Gays and lesbians and bears, oh my!

Even if you live under a rock, you have heard that the U.S. Supreme Court legalized marriage equality nationwide last week. I will proudly say that I am a product of my generation and completely accept and support equality. 

That's kind of scary for me, because 10 years ago I quietly accepted what I now know to be homophobia. At the time, it struck me as what I had always known. I grew up in a small town in Arkansas, a town where everybody knew your name for better or worse. There was no question about homosexuality being right or wrong; it was wrong, and if anyone expressed otherwise, he or she would be attacked for being a homosexual.

Because supporting a thing absolutely means you are part of the thing, right? It's impossible to want equal rights for homosexuals without enjoying some same-sex love yourself, according to some of the people I went to high school with.  When I was in school, the worst thing someone could say about you was that you were gay.

I remember swimming at my nana's pool with two close friends and getting out of the pool to pee in the corner. It's not like I dropped my pants and said, "Check out my butthole, everyone in viewing distance!" I just got out of the pool to pee to avoid waking up the people inside the house. This was a thing that we did a lot at that pool, too, so it wasn't abnormal. 

Still, I later learned that one of my friends whispered to the other friend, "Wow, what a lesbian." This same friend - who I am on good terms with now and have no ill will toward - had apparently been telling people that I was a lesbian and saying she was afraid to sleep in the same bed as me lest I employ my lesbian prowess. 

When I heard about this, I was really upset. Initially, I was upset because I felt I was being attacked for something that wasn't even true. The anger quickly boiled over and left me even more angry. This time, I was angry because of the implication that being a lesbian somehow meant I was a person to be mocked. 

I have to get this straight (pun!): I am not a lesbian. I acknowledge that some woman are attractive but have never been sexually attracted to women. That doesn't mean I don't support the rights of those who do. That especially doesn't mean I'm cool with people mocking a person in the LGBT community. 

I wrote that friend a letter expressing my anger and did not receive a response, though I suspect it would have read something like, "lol, the lesbian is mad." As I said, I'm on good terms with that friend now. I am not, however, on good terms with the idea of being hateful and homophobic without retribution.

Another memory that sticks out for me is a petition outside the local mom and pop store in my hometown. It was a petition to ban gay couples from adopting children, and it had more signatures than I'd ever like to admit on a public forum. I was 16 years old, and I felt sick to my stomach. I wondered how people could be so hateful. I wondered how anyone could justify treating gay people the same way you'd treat murderers or rapists.

I am lucky that I have such an open-minded and caring mother. My grandmother, too, is an amazing woman who tries to see the best in other people. Though my mother never expressed outright support for the LGBT community, she confessed to me once or twice that all the hatred bothered her. She has said on several occasions that she doesn't understand homosexuality but believes it's important to respect the decisions of others. 

My nana said something similar when we talked on the phone Saturday. 

"It's not my belief, but I'm not going to let my belief stand in the way of others being happy," she told me. "It's their life, not mine."

Some people might ask for more from my mom and nana, but I think their acceptance is astounding considering the culture they grew up and live in. It's okay to admit that something confuses you. It's not okay to use your confusion to prevent an entire group of people from having rights.

As I said, I am very lucky to have the mother I have. She has taught me to be compassionate, honest and mindful of others. Because of that attitude, I am over the moon about the Supreme Court's decision. 

Marriage equality means acceptance. It might mean that one less lesbian gets mocked for her sexual preference.

I think that's pretty cool. 

Friday music poll: Coldplay vs. The Cure

An old roommate once dared to tell me that "Yellow" by Coldplay is a better love song than "Love Song" by The Cure. I was obviously shocked at my choice in roommates when I heard this. (To clarify, this is a joke. I don't base my decisions about friends based on whether or not they like Coldplay. If I did, I would have a lot less friends.) Anyway, the conversation went something like this:

Roommate: It's so much more emotional.

Me: But don't you feel the emotion from all the apathy in "Love Song?"

Roommate: That's stupid.

Me: The Cure is a national treasure. 

Roommate: That's kind of subjective.

Me: You stop right there.

Alternate title: You're Going to Cry a Lot

I was pretty ecstatic when her now-boyfriend agreed with me that "Love Song" is, in fact, a better love song than "Yellow." The proof is in the title itself. While "Yellow" reminds me of a young woman being called in to her boss' office unaware she will soon be sexually harassed and still leave with a smaller salary than her male counterparts, "Love Song" tells me immediately that it is a love song. I appreciate that about The Cure. Even at their most melodramatic, they let you know what they're about. 

Also, "Disintegration" is one of the best albums ever recorded. That has little to do with my point but you should know that so you can listen to it and thank me later when you're crying on the bathroom floor as "Disintegration" plays in the background. 

