty-something New Yorker. (Or…at least a twenty-something wannabe New Yorker. When does one make the official switch to a legit resident? I now have a New York license in my possession, but I still don’t quite feel that I’ve earned my place in the big city.) It didn’t take me long to start filling up the sheet of paper:

Why is the only Facebook friend request that I’ve received in months from my mom? * Why does my roommate, Man, insist on buying toilet paper that feels like recycled sand paper? * Why oh why are they making another Sex and the City movie? * Why won’t Murray’s just toast my Whole Wheat Everything Bagel? (IF YOU READ PAST THIS QUESTION YOU ARE A BAGEL. OMGJK. Keep reading!) * Why, despite having lived here for upwards of a year and a half, does dating remain this mythical entity? * Why won’t the super return my phone calls? * Why doesn’t he understand that our leaky radiator is causing flash floods in one corner of our apartment? * Why do I lay awake at night for hours imagining different ways I could be killed in my sleep (electrocuted by the wires hanging outside my window, asphyxiated by gas leaking from our vintage stove, burned to a crisp by a fire in our apartment building—perhaps from issues with the aforementioned old stove, etc.)?

A “WHY?” page clears the head, trapping those unsolvable stresses, big or small, and taming them on the page–nothing seems quite as fierce or looming when it’s articulated as a succinct question. I haven’t had another Sex and the City II nightmare since I put pen to paper.

As for the original sketchbook, I looked through the rest of it, vacillating between feeling amused and horrified. A particular gem is a page, mostly blank, that says, “My one true wish is to be a witch like Sabrina [the Teenage Witch] I know it sounds stupid but it’s true!” Underneath it is a tiny cartoon drawing of a dog. I probably intended him to represent the talking animal companion I would have to go along with all my special witch powers. Sabrina had a saucy black cat, Salem, but I’m just not a cat person.

Cut to twelve years later:

My one true wish is to be like Liz Lemon [on 30 Rock]. I know it sounds stupid, but it’s true!
My hopes and dreams, fears and frustrations all might evolve over time, but I’m still really just a girl that dreams of living life like a sitcom, loves dogs, and wouldn’t mind a normal conversation with a boy. In New York, surrounded by constant movement and countless people–not to mention a lot of dogs that I ogle over the way many fuss over a cute baby–it seems that these wants are within reach.

After all, sharing a cubicle with Sushi Girl (“Oh em gee. My bee eff read my bee bee em like five mins ago and he still hasn’t responded. Double you tee eff!”) and harboring a secret in-office crush on the Windbreaker (a normal conversation is difficult when I feel myself heat up like I’m a little teapot every time he comes into view, but I’m working on it), not to mention living with Man the vegan biotch (“Ugh. Your cheese is touching my tempeh again. Gross.”) doesn’t feel that far off from fiction.

So stay tuned. After a winter hiatus, Stunned is back with all new episodes. And while 2010 is bound to be filled with some more thoughts of “WHY?”, my brand-new mentality for this year is “WHY NOT?”

Photo Credits: thewritingpages.blogspot.com, fantasyfiction.co.uk, breadwig.com

I slipped into a daze as I sat slumped back, thoughtlessly munching on a flattened pb&j sandwich, mesmerized by Ira’s introduction to the week’s show. Then I felt something hit the side of my head. Simultaneously, a yellow object flew across my line of vision.

I looked to the right–a fun-size peanut M&M packet!–and then to the ground–a fun-size Almond Joy! Like the delicious-smelling New York street carts, I’m Nuts 4 Nuts. The miraculous appearance of two of my favorite candies seemed truly a gift from the heavens. I looked up from my desk to behold the face of my personal savior. This time I was struck with joy sans almonds: It was The Windbreaker!

My relationship with The Windbreaker had started with a random act of flatulence and further developed with an alcohol-induced outburst followed by a Trek-influenced treaty. Most recently, The Windbreaker and I had shared a moment upon discovering that we were both secretly reading Twilight. And then I spat on him. Oops. All and all, neither wind nor rain could keep us apart.

I immediately abandoned Ira and my headphones and turned my chair to face him. “Hi,” I said as I leaned over to pick the Almond Joy off the floor and put it next to the M&Ms.

“Hey,” he said, draping his arms over the side of the cubicle wall.

“Where did you get these?” I asked. “That Halloween candy we had around disappeared weeks ago.”

