Colleen Conrad

“Sometimes someone says something really small, and it just fits into this empty place in your heart.”

–Angela Chase, My So-Called Life

 

            You’d think that following your dreams would feel just right.  When I was debating whether to leave teaching and write full-time, I actually put “follow my dreams” in the pro column for writing.  But even though it seems like that should trump everything else, it was still an agonizing decision.  And so far, this experience has been isolating.  Writing is often a solitary experience, and it’s like I feel preemptively lonely.  One day I’m thrilled, the next I’m racked with fear and worry and—dare I say it?—regret.  I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about the job that I’m leaving behind.  About the way that I could be painting myself into a corner, limiting my options, burning my bridges.  My students have told me that they want autographed copies of my first book, and I feel the weight of their expectations bearing down on my shoulders.  I mean, how can I justify leaving them when I know there’s a very real possibility that I’ll never be published at all?    

            Just a few days after resigning, though, I got an email from a very new friend.  Someone who’s only known me for a short time.  And the message was short and sweet.  A few words of encouragement about my recent choice, and remarkably, I felt lighter.  More confident in my choice.  That one email—those few sentences from a veritable stranger—made a world of difference.

            The reaction to my decision has been unanimously supportive.  My closest friends, my family, and colleagues I deeply respect have all expressed their excitement for the chance that I’m taking.  I’ve been called brave, told congratulations.  But even with all of that enthusiasm, I’ve still doubted myself.  Something about that email was different.  Maybe it was the way that it was framed—almost like something a coach would say in a huddle—or maybe it was the fact that this person barely knows me and still has confidence in my decision.

            Remember when you were a kid, and your mom would tell you how cute you looked in that dress?  Or your dad was sure that you were the best player on your soccer team?  Remember how you never really believed it until one of the kids at the dance, or on the field, said the same thing?  It’s a sad fact, but strangers can sometimes be more influential than our nearest and dearest.  Our friends and family are just too damn close to the situation to be reliable sources.  They’re supposed to compliment and love us no matter what.  You could say that they have to; it’s their job, for crying out loud!   

            But like Angela said, sometimes it’s the smallest things that fill the voids in our hearts.  I’m distant emotionally from the people who know me best right now.  And perhaps that’s the power of the stranger.  When it’s someone who is completely outside of your inner circle, someone who can act as an outsider looking in, without any bias or motive…well, that person offers a different perspective.  Or, at least, you perceive it as different.  And it’s exactly what you need to hear.

            We all wish that one person could fulfill all of our emotional needs, but how realistic is that?  How fair is it, even, to ask that of someone?  I’m surrounded by amazing people, and I’m so lucky to have the community that I do.  But each of them is so unique, so special, and I go to them with different things all the time.  Why is it so surprising, then, that a new person would access—and help alleviate—the heart of my insecurities?

            A near-stranger helped calmed my troubled mind, probably without even realizing it.  And I’m thankful. 

 

 

Disclaimer: I realize that I have a bit of a streak going right now, in that I’ve only been writing about my decision to write full-time.  So I promise to change that up in my next post.  Cross my heart.

This week, my creative writing class delved into the murky depths of sensory details in fantasy texts.  Among other things, we discussed Philip Pullman’s The Golden Compass.  Naturally, many of my students have read the series and they were enthusiastic to talk about books that hold such a special place in their hearts. 

At one point, a student spoke up and asked why this series has been banned from some school districts.  I answered as best I could:  Because it addresses biblical topics—like the Book of Genesis, Creationism, and Original Sin, to name a few—that  some people find controversial.  The next day, a student proudly showed me his brand-new copy of the book.  “I couldn’t read this before,” he told me, “because it was banned at my old school!”  The student then shared that he’d previously attended a private Lutheran school.  Uh oh.

I’ve always quietly pushed the envelope when it comes to reading material with my students, but I also know my boundaries.  If I feel that a text is engaging without being salacious, I choose to share it with them in an open environment where I can help guide the discussion.  These books often introduce reluctant readers to reading that they wouldn’t otherwise find, and simultaneously stimulates the brains of voracious readers as well.  In other words, if I feel like I can stand by a book’s content, quality, and over-arching themes, I will stand by it even in the face of parental or administrative opposition.

That sounds all brave and bold, doesn’t it?

But the truth is that I’ve never had to defend my book selections.  Which tells me one of a few things:  Either I’ve made good choices over the years, or no student has ever mentioned a controversial topic at home, or I’ve always had like-minded parents and administrators.