Anyway, the point of this post: What do you think is better? I Want to Be Depressing But Fuck It Here's a Song About Clocks Coldplay or The Cure?

How you know it's true love: reason two

When your significant other finds a black bean on the bathroom floor and doesn't even react when you say, "Oh, that probably fell out of my boobs when I was undressing for the shower."

Gideon puts up with so much.

Why social media matters

When I joined Facebook in 2008, I didn't quite realize that everything I said and did online would later be archived so that people could laugh at 17-year-old me in the future. Social media didn't seem that invasive at the time; I looked at it as a way to share my thoughts on Lost and too many selfies.

I'm not kidding about the Lost thing. Check it out:

But image is everything, and my presence on social media could actually make or break future opportunities for me now. My posts from high school were constant, nonsensical and had very few likes or comments. I honestly didn't care back then; if someone liked my status, that was cool. If they didn't, they could go to hell because Lost is clearly the best TV show of all time. (Seriously, I never stopped talking about Lost.)

In college, I started posting less and with intent but for all the wrong reasons. I had expanded my friends list and began experiencing that peer pressure to be liked, quite literally in this case. I think I had been pretty secure with my image in high school - though it was mostly all id - and I realized in college that I could be whoever I wanted to be.

You can imagine how confused I became over this. I started questioning if I had ever really liked myself if I wanted to change the way I interacted with people in social settings. Being on Facebook and receiving a certain number of likes from all these new friends just compounded these feelings more, creating what I believe to be a disingenuous image.

Of course there's the fact that I was dating a pretty terrible person at the time, but I think I would have felt the need to control my new image regardless of that relationship. It's just human nature. Now, I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing that I realized the importance of crafting an image on social media. The circumstances aren't ideal but I'm still grateful that I learned what to post and how to discuss sensitive issues online without alienating others or coming across in a negative light.

I worked for my college's public relations office for nearly four years, which helped me understand how important social media is. From interacting with others in the office, I suspected that a negative social media profile could have prevented me from continuing to work there. I didn't like that, because I really loved my job.

Near the tail-end of my college experience, I started crafting an image on social media I am proud of and consider accurate. I now post less and with intent, but I know I'm saying things that are true to who I am. I still have a huge problem with getting overly excited about getting likes or comments on Facebook because I am human.

We all want to be liked. It's just a fact. If it were up to me, I would have a million followers on this blog who would write encouraging, you-go-girl comments on every post. Who doesn't want that?

That said, even a year removed from college I am finding myself caring less and less about how others perceive my social media profiles and more about whether or not my image is honest and positive. Being optimistic online is important because it shows that you can see light in the dark, that you are pleasant to be around.

It's what I find most difficult sometimes; I have days where I think everything in the world is terrible, and the last thing I want to do is think about the good out there. When I do, though, I feel a whole lot better about many things, including my thunder thighs and the unfortunate black hair that keeps growing on the big toe on my left foot.

And maybe that's the bright side of social media. On social media, I get to be who I want to be. I get to be the best version of myself. In a way, this encourages me to be better in my daily interactions at work and outside of it.

Social media is here to stay, like it or not. (See what I did there?)

If you use it to build relationships with others and inject a little positivity into the world, I think it's actually a great tool for cognitive growth. 

Sam Days

Gideon calls my days off when he's working "Sam Days." Today's Sam Day was pretty awesome, and not just because it began with me sleeping in and cuddling BJ until he got annoyed by me and ran away. Normally I spend my days off watching Netflix and eating a controlled amount of junk food, so  you should commend me for leaving the house at all today.

I dressed in full athletic gear, including that really cozy pair of underwear that covers your bellybutton and prevents any VPLs. (That's Visible Panty Lines, and I hate that I had to explain that because I find the word "panty" particularly grating.) Gideon dropped me off downtown at before he went to work, and I went into Mud Street Cafe.

Mud Street is one of my favorite places to eat in town. I wish I were famous so that they would pay me for mentioning them here. (Note to my nonexistent agent: get on that.) After ordering a hot chocolate, a croissant and fried potatoes, I hunkered down with a copy of Sylvia Plath's unabridged journals. Nothing complements fried food better than reading the intimate thoughts of a woman who would go on to kill herself with her children in the next room.

A tourist commented on my hot chocolate when it arrived, saying it looked really tasty. I told her that it was and hoped that my lips being covered in whipped cream would illustrate this. We spoke for a while, and she said she liked seeing a young woman out alone.

"You know you have a good life when you can enjoy your own company," she told me.

I did not tell her that I was more excited about not having to share my whipped cream with Gideon than spending time alone. Anyway, I wasn't alone. I had Plath.

Once I finished eating, I walked downtown. I found a shop hosting a going-out-of-business sale, where I snagged six pieces of hand-beaded jewelry for only $5. I would post photos here, but I'm going to give some of the pieces (maybe all of them) to family and friends for Christmas.