“That’s classified information,” he said simply.

“No, seriously,” I pressed. “Is there a stash I don’t know about?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kiss you–I mean kill you. Kill you,” he reiterated. “A straight up Jason Bourne assassination…Dead.” As he finished his assertion, his hand formed the shape of a gun.

“You’re right,” I said, “I’ve heard people talking about a mole buried deep in the company. A hungry mole. Trust no one.”

But while I kept a cool, calm exterior (shocking), my mind was racing on a hamster wheel: WTF. WTF. WTF. WTF. WTF…

From flatulence to Freudian slips, could this relationship get any weirder? I felt a little rush of elation.

Just then, Sushi Girl—lip gloss poppin’ like it was a Lil’ Mama music video–came strutting down the the corridor.

“Hey you guuuys,” she said, as she dropped into her seat, crossing her legs and running a quick hand through her highlighted hair. “What’s going on?”

“Hey,” The Windbreaker said. “I gotta go get some work done. I’ll see you guys later.”

“Thanks for the candy!” I called after him, craning my neck as I saw him walk swiftly down the corridor.

Sushi Girl was returning from treating herself to lunch out of the office: two Parliaments on Avenue of the Americas. As she sat down, she whipped out her dessert, a piece of wintergreen Dentyne Ice gum.

“Oh my God,” she said, chewing vigorously. “He’s been so awkward with me ever since we made out for like, two seconds at that company happy hour like, over a year ago when I was on a break with my bee eff. It’s like, get over it already.”

Of course Sushi Girl had some weird, drunken kisstory with this guy. Was my interest in The Windbreaker tantamount to eying Sushi’s already-been-chewed Dentyne? I shuddered as I looked at a little wad of gum stuck to the side of our communal wastebasket. Without a word, I put my headphones back on and pressed play on my iTunes:

“ ‘You lose, you lose, you lose, you lose,’ [repeats Jorge]. Jorge says that if he hadn’t just moved to New York City, if he hadn’t just started this whole life, it would not have been the kick in the stomach that it was. Which brings us to today’s radio program. From WBZ Chicago it’s This American Life distributed from Public Radio International. I’m Ira Glass.” *

*Episode #233: “Starting from Scratch”
Photo Credit: freephotooftheday, thisamericanlife.org, nbtravel.com

“New Moon” is taking the world by storm. Inevitably, it will affect even those who have absolutely no interest: I foresee an innocent man trampled by a stampede of tweens while he attempts to attend “2012.” You may not care, but you can’t hide!

Many “Twilight” fans are smitten by Edward Cullen, a vampire who sparkles in the sunlight, feeds on animals rather than humans, and loves protagonist Bella with all of his beat-less vampire heart–sentiment that physically manifests itself through gentle facial strokes and rigidly controlled kisses. Love! Angst! Tension! Danger! But after reading Twilight and New Moon, as well as seeing the “Twilight” movie, all that I can think about are the reasons why dating this vampire is, in the words of Liz Lemon, a dealbreaker.

1. I’m Too Scentsitive
Edward is overpoweringly drawn to Bella because of her intoxicating scent. It’s a large part of what initially attracts him to her. If I were Bella, this would send me into a downward spiral of self-doubt: Does he really like me, or is he just into the way I smell? And what if he finally bites me, turns me into a vampire, and then dumps me because I don’t have that hot human blood that he lusts after? What then I ask you?! OMG he’s totally going to dump me.

2. The Dangers of Sleepstalking
Edward never sleeps. He can’t. He’s dead. Or maybe “undead” is the correct term? Anyways, he just doesn’t sleep. Instead, he watches Bella sleep. He started watching her even before they became like, boyfriend-girlfriend, like officially. “I like watching you sleep,” he tells her in “Twilight.” “It’s kind of fascinating to me.” We’re supposed to swoon.

I shudder. I snore and drool in my sleep. Often I sweat. Hell, I probably break wind every once in a while. Who knows what I’m capable of in a deep slumber! The last thing I would want is to be vigilantly watched while I surrender to the graceless state of sleep. Would Edward feel the same way about Bella if she drooled the night away—if she let out a little toot in her sleep? It would be a dream come true to find out, but, alas, that’s one scene they’ll never shoot. I’d never get a decent night’s sleep again knowing that Edward could be watching…

3. All That Glitters is Not Gold
Edward is gorgeous. He’s a god. Bella says so over and over in the book. Brag a little bit more, Bella. But it’s also a source of terrible insecurity, which is probably the one aspect of Bella’s character that I can actually relate to. I can see it now: everywhere Edward and I would go, everyone would think, “Her? Really?”

