My first year of college ended on a sharp downturn when the end of a relationship triggered the onslaught of every insecurity I’d ever harbored.

Self-care became a thing of the past and my daily routine devolved to a place where I’d:

(1) Roll out of bed.

(2) Sob into the carpet.

(3) Then fall asleep on the floor and have dreams about the carpet pattern.

I spent an ungodly amount of time trying to weed out my fatal flaw but only found myself lost in the maze of my own emotional angst.

Desperate, I cornered a friend and begged her to tell me what was wrong with me.

She hesitantly, but honestly, told me:

This was news to me.

Turns out there’s a fine line between being “interesting” and “weird” and I was incapable of telling the difference.

Thus the vortex of despair swallowed me whole.



I slogged through the rest of the semester, moved back in with my parents and planted myself in my bedroom for the summer.

Between work and sleep I’d stare at the walls and contemplate ways to reinvent myself.

At one point I bought a practice chanter and spent literal days trying to learn the basics of bagpiping.

And after many screechy hours, came to the conclusion that I was going to die alone.

I then commenced a daily ritual of eating multiple cans of clam chowder out of a mixing bowl with a baby spoon while watching back-to-back seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

My family was, understandably, a little worried, and my younger brother (being the supportive and understanding person that he is) voiced his concern in his own helpful way.

Then, a stroke of genius!

I could spend a semester in the UK where I’d become refined and fabulous!

I began to have starry eyed visions of reading Wordsworth whilst meandering the Lake District…

…dancing to the rhythms of the wind amidst the crumbled ruins of Whitby Abbey…

…and ascending ancient rooftops to contemplate the meaning of life under a canopy of purple stars.

When I returned I was determined to be someone charming, alluring and not at all “weird.”

So come August, I stuffed my worldly possessions into a backpack and boarded a plane.

The UK was everything I’d dreamed it to be. The countryside was stunning and I was able to interact with people from all walks of life.

I believed myself to be whimsical and evolving, but strangely enough, the pictures from that time period told a different story.

Three months passed, and to celebrate the end of the trip several friends and I dressed up and went to see the newly released Pride & Prejudice.

An inexpensive theater was selected which ended up being on the other side of London. Being the frugal college students that we were, we walked several miles to get there and by the time we arrived I was sweaty and thirsty.

The theater was in the basement of an old building. It was small and eerily dingy. I hustled to the concession stand and asked for a cup of water.

The guy behind the counter told me they didn’t have water (which…what?) and only served carbonated beverages in 42 ounce cups. I shrugged, plunked down my cash and settled into the theater with my bucket of Coke.

The movie started and I found myself enthralled with the beautiful cinematography.

Half an hour later I’d mindlessly drank the contents of the cup and needed to go to the bathroom. Badly.

But the movie was just getting good and I didn’t want to miss a minute.

So I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Until I was ready to explode!

Right when Mr. Bingley was about to propose I couldn’t take it anymore. I lunged over my friends and dashed into the hallway.

Desperate, I raced into the women’s bathroom and ran headlong toward a stall door.

Which turned out to be locked.

I smashed into it head first and the door violently rattled as I rebounded.

Through bleary eyes I surveyed the room to realize it was a seedy little bathroom with one stall, which was, obviously, occupied.

I bit my lip, crossed my legs and tried to be patient.

But remember, I’d drank 42 ounces.

An eternity later the woman still hadn’t come out. So I banged on the door and yelled:

I could hear someone moving inside, and there was a funny snuffling sound almost like the person…was…

Now I really started to panic.

I was sure she thought I was a sociopath coming to eat her eyeballs and she was NEVER going to let me into that stall! My mind raced. I seriously considered peeing in the sink, but then it dawned on me…

After-all, I had three brothers, I knew how to pee like a racehorse.

I could pop in, pop out.

Easy peasy.

I darted across the hallway and cautiously opened the door to the men’s bathroom. It was empty, but just like the women’s bathroom there was only one stall, except the stall door had been ripped off so the toiled was completely exposed.

I quickly looked for a lock on the main door but my heart sank.

There was no lock.

I knew it was risky, but there wasn’t time to consider another option. I set my jaw and decided to go for it.

It was the longest sixty seconds of my life.

I was almost home free, when suddenly…

Standing in the doorway was an adorable old British man.

I froze, waiting for him to close the door and leave.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stood there with his mouth open looking very confused.

He took a long look at me…

…then looked at the sign on the door…

…back at me…

…back at the door…

…back at me.

Realizing he wasn’t going to leave until I sorted things out, I took a deep breath, looked him dead in the eye and said the first thing that came to mind.

I said:

The man screamed and jumped backward clutching his chest.

The door swung shut and I sat in silence for a few moments. Collecting my thoughts…

…contemplating my life choices…

…wanting to die.

I waited a few minutes before poking my head out of the bathroom and ran like the devil back to the theater.

I had about five minutes left of the movie to come to terms with my identity as a human.

It ended up being more fruitful than you might imagine.

Something about the absurdity of the situation caused me to accept that I’d always be intense, a little awkward and weird.

But thank god, because otherwise I wouldn’t write stuff like this.

And if you think I was joking about those UK photos, I really wasn’t.