Because when all is said and done, teaching inevitably censors a person.  We’re contractually forbidden from telling students our political views—even if they ask, say, who we voted for in the last presidential election.  I know that students troll Facebook looking for incriminating photos of their teachers—gasp!—drinking alcohol.  I swear like a sailor outside of school, but I can honestly say that I’ve never cursed in front of my classes, even by accident.  So, of course, I’m careful about what I write.  Even sub-consciously. 

For example, how do I handle sex in my novels?  I know that my students have questions about it, think about, are even having it.  But what’s my responsibility as their teacher?  Would writing about it compromise my job?  And then there’s drugs, politics, alcohol, religion, sexuality…the list goes on.  Bottom line:  When you’re a teacher, it’s hard to separate yourself from that identity, and the (however unfair) standards that we’re held to.   

On June 2nd I’ll say goodbye to teaching and begin writing full-time.  While I know that I’ll miss teaching, it will be such a relief to loudly push the envelope.  To let go of that protective teacher voice and write whatever I want.  Whatever it is I feel will speak to teens.  I’m not saying I expect my books to be banned, but would it be such a bad thing if any of them were?  And sure, if I’m lucky enough to have an agent, an editor, a publisher, I know that those parties will have a say in what goes into my final drafts.  But at least I’ll be writing with conceptual freedom to begin with.  How liberating it will be to approach my fiction with unadulterated fearlessness.

I noticed that my last few posts have been a bit on the intense side.  Of course, I’ve been feeling pretty intense lately. 

But this week I was working on yet another serious, pensive piece, and I just feel like I need to sit on it for a while.  Lighten things up. 

So…time for a gratitude journal!

I’m thankful that the sun came out at today’s hat tournament, and that UT Women’s Ultimate raised some money.  (I’m also thankful that I got in a great workout, made some new friends, and didn’t pull any muscles!)

I’m thankful for my friend Allison, who showed me a great time on Friday night.

I’m thankful for cold beer after a day of frisbee.

I’m thankful to be teaching a refreshing poetry unit this six weeks.  (I’m so tired of nonfiction…)

I’m thankful that I’m finally starting to feel healthy again after the winter holidays.

I was thankful for this morning’s coffee.  And I’ll be thankful for tomorrow’s, too.

I’m thankful for my puppy, even though she kept me up last night.

I’m thankful for the book on my nightstand—a gift from a friend—waiting to be read.

Last week I wrote about making a tremendous life change.  I knew that there would be emotional fallout, and I wasn’t wrong.  The decision to leave teaching and write full-time is alternately exciting, sad, liberating and terrifying.  Over the last week or so I’ve been plagued by a sense of longing.  I feel like I’ve been waiting for something, but I’m not entirely sure what that is.  Maybe it’s the fact that I still have four more months to teach before I can hit the ground running.  Maybe it’s the inevitable fear of failure or the financial instability.  But I’ve retreated into my own head, where no one else can go, and I’m sure that a few people have wondered about that distant look in my eyes when my mind has wandered away mid-conversation.

But today I’m wearing Ariana’s shirt, and I feel a little bit better.

How did I end up in my friend’s shirt, you might ask?  No, it wasn’t through a Black Swan-esque lesbian tryst (I wish), or a laundry snafu.  This weekend one of my best friends, Tara, made a return trip to Austin for a girls’ weekend.  Six of us stole away to a lake house about an hour outside of town.  We had grand plans of hitting up one of the local country bars, canoeing on the water, playing board games and watching chick flicks.  But when we arrived at around 4:00 in the afternoon, we looked around and realized that we didn’t need anything else but my signature beer dip, a few giant bottles of wine, and a lot of conversation.

Over the course of the night we traveled from the edge of the water, to one of the decks, to yet another porch by the fire pit.  We stuffed our faces at dinner, went through more alcohol than I care to remember, and discussed things I don’t want to forget.  We curled up together, wrapped in blankets, and finished the night upstairs slumber-party style.  I think I fell asleep around 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning, and yet we picked up right where we left off in the morning.  By mid-afternoon we’d already cracked open the remaining dip and cheeses, and we were yet again snuggled up, looking out over the water clutching big mugs of coffee.  And I’d poached Ariana’s shirt off the floor when I realized that I had forgotten a change of clothes. 