To make matters worse, every time the sun hits him, Edward’s vampire skin sparkles like diamonds. Maybe it’s better than being burnt to a crisp like the vampires in “True Blood,” but honestly, after a while the sparkling would become yet another reminder of his eternal perfection and everlasting physical superiority. Plus, do I really want to date someone that takes on the appearance of a street performer every time he faces the sunlight?

4. We Just Have Different Tastes
I just can’t wait for all of those meals when Edward watches me get spinach in my teeth or chocolate on the corner of my mouth. I won’t mind at all when his liquid amber eyes gaze at me as I struggle to pick the popcorn kernel out of my molar. Ugh. What a nightmare. And he will notice all of these things because Edward doesn’t eat food. Like sleeping: it’s one more thing he’ll just be watching me do.

This, I have to say, is the ultimate dealbreaker. I love food. I love eating meals with other people. And drinking! I want to go out to a bar, get a little intoxicated and then enjoy a Mamoun’s falafel pita or a slice of Artichoke pizza. Edward would never be able to share such moments with me, instead he would just feel ravenous for my blood. I might be able to come to terms with some of the other stuff, but this is one issue I’ll never get past. So, sorry Ed, but I choose food!

And if you don’t like it, well, bite me.

Photo Credit: whatsontv.co.uk, cspaworkshop.org, justcoffeeart.com, newmoonmovie.org

I called your name–well, shouted it.

See, I’d already had a couple of glasses of wine, so my usually razor-sharp, borderline-paranoid social senses were dulled. Had it been the sobering light of day, I never would have shouted. I probably wouldn’t have uttered a word because…come to think of it…shouting your name was the first thing I’d ever said to you.

Because in high school, everyone knew your name. It was a colloquialism that rolled off every girl’s tongue, along with “like,” “ya know,” and “Abercrombayyy.” And even though you were two grades ahead of me, the mere logistics of passing each other between 3rd and 4th periods seemed to acquaint us. At least, that’s how it was in the mind of a 15-year-old that felt the world slow down and play “Fantasy” by Mariah Carey at 11:13 a.m. Monday through Friday.

So imagine my surprise when the bustle of St. Mark’s Place suddenly slowed and Mariah started crooning. You looked older and you were stuffing your face with a pita pocket from Mamoun’s.

I turned as your name tumbled from my wine-stained lips, and I took several strides towards you as you stopped and swung around. Surprise became panic as I saw your confused, searching eyes pass over me, just another stranger on St. Mark’s. Steps towards you turned into long strides past you and I swept by.

But as I walked away from my past, my fleeting vision of you steered me in a sharp right, straight towards my future: Mamoun’s, you got the best of me, but I just keep on coming back incessantly.

Photo Credit: brianorndorf.com

It was 1 p.m. Sushi Girl and I had just finished working on a Power Point slideshow that just about knocked the wit right out of me. (“I’m thinking like, buttery-yellow border for this one. Or maybe coral-pink? Kind of like my nail color–ooh, I really need to get a mani. Do you think I could be a hand model? Oh, right, the border. What’s going on this slide again? Oh, that graph. Can we make the line on that coral and then have a coral border? That would look good. Or do you think that’s too matchy-matchy?”)

By some grace of God, the two of us had gotten bumped up from paid interns to entry-level employees a few months ago. But the big promotion didn’t mean an upgrade in real estate: Sushi Girl and I remain cubicle mates. Older employees get a kick out of this and, because we are considered the babies of the office, refer to our shared space as “the womb.” “The tomb” would be more appropriate.

Feeling more claustrophobic than usual, I rose from my seat.

“I’m going to eat in the kitchen,” I announced. “I brought a hard-boiled egg again and I’d rather not watch you struggle with your gag reflex.”

“Thank God,” Sushi Girl replied. “I can’t believe you eat yolk. Who does that?”

Without another word, I picked up my bag and headed to the kitchen. My salad, a bed of lettuce, carrot peels, and tomatoes with the infamous hard-boiled egg resting atop the mound, was already sitting in the kitchen refrigerator, but I brought my bag because it contained my reading material. If other people occupied the long rectangular table, I would read this week’s New Yorker. However, if I had the table to myself and the area looked deserted, I’d discreetly take out my hefty paperback copy of the teen sensation Twilight.