I wandered into a custom jewelry shop a few minutes later and stayed there for a while. The woman who co-owns the shop struck up conversation with me, mostly because I was the only person there. She had me try on rings and necklaces and I suddenly hated myself for being 20-something with $27,000 in student loans and no antique topaz rings.

My interaction with her was nice. Usually, I find myself feeling nervous when someone who works at a store talks to me. I can't help but think how this person wants me to buy something and how I am absolutely not in the financial shape to purchase anything remotely fine but would like to browse through these things all the same.

It was different in this store; the woman told me a bit about how the shop opened and shared with me tips on what kinds of bands would look best on my fat fingers. We stopped talking when other potentially paying customers came in, but that doesn't make our conversation any less pleasant. The shop was Magee Jewelry, if anyone wants to pay me for promoting them already.

I bought a strawberry-mango-pineapple smoothie after that and walked 1.5 miles home on a steep incline. I was really excited about this part, because I couldn't walk up that incline without stopping at least twice a couple months ago. Today, I didn't have to stop once.

When I got home, I showered and watched an hour-long Keane set on Youtube. I also ate a plain tortilla.

It was a great day. Oh, obligatory photo of my cat:

Is there wet food?

Throwback Thursday: Meet the (grand)parents

Prepare yourself, because I have opened the vault to my past. I had another blog, which ran from 2010 to 2014. I shut it down in 2014 after realizing that many of the during-college posts - the majority of them - were insincere. I was depressed during that time and hid it on my blog, and I don't want to leave a disingenuous footprint on the internet. I was also in a terrible relationship and used the blog to promote the positive, mostly made up parts of that relationship.

That said, I would like to start sharing some of those posts that do reflect who I am. I sometimes feel I lost myself during college, and it's comforting for me to see that my wit and drive still shone through at times.

The post I'm sharing today is about my family, specifically my dad's family. I really wanted to edit down some of the cutesy phrases I used but decided that maybe it's a good thing to see growth in my writing and, in turn, myself.

Here you are:

My family is strange. I know, I know. No family is normal because normal is relative and all that jazz. But forreals, guys - my family is just plain weird. I don't mean weird in the bad way, either. It's more funny than embarrassing, and I'm almost certain that I'll always be able to tell a comical anecdote or two about any given person in my family. 

My dad's father cracks me up more than anyone in my family. He is the cream of the crop when it comes to being abnormally strange, and I love him all the more for it. He was born, raised, and still lives in Fouke, Arkansas, which is basically a mile long strip of Ma and Pa stores and barbecue joints. I went to high school in Fouke at my mother's wishes (also to be closer to my father) so I experienced plenty of my papaw's behavior. 

First, I should say that he is probably the most redneck person I've ever known. He pronounces the word "tire" as "tar" and utilized Willie Nelson's "Stay All Night" as a lullaby for my formative years. (This wouldn't be too bad if not for the fact that "Stay All Night" comes from the album "Shotgun Willie," which has a slightly racist overtone, especially in the title track.) Without a doubt, the strangest thing about my papaw is his name. His birth name is Halton Jones, but he apparently decided against the name early in life and began to go by "Bo Jack." Yes, Bo Jack. It confuses me about as much as it confuses you, be assured.

In the past few years, he's become hard of hearing, so when I visit my grandparents, I get to see my mamaw yell at my papaw when he asks what's happening on whatever tv show they happen to be watching. He also feigns stupidity sometimes, something I've recently realized. After all, he churned out my dad and my aunt, who are both pretty intelligent people. I know he isn't dumb. He plays it off well, though. 

I remember watching a Lifetime movie with my grandparents a few years back. In the movie, there were two groups on two rafts. One group included two children, a mother, and a police officer. The other was comprised of two men wearing camouflage with large guns. 

"Sharon," my papaw asked my grandmother, "Who are the bad guys?"

But despite all this, you can rest assured that my papaw is a very good guy. He has a great heart, and even though he plays himself down sometimes, he is very important to my family. 

And not just because most of us wouldn't exist without him.

I can't stop cringing, so I hope you guys find this entertaining.

The Springs: CSD

GIDEON arrives home to SAM on the couch. SAM is playing a simulated cooking game on the laptop.

GIDEON: Hello there.
SAM: HRUMPH
GIDEON: How are you?
SAM: Too many orders at once!
GIDEON: How was work?
SAM: I forgot it's my health inspection today! I forgot to flush that toilet! [expletive of choice]
GIDEON: We had a lot of walk-ins today. Corporate visited too. It was very busy.
SAM: OH MY GOD I CAN'T MAKE FOUR PASTAS AT ONCE.
GIDEON: Do you like the game?
SAM: It's amazing.