What is it about the company of girlfriends that calms a restless mind?    These girls were some of the first friends that I had in Austin, and in many ways they cured the homesickness that I felt through much of my first year here.  When I finished my Master’s degree I decided to stay in this city largely due to their presence.  We were all teammates at one point, and that connection has a natural way of forming bonds.  But I was so lucky in that I stepped on to a team filled with tremendously loyal women, and the friendships formed almost instantly.  These girls became my family away from home, and even though years have passed and relationships have changed, they remain touchstones for me.  I’ve shared ultra-personal information with them on long roadtrips and in late-night conversations.  This is a group of people who reserve judgment no matter what the confession.  I can say anything to them, and I know that I can trust them implicitly.  When we’re together, the world and all of its pressures fades away.  Being around them is like wearing Ariana’s shirt: Comfortable.  Easy.  Close to my heart.

I couldn’t ignore the gloom that washed over me when I dropped off Tara at the airport.  I was missing her—and my other friends—already.  I was sad to see the weekend end. 

But I’m still wearing Ariana’s shirt.

“A kiss can be a comma, a question mark, or an exclamation point.”

–Mistinguette

When I told the principal at my school on Wednesday that I’m resigning, she asked me, “Are you sure?”

And the answer was no. 

So I kinda shrugged and looked at her sheepishly, trying not to cry.

I guess she took that as an opportunity to ask again, “I mean, are you sure?”

In my head I was thinking, please stop asking me that, knowing that it would get harder and harder to say yes with any conviction.  I’ve been at my school for almost six years now; for the better part of my adult life.  Remarkably, I tend to do really well with change.  But I don’t like it, and this is a big one.  I honestly love the kids at my school, and I work with amazing, inspiring people.  They’re some of the best friends I’ve ever had.  Teaching is absolutely a part of my identity.

But there’s another part of my being that I’m not addressing nearly enough.

If you’d asked me what I wanted to be when I was in fifth grade, I would have told you:  A writer.  I was the kid who always had a journal filled with poems, song lyrics, stories, and story ideas.  (And yes, I still have those journals.  But no, I will not be showing them to anyone.)  I went to creative writing classes at the local library through my teen years, and took advantage of the frequent author visits in my little college town.  When I went to college I studied English Literature, but I also made sure to fill my course load with writing opportunities.  One time I waited outside the student center building for two hours, just to catch a professor on his way to his car.  We didn’t know each other before I accosted him (for lack of a better word), but by the time we finished talking he’d agreed to give me credit for an intensive semester-long, one-on-one poetry seminar.

Clearly I had dreams of writing.  But somewhere along the line, that goal got smaller and smaller, like the headlights of a car that you pass on the highway.  You know it’s still there, somewhere behind you on the open road, but you can’t really see it. The girl who tracked down professors to make them teach her to write—the person who chased after what she wanted, no matter how silly it seemed—got left behind after graduation.  I stopped calling myself a writer, and eventually stopped even thinking of myself that way.

There’s something terrifying about saying that you’re a writer.  If you never publish anything, are you still a writer?  How do you answer when people ask you what you’ve written?  I suppose that at some point, my fear got the better of me.  Or maybe I’m being too self-critical; maybe it was a need for stability, or a desire for routine, or sheer momentum that led me away from my fifth-grade dream and on to an arguably more stable career path. 

Then, in March of 2008, I found myself at a party in Manhattan, talking to a writer.  (I’ve mentioned this before, so if you’ve read it in an earlier post, please feel free to skip ahead!)  I was asking him about his current projects, his degree, his craft.  When he asked me what I did, I didn’t even hesitate.  “I’m a writer,” I said. 

I flushed immediately.  Had I been drinking too much?  Where had that come from? 

My oldest and dearest friend, Sarah (who brought me to the party), asked me later, “Don’t you think that means something?”

That night stayed with me, but it was still quite some time before I gathered the courage to make something happen.  Over the last eighteen months, I’ve tapped back into that part of me.  I’ve dusted off my journals and my quills.  On one fated Saturday morning, when I was feeling more than a little lost in the world, I picked up my pen and found myself again.  (Sorry, I’m keeping the specifics of that time to myself.)  And that was the day that I came out of the writing closet and started to call myself a writer again.  I returned to some older projects, and began a few new ones.  I hit it as hard as I could, while teaching at the same time.