Yes, I am reading Twilight. Yes, I’m ashamed about it. True Blood glamoured me. Once the season ended, I went into withdrawal. Despite the return of Gossip Girl and a marginal interest in the new show Flash Forward, I remained bloodthirsty. Picking up Twilight felt like a quick fix.

That said, I kind of hate it. Bella, the main character and the story’s narrator, is all like, “OMG Edward is so hot. I’m so clumsy and awkward. But everyone is so in love with me. Edward is a vampire and we’re in love. Did I mention that Edward is so hot?” So far, that’s pretty much the gist of the book but, despite how much I dislike Bella, I can’t stop reading it. True Blood was the filet mignon of entertainment: a cut above everything else, but also juicy and indulgent. Twilight is like a Big Mac.

I arrived in the kitchen to find the end of the kitchen table occupied with the one guy in the office that I kind of have a history with. In this case, “history” means that he broke wind next to me during an office meeting and them blamed it on me–an incident I carried a grudge about for months until I ran into him and his Polly Pocket girlfriend at a bar one night and drunkenly confronted him about it.

Luckily, the situation was seamlessly patched up by the wordless exchange of a Vulcan hand gesture. I’m speaking in dork right now–for the detailed translation turn back time to Stunned Trek. Needless to say, we are now on friendly enough yet remote, slightly uneasy terms.

“Hi,” I said as I got my salad out of the refrigerator.

He gave a little chin nod and a half-smile, the best he could manage since his mouth was full of a Subway sandwich that he clutched in one hand. His attention immediately returned to his book, leaving no room for small talk. What a relief. I took a seat a few feet away at the opposite end of the table. Just as I was reaching inside my bag to get my New Yorker, I glanced over, catching a glimpse of The Windbreaker’s book spine as he turned the page with his free hand.

“Hey, is that…Are you reading Twilight?”

He kind of winced, then grinned. “Aw, man, I saw no one was here and I thought I was in the clear.”

I laughed. “It’s okay. I won’t say anything if you don’t,” I assured him and I pulled out my own copy of the book.

He chuckled. “Wow. Well, I think it’s a little less questionable for you. It’s kind of more of a girl’s book, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I guess. I sort of hate it though. Even though I can’t stop reading it. I’m slightly embarrassed by the whole situation. So why are you reading it?”

He paused. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”

Not wanting to press, I asked, “Do you like it?”

“I’m not really sure,” he said. “It’s like what you were saying. I can’t say I enjoy reading it…I started reading it because…Uh, I guess it’s not that hard to explain. My ex-girlfriend left it at my apartment. She called a couple nights ago wanting it back and I told her ‘No’ just because I’m an asshole. She asked why and I said I was reading it. I wasn’t. I just didn’t want to give it to her. But then I picked it up and actually read the first couple of pages. I thought it was really lame and felt smug because it was evidence that she was a moron. But before I knew it I was a hundred pages in and now here I am…a moron.”

“You broke up with Polly Pocket?” The words tumbled out of my mouth. An actual conversation with The Windbreaker had caught me off guard. Plus, my affinity for gossip and single men in their twenties overpowered logic.

“What?” he asked, puzzled.

“Oh, uh, nothing.” I shook my head back and forth in small rapid movements, trying to shake off the comment that threatened to stilt the entire conversation. “Is your ex that girl? You know, the one I saw that time at the bar.” Neither of us had ever acknowledged that incident.

“Oh yeah. Yeah, that’s her. We broke up like a month ago.” He shrugged. “It was long overdue.”

I felt a little pathetic, slightly desperate, but this newfound knowledge of his single status suddenly had me seeing The Windbreaker in a completely new light. I eyed him curiously.

“Do I have something on my face?” he asked. “Mustard?” He ran one of those cheap fast-food napkins over his mouth. I noticed he had a five o’clock shadow and his, oh man, undeniable well defined jaw-line.

“No,” I said, puzzled.

“Oh, ha, sorry. I thought you were looking at me funny.”

Jesus, I thought. I’m a hot second away from foaming at the mouth.

“So where are you in the book?” I asked, steering the conversation away from my gawker status.

“Page 256.”

“Oh, which part is that? I’m a bit further along.”

