Sweat rolls down my forehead, leaks into my eyes. I can see drops all across my arms and my yoga mat.
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When she tells me she’s proud of me, I want to pull a blanket over myself and stay there, away from her attention, away from the pride I can feel rising up in myself that tells me, Mission accomplished.
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I hadn’t swam in the ocean for years until he asked me if I wanted to go in.
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“Your amazing,” he writes just as my treadmill starts to speed up.
And yes, he spelled it wrong, and the editor in me tries to withhold her judgment and not let an apostrophe, re, keep the butterflies at bay. But the butterflies aren’t coming anyway. They rarely come with him.
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Seven days ago I got a phone call that sparked a change in my life. That was nine months since graduation. Nine months since the clock struck midnight and life gave me another year to look ahead to. Nine months since all I could see in front of me was a massive pit of fog and millions of question marks.
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Since the day I stepped out of a classroom for the last time, shoved old notebooks into a plastic Target bag and donated my no. 2 pencils to a roommate who still had a year of tests to take, I have been asked the same question.
Read MoreWhat do you want now?”
If there’s one thing that makes me nervous, it’s writing about myself. I’ve never thought about writing personal essays, and the one class I took in college that I tried to skip as much as possible was “Personal Narrative,” where we began every class with writing a one-page story about ourselves, and at the end of the quarter had to share—out loud—a ten page personal narrative that “exposed our genuine selves.”
No thank you.
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