Unfortunately, one of the things that (I think) makes me a good teacher is that I care so much.  To do it the way that I want to, teaching requires 110% of my time and energy.  I bring it home with me, literally and emotionally.  Just a few nights ago, a new friend pointed out that it’s hard to create under those circumstances.  And he’s right.  When I’m pushing the kids to create all day, I come home and my brain is mush. 

Granted, I have the weekends.  And I use that time as much as I can.  But I’ve determined that the weekends aren’t enough.  Especially since writing isn’t just about the creative process.  It isn’t only honing your craft.  It’s about networking, and self-promotion, and industry savvy.  None of which I can develop without sufficient time.  I know that there are people who do it, but I’ve realized that I’m not one of them.  And doing this half-assed isn’t working for me anymore.  If I’m going to be successful at this, I have to approach it like I did before, and like I do my teaching:  Full-throttle, 110%. 

This brings me back to telling my principal that I’m not coming back next year.  Having made the decision only hours before I spoke to her, I was still reeling with the weight of that choice.  For months I’d been agonizing over this decision, and I didn’t come to it lightly.  So no, I wasn’t sure.  I just knew that it’s time for me to take a flying leap and hope that I land on my feet.

“All of us have moments in our childhood where we come alive for the first time. And we go back to those moments and think, This is when I became myself.”
–Rita Dove

I recently came across this quote, and it’s haunted me for the last few weeks. I began to wonder: What were my moments?

I know that I had them. I immediately think of my mistakes, my learning experiences, my regrets…But what about the experiences that informed the person that I became? Not only the ones that I look back on with misgivings (and, in some cases, shame), but the ones that I recall as examples of the woman I am now?

I talked about this with one of my writer friends (check out her blogs at www.themustachioedladybug.blogspot.com and www.theresolutionrevolution.wordpress.com), and she recalled “adult moments in her childhood.”  Times when, as a girl, she felt like she was having a typically grown-up experience, or a streak of grown-up behavior in the middle of an otherwise childlike existence. But we also discussed times in our adult lives when we were brought back, emotionally, to the feeling of being a kid. Hearing a song or reading a book and flashing back to kindergarten, or to searching for four-leaf clovers in a friend’s backyard, or to snuggling warmly into a parent’s lap.

But back to Dove’s statement. None of these qualify as moments when we became ourselves. I mean, not to get too existential or anything, but who is “myself,” anyway? And whatthe hell is that person doing here?  Am I talking about the person that I want to be?  Or the person that I really am in the here and now?

Existential crisis aside, it seems almost impossible to choose that defining moment. But there was this one time…

I was probably nine or ten, and someone had given me a set of worry dolls as a gift. Worry dolls are a Guatemalan custom, and they’re intended to help people sleep. The idea is that you tell the tiny dolls your worries and put them under your pillow. They do the worrying for you, thereby helping you rest peacefully. Who would give these to a child, you ask? Well, apparently I was a worrier even as a kid.

The funny part is that I remember trying to use them. I lined them up on my comforter, sat down next to my bed, and tried to brainstorm what tribulations I’d share with these itty bitty people. But really. What worries did I have back then? True, I was having legitimate trouble sleeping. But I couldn’t verbalize what was troubling me. I just knew that I couldn’t fall asleep. 

Before I made it through even half of my worry doll assembly line, I knew that I was reaching. My worries weren’t even honest; they were idle thoughts that I imagined grown-ups having. I felt like I was faking it, and—get this—I was frustrated. I was honestly irritated that I couldn’t come up with genuine worries so that I could use my new toys. Who knows if the dolls ever helped me sleep.  I don’t think I ever attempted to use them again.

As it turns out, I’m the same person as I was then (big surprise). I’m still that little girl, perched by my bed, struggling to get a good night’s sleep. Whatever was keeping me up at night back then had much more to do with my overall personality—my exhaustively restless mind—than with actual troubles. And it’s that same overactive imagination that trips me up now. Sure, I have more actual things to worry about now that I’m a “grown-up,” but even that being said, I know how blessed I am. If only I could find those worry dolls again, maybe my subconscious would relax a little.

I’ve written before about vampire and werewolf boyfriends—a la Twilight, 90210, and My So-Called Life.  And I’ve written about girlfriends, primarily within an athletic context.  Most recently, I wrote about the Romeo-and-Juliet-esque friendship that I shared in middle and high school with Leah, whose parents severely limited her social outlets. 