“They’re on that date thing in a pasture or some crap and she can’t stop talking about his hot bod.”

“Steamy.”

“I have to say, I’m pretty entertained by its dramatics. Like look at this passage,” he said, moving over one seat so there was only an extra chair between us. He stretched across the space, pointing at a passage two thirds of the way down the page. I sat there staring not at the book, but at that jawline. He began to read.

“‘He was too perfect, I realized with a piercing stab of despair. There was no way this godlike creature could be meant for me.’ Ugh. I’m so glad I was never a teenage girl.”

I laughed…and I gleeked.

Gleeking is a terrible, inescapably embarrassing form of spitting. A “gleek,” according to the official word on the street via Urban Dictionary, is “building up saliva in the salivary glands using some stimulus, like sour food or yawning, and then pressing the tongue upon the glands, causing the saliva to shoot out, usually at an impressive distance.”

I looked at the black, matte surface of the table and then at the pages of the book–his book–both speckled with droplets as though there had been a small rain shower. I gasped, at a loss of what to do or say.

Both of us sat there for a second, frozen.

“My thoughts exactly,” he said, breaking the silence. “It’s a ridiculous passage. It should be spit upon.”

“Oh, God!” I exclaimed. My face felt like it was on fire. I ran the sleeve of my cardigan over the surface of the table. “I am so sorry. Oh, man. I almost always abide by the rule of ‘say it, don’t spray it.’ This is horrible. This is so bad. I–”

“Don’t even worry about it,” he assured me. I reached over and brushed my sleeve over the open book as well. “I’ve seen…and done, so much worse,” he continued. “Last winter I coughed up a loogie while I was on the subway and it projectiled onto the back of some woman’s fur coat.”

“Oh, wow. That’s bad. I once coughed gum into some woman’s hair on the R train.”

“No way. Did you tell her?”

Our conversation continued comfortably and amiably until I was done with my lunch. As for the gleek, I still felt slightly humiliated, but I wasn’t must-binge-on-peanut-butter-and-nutella mortified. After all, this was the guy who had passed gas next to me in a meeting. A gleek wasn’t nearly as scandalous as a PDF (Public Display of Flatulence). I walked away feeling ecstatic about a potential friendship in the office—something a bit more durable than a fair-weather accessory. And a small part of me couldn’t help but think that The Windbreaker would suite me quite well, especially on those rare occasions when I make it rain.

Photo Credit: conventionfans.today.com

Step Two: Fun With Jane…Just Jane
It is a truth universally acknowledged that many a girl covets the collected works of Jane Austen. I’m no exception. And when I’m feeling a little bit alone, delving into an Austen novel warms my mental state like a slanket for the soul. I find Persuasion especially heartwarming.

Austen film adaptations are fun too. Once I start on the books, inevitably I end up moving Sense and Sensibility or Mansfield Park to the top of my Netflix queue. The Jane Austen kick lasted about a week. But I can only fume about being born in the wrong century for so long. Besides, with my less than robust immune system, my 19th century fantasy life probably wouldn’t have extended beyond the first decade.

Step Three: DIY Dance Party
But really, how did Stunned get her groove back?

A true reawakening requires a bit of action. One evening, I think it was probably a Saturday, I found myself alone in the apartment, chipping away at a block of sharp cheddar cheese as I lounged on the couch listening to an old playlist I’d made one night in college when I felt sad (drunk and hungry). Perhaps this scenario sounds pathetic, but I willingly admit that I was feeling quite content in my lethargy.

However, as the Al Green track faded out, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. I’d been living in my own little world of sci-fi teenage kicks and other-century courtships. La-la land can’t last forever, yet getting off the couch felt more like jumping overboard–dangerous, uncertain.

But suddenly the air was filled with a new tune. I sat bolt-upright. How had Shakira’s “She Wolf” found its way onto the “Papa John’s is My Boyfriend” playlist?! I must have dumped it there by accident while attempting to add it to “Phast Trax”–my favorite dance music. Once the song was blasting, the mistake felt more like…fate.

Seconds later, I was off the couch swinging fierce “Thriller” claws, thrusting my ribcage and my hips in as many different directions as I could. In retrospect, I probably looked more like the girl from The Exorcist*** than Shakira. Still, there’s nothing quite as liberating as dancing to the beat of your own itunes: no audience, no expectations–just one person doing what feels right. I was the She Wolf and, just like that, I was back on the prowl.