- a beat - 

SAM: Nooooooooooooo I sent the wrong steak order out.

An ode to When Harry Met Sally

I love When Harry Met Sally. It's my favorite movie not directed by Quentin Tarantino, and not just because Sally wears an amazing dress at a New Year's Eve party.

Bask in the beauty.

I could probably write a series of posts entailing my favorite outfits that Sally wears throughout the movie, but that's not why I love the film so much. I love it because it feels honest. These characters are people you know; they're awkward and unsure of themselves, and they don't have to tell you that for you to know it.

I feel like most characters in romantic comedies are static. These characters exist to get the man while saying quirky, seemingly feminist things. It's the Katherine Heigl model. Seriously, think of any character Heigl has played in a romantic comedy. Did you do it? Then you must know that all her characters follow the exact same formula:

1. Cares about career
2. Says she doesn't care that she's single
3. Starts to like some dude who probably looks like Gerard Butler because duh
4. Has a breakdown because the guy doesn't want her or she thinks he doesn't
5. Realizes he does want her
6. Gets married and lives happily ever after

The problem with this formula is that it isn't how people work. Before I started dating Gideon, I cared more about my career than anything else. Being with him has made me reconsider my views on marriage and children, but my career is still here and still thriving. I won't let being in a relationship change who I am at my very core. A healthy relationship should complement you and make you want to be the best person you can be. 

But that never means that you lose what makes you you. 

That's what's so wonderful about When Harry Met Sally. The film explores optimism and pessimism, revealing that it's impossible to be completely on one end of the spectrum. As Harry and Sally develop, this idea does, too. 

Harry and Sally begin the narrative as foils, carpooling together from Chicago to New York City after graduating from college. Harry, who believes men and women can never be friends because of sexual attraction, states early on that he has a dark side.

"When I buy a new book, I always read the last page first," he tells Sally on the drive. "That way, in case I die before I finish, I know how it ends."

Sally, on the other hand, is the eternal optimist; Harry remarks that she's probably one of those people who dots her "i's" with little hearts. After she turns down his sexual advances, both decide they cannot be friends and separate once they arrive in New York.

They meet again five years later at an airport, where Harry's pessimistic exterior has begun to soften. He tells Sally he is engaged to be married, explaining that falling in love can change a man. He adds that he has also become tired of dating, sleeping with women and never calling them again, so he's not exactly floating on clouds here.

Sally is still fairly optimistic, telling her boyfriend she loves him for the first time before boarding the plane. Again, Harry and Sally separate and decide not to be friend. When they meet five years later, Harry is distraught from his impending divorce and Sally is seemingly well-adjusted after her five-year relationship has ended. This is when they become friends.

They finally connect because they have both experienced great joy and great pain and can now identify with each other. At the end of the film, they predictably get together at a New Year's Eve party where Sally where that amazing dress. Somehow, it doesn't feel so predictable.

Though he is willing to open himself up to love again, Harry hasn't lost his pessimistic edge. And Sally, who tearfully recalls her ex-boyfriend getting engaged shortly after their breakup, still retains her optimism in accepting Harry's proclamation of love. They've both loved and lost but are willing to love all over again.

It's an amalgamation of pessimism and optimism. Together, Harry and Sally form middle ground between the two outlooks. I always identified as a pessimist, so it was hard for me to see that in this film when I first watched it in high school. 

Then I discovered great happiness. I found a job I love. I found a man I love. Though I am now happy most of the time,  I still tend to think the worst of others. I curse at bad drivers and I think about death for hours sometimes.

I'm not Harry Burns anymore, but I'm not Sally Albright either. The more life experience I gain, the more I think we're all a Harry-Sally hybrid, equally capable of extreme sadness and extreme happiness, just trying to figure out where we fall on the spectrum.

Weight a minute! (or some other bad pun that doesn't make sense)

I wrote about my weight once or twice before on this blog, so you know I've got hips for days. I probably always will and have accepted this as canon. That said, my weight got out of control when I was in college, where I replaced feeling things with eating things.

My enabling then-boyfriend didn't help matters at all, but I'm not into blaming other people for my food decisions so I'll take responsibility for this. Looking back on it, I think I got so fat because I was in denial about being fat. I'd walk 30 minutes on the treadmill at the gym and eat 20 chicken nuggets from McDonald's on the way home and act surprised when my clothes became too tight.

I mean, it certainly wasn't an act. I was surprised. In my mind, I was doing everything I could to maintain my weight and I had no idea why it wasn't working. During the first three years of college, I bought few new clothes and stopped wearing pants completely to avoid the reality of my situation. (I wore skirts and dresses, if you're thinking I ran around pantless.) My mom kept asking me if she could buy me new clothes, and I kept telling her I was too busy or too tired or too independent to take her charity.

I don't know how much I weighed at