But until reading “My Rayannes” by Emma Straub — http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2011/01/24/my-rayannes/ — it hadn’t occured to me how little I’ve written about those very tumultuous, passionate, all-consuming adolescent female relationships.  I, too, fondly remember watching My So-Called Life as a high school sophomore, during the show’s short-lived run.  I still wonder what would have happened to introspective Angela Chase, troubled Rayanne Graf, and that Vampire Boyfriend Jordan Catalano.

Maya was my Rayanne.  She was bright, creative, and intelligent.  And somehow dangerous.  She had an air of edginess—of experience—that I just didn’t.  I fell hard for her during the transition between freshman and sophomore year of high school, being completely awed by her ethereal appearance and attitude.  She didn’t have a drinking problem like her My So-Called Life counterpart, but she did introduce me to a number of vices one damp October night early in tenth grade.  In fact, she regularly opened my eyes to independent films, grunge bands, and the art of subtle pretention.  We were a study in yin and yang—she being waifish and artsy, me athletic and wholesome.  She dyed her hair outrageous colors with Manic Panic and lunched on Annie’s organic macaroni and cheese.  I secretly (or not-so-secretly) loved corn-fed American boys who played sports and did their homework. 

Maya had her fair share of flaws, like any teenage girl including myself.  She had some bullying tendencies, despite her talk of open-mindedness.  Deep down, I think that she held on to some insecurities like all of us did (and probably still do), despite maintaining a façade of confidence.  She was generally judgmental of anything that she perceived as ordinary or conventional.  I often felt like I needed to hide those very present parts of myself. 

In the pilot of My So-Called Life, Angela dyes her blonde hair a deep crimson, explaining that Rayanne says “her hair was holding her back.”  The change shocks her parents, her teachers, her former-friend Sharon, and the geeky childhood neighbor Brian.  What’s happened to the innocent Angela that they knew?

While I didn’t dye my hair for Maya, I remember changing like a chameleon for her in more than a few ways.  At times it was exciting and eye-opening to try on a new identity; to wear Birkenstocks with hippie skirts and listen to Liz Phair.  But it was also alienating.  I wasn’t entirely sure who I was yet, and experimenting with this new character of the alterna-Colleen was always for the benefit of Maya and her extended circle of friends.  Who was that girl?  Ironically, I’m grateful for having had that experience.  In some ways it helped me figure out who I was, in the way that you can sometimes determine the definition of a word by recognizing what it doesn’t mean; by examining its antonym.  But this play-acting was never comfortable.  It never sat quite right on my shoulders.  It felt like I was wearing an old Halloween costume that I’d long-since overgrown, or one that had never fit me to begin with.

I didn’t do this consciously, and by senior year I’d grown up enough to figure out that my real persona fell somewhere in between the sports crew and the artsy, brainy clique.  I was lucky enough to attend a school and live in a town where you could be both, so I was a floater.  I was also active in student government and theater, dabbling all over the place with different friends and activities, and eventually I realized that I could embrace my ability to code-switch.  It was fun to wear different hats, and I didn’t have to apologize for it or define a specific identity.

My Rayanne was an entry point into one of those circles, and I loved her for that.  I remember many a snowy day lounging on Maya’s bed or on the couch in her room, lit only by giant candles, listening to Simon and Garfunkle and memorizing the (I perceived) worldly statements that came out of her mouth.  As Straub puts it, “Teenage girls curl up together like newborn puppies, painting one another’s toes as if they were licking one another’s ears.”  Indeed, Maya and I would snuggle up for warmth and hold hands, defining ourselves through the company we kept.  We’d physically announce our relationship—our closeness—by linking arms in the hallway and exchanging locker combinations.  Teens are so much like that anyway, no matter what generation they belong to.  Also like newborn puppies, their developing personalities are shaped, morphed, and informed by their peers.  When we’re little, our entire worlds center on our parents or immediate family/guardians.  In our teen years, though, that scope changes.  We become dependent on our friends, and those relationships—especially for girls, it seems—eclipse all else.  Our friendships dictate how we dress, the classes we take, the activities we adopt, our vernacular, our choices, our behaviors.      

Maya and I are still friends (or, at least, Facebook says so), though we aren’t by any means close.  The last time I saw her she was exuberant and genuinely warm, and I quickly appreciated her charming husband.  I still admired her fashion sense, though it had clearly matured and become a bit gentler, and I was happy to engage in the customary catching-up conversation.  As adults, the relationship was so easy, so grown-up.  We were appropriately affectionate.  We weren’t hopelessly, desperately in love with each other, but we shared a mutual respect that felt like something close to relief.  My husband was surprised that he hadn’t met Maya before, or that he hadn’t at least heard more about her, so natural was our interaction.  I shrugged when he brought it up, explaining, “We were really close back then.  But it was a teen thing.  A phase, I guess.”