***For the full effect here, watch The Exorcist clip on mute while letting the “She Wolf” video play in another window.

Photo Credit: www.imageshack.us, thecia.com.au

It’s not so much that I’m obsessing over Jake. Whatever. My brofriend Will confirmed that he was a “wiener” and I don’t mind sticking to that conclusion. Anyone who could actually date my new roommate has to be, at worst, psychotic, at best, just not my type.

Still, for a second there, I stopped being completely and utterly single. Now I have to start back at square one, bravely barreling into the great unknown of the New York dating scene. My issue is not about Jake or Man, but rather about me, myself, and I–a hopelessly self-involved, no doubt deranged clique. Such company left me feeling…low. Think opening credits of Bridget Jones Diary. Thus began a process I felt was necessary to dull the disappointment of my dateless state…

Step 1: The Regression Sessions
While some might have been butting at the stable door, raring to get back in the ring, I didn’t feel particularly inspired by the thought of hitting the town. I wanted to be distracted, entertained, whisked away from the mundane reality of my everyday life. I wanted television.

I found myself spending inordinate amounts of time on Hulu rewatching the entire first season of Roswell, a show that I kept up with in middle school because it was on after Dawson’s Creek. Though Roswell once played second fiddle to Dawson and his band of blubbering blabbermouths, now all I can say is WOW–this show is AMAZING (if you’re into hot teenage aliens and heart-breaking human-alien relationships). Its premise is similar to Twilight, but better. I find sparkly teen vampires a tad overrated.

I spent an entire weekend watching the first 22 episodes of Roswell and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I really did feel like I was twelve again. And it was glorious.

But tragedy struck Sunday afternoon: I had watched the last episode of season 1 and, despite googling this and that, binging and banging my way around the web, I could not find the premiere of season two. Perhaps it was for the best. Though my love of Roswell hasn’t diminished, I realize that I can’t hide behind a high school drama forever, especially one that only lasted three seasons.

So, I crawled out of my cocoon quite seamlessly, just as the aliens had emerged from their incubation pods at the human age of six.

But I wasn’t putting my hands up with all the single ladies, all the single ladies quite yet. Stay tuned for the next chapter of self-absorption…

Continue to Part II right here, right now!

Photo Credits: www.sbs.com, powerofnature.livejournal.com

But it’s not just college. Lately, I find myself thinking about high school, middle school, even elementary school…ANY kind of school really. This school daze is full of nostalgia for the good old days of stressing out about papers and pining for the star soccer player as I stare at the back of his head during geometry class. The thoughts of fresh notebooks and first-day-back outfits, ballpoint pens and class schedules have my heart all a flutter.

Two nights ago, I had a dream that I was taking a high-school math test…naked. But I was acing it. I knew everything. When I walked up to give my teacher the exam, everyone started cheering. I stood at the front of the room, poised like a piece of art–Nude at Chalkboard–and then I took a sweeping bow. Before I could rise from my gracious bend, I woke up.

What was that?! I thought to myself. How is it possible that such a vision was a sweet dream rather than a nightmare?

I couldn’t quite figure out the meaning of my night vision, but from the moment I woke up, my thoughts began meandering through the archives of academia–the tiny details indelibly etched on my brain, from the chocolate milk and tater tots of the elementary school cafeteria to the “Kelly Graham is a slut” carved into the toilet dispenser of the third stall on the first floor bathroom of my high school.

Look, it wasn’t like I was putting my school experience on some kind of pedestal. I went through more than a few periods where I was miserable for days, weeks, maybe months at a time. But there was something about it that I suddenly longed for…I just didn’t know quite what it was.

After work, I headed uptown, head still in clouds of L.L. Bean backpacks and pep rally pom-poms. I had to babysit–or, as I call it, tween monitor–my 13-year-old cousin, Eleanor. God only knows how the Gossip-Girl-in-training was going to behave. Last time she attempted to blackmail me so I would spill the beans about blow jobs. Luckily, I managed to keep my mouth shut.

However, since I was suddenly feeling so young at heart, I was actually looking forward to hearing about her first days of eighth grade. This craving was getting weird.

Eleanor’s parents quickly departed, leaving the two of us perched on kitchen stools waiting for take-out Thai food.

“So, how’s everything going?” I asked. “How’s school?”

Eleanor glared at me, her face distorted into a grimace that belligerently revealed the cold-hard machinery of her braces. Her expression epitomized the you don’t get me sentiment.

“Eighth grade can be kind of rough,” I admitted. “I remember this one time at lunch when I ate this chicken patty that tasted–I dunno–a little off somehow. Two hours later, I had my head in the trash can in the middle of English class. A bunch of people called me Chunks right up through high-school graduation.”

“Oh, please,” Eleanor sighed. “Your suburban sob stories bore me.”

“It’s not a sob story,” I snapped. “You get older and you realize it’s funny. You get older and you realize that you kind of miss it, because no matter how miserable you felt, at least you always knew who you were up against. Your whole world…It’s right there. And things you wish you had or you wish you could change…they’re so clear to you. So obvious.”

That was it–that was what I was feeling so nostalgic for. Nothing was ever perfect or easy, and there was plenty that felt confusing and stressful, but I knew what I was working with. In the confines of the somewhat dilapidated, usually hideous walls of those academic institutions, I knew the players, I knew the routine, and I knew what I wanted: good grades, good friends, a boyfriend. The goals were so obvious, and though I didn’t appreciate it at the time, my current uncertainty about the future–work, love, life, the whole thing–makes my past seem like an idyllic nest of security.

“Stupid,” Eleanor muttered, interrupting my train of thought.

“What?”

“That’s stupid,” she told me. “You just don’t remember how much it sucked. And you’ll never understand how much it sucks to be me.”

“Try me.”

“Liz Stuart got mad because she found out that Max Taylor and I made out in this, like, supply closet at Jess Rosen’s bat mitzvah, ’cause, I like, decided that I definitely didn’t want to be making out with boys in public anymore. Especially at like, dances and parties because it looks totally trashy.

“Anyway, Liz totally had this huge thing for Max and she thought he had a huge thing for her too…Like, literally. She claims he got really, you know, ‘excited’ when they were slow dancing together at the Spring Fling last May, but they didn’t even kiss or anything. So Max and I went and made out in this supply closet or whatever. And Liz found out.

“This was like, last week, right before school started. So Liz found out and she was pissed. To get back at me, she told everyone that I’d like, done a lot more than just kiss Max, which is totally not true. All we did was make out and it wasn’t even that great.

“So then when I get to school on Tuesday, only like, two of my friends will talk to me because Liz has fed everyone this sob story about how I stole Max from her and like, violated him in the closet. And Max just went with the story because it sounds cooler that he like, got more action than he actually did. And then Ashley Lambert, who like, totally wants to be Liz’s best friend even though she’s not, put a ketchup packet on my chair at lunch. And I sat in it and didn’t even know I had this red stain on my pants until like, two hours later when I finally saw it in the girls’ room. So now everyone thinks I’m a slut that got my period for all to see on the first day of 8th grade.”

“Wow,” I exhaled. “That’s pretty…that’s pretty awful.”

And just like that, Eleanor brought me back to reality. I’d remembered that I had bouts of angst in school, but I couldn’t remember why it was so awful or how it felt. But when Eleanor shared her story, I suddenly remembered how claustrophobic it all could be–how hard it was not to feel trapped.

As our food arrived and we sat eating–meaning I was scarfing and she was picking–our orders of pad thai and coconut curry, I sought to find words of comfort for Eleanor, make-out maven turned fallen tween.

“Things will change,” I told her. “I know this seems like it’s never going to go away, but things always change.”

“Oh, whatever,” she said, shrugging. “Tomorrow I’m telling Max that if he helps spread the rumor, I’m going to tell everyone that his thing is like, the size of a baby carrot. And I’ll let Liz know that if she doesn’t back off, I’m going to tell everyone about how she had a little accident in her pants during the sit-up portion of our fitness test last spring because she was taking laxatives to try to lose weight.”

Like I said, Gossip-Girl-in-training. She’s like a mini Blair Waldorf. As for me, I sat there stunned. Rumors about penis size, abuse of laxatives–this was middle school, not a CW drama.

“Maybe you should just try to, you know, make up with them. Have a truce,” I suggested. “Instead of blackmailing them?”

“Like I said,” she told me. “You just don’t get it.”

And for that, I was eternally grateful.

“By the way,” she informed me. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about our unfinished conversation.”

“What?”

“Oh, just a certain oral history report.”

Photo Credit: llbean.com