And yes, it was.  But that doesn’t make it any less important.  And maybe it was me, but ten years later she still looked just the same.

It’s been a while since I documented a few of the things that make me happy, so here’s just a quick sample.  It’s all about the little things…

I’m grateful for fleece pants on chilly nights.

I’m grateful for marathons of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”

I’m grateful for girls’ nights with pedicures, margaritas, and tex-mex.

I’m grateful for local coffee shops with strong, sweet lattes.

I’m grateful for quiet time with my little pup.

I’m grateful for open machines and stretching space at the gym.

I’m grateful for talented, intelligent friends who share support and constructive criticism.

“You know who’s hot?” Dan asked casually, without glancing up from his pen-and-ink drawing.

“Who?” Addie replied.

“Monica,” he told us firmly.

We were high school sophomores, sitting around the table in art class one winter day.  That was the first time that I caught on to the popularity of the show Friends, at that time still in its first season.  I still remember thinking, I guess I’m not the only one watching this.

By our tenth reunion, Dan would be 100% Out and proud.  But clearly Courteney Cox’s appeal as Monica surpassed all boundaries of sexual orientation.  Hell, I still lust after all three of the women of Central Perk.

Maybe it’s because the show ran through my high school and college years, straight into the turbulent waters of my mid-twenties.  But it seems like every moment, every relationship, and every experience in my life can be linked to Friends.  For example, when I make an irrelevant argument, it’s a “moo point” (you know, a cow’s opinion).  In bed, I’m clearly a hug-and-roller.  While my 30^th birthday party didn’t come close to rivaling Monica’s drunken sideshow, I think that my bachelorette party (when I was 29) came pretty damn close.  (I, too, had some issues with opening the door to an apartment even though I had a key.)  When a student strings random syllables together (forming something like, say, “transponster”) I have to resist the urge to holler, “That’s not even a word!”

Yes, it’s true.  I learned some very valuable lessons about life, love, adulthood, and friendship from the sitcom.  Here are just a few:

1.  You should always laminate your list of five “freebies.”  You never know when you may need permission to sleep with Christian Bale (or Taye Diggs, or Tom Brady…) without officially cheating on your husband.
2. It’s better to move to Yemen than to stay in a bad relationship.
3. Lotion + baby powder + leather pants = messy situation.
4. No leftover Thanksgiving turkey sandwich is complete without a moist-maker.
5. You can be as neurotic as Monica, as bizarre as Phoebe, or as spoiled as Rachel.  Your real friends will know this about you and love you anyway.  They may even celebrate your flaws.
6. If a friend is about to embarrass herself in front of a host of friends and family, you’re obligated to take off your top as a diversion.
7. Let’s say that your whole life, everyone has told you, “You’re a shoe, you’re a shoe.”  But one day you realize, maybe you don’t want to be a shoe.  Maybe you want to be a purse, or a scarf.  You may find yourself explaining to your father, “It’s a metaphor, Daddy!”  But you go out there, and you be that purse.  You listen to your heart and take the leap.
8. The winter holidays aren’t complete without a visit from the traditional Hanukah Armadillo.
9. Rebounding with a girl from the copy place, even if you’re “on a break,” will still devastate your estranged girlfriend.
10. The best men can be geeky like Ross, dumb like Joey, or awkward like Chandler.  But they all have one thing in common:  Heart.

It may be a bit of an exaggeration to say that a sitcom informed the adult that I’ve become.  But didn’t we all wish, as adolescents, that in our mid-twenties we’d have a close-knit community of friends?  An urban family?  Didn’t we imagine living somewhere chic like Manhattan, in unrealistically large apartments, visiting cozy coffee shops, working eclectic jobs?  The show exemplified everything that we idealize about single twenty-somethings living in the city.  Given the fact that I discussed it ad nauseam with my teenage (and college, and grown-up) friends, it’s only natural to assume that we would aspire to become a “Rachel,” a “Ross,” or a “Phoebe.” 

My list above is by no means complete.  I could wax poetic for hours, quoting Friends lines, and living by the words of wisdom that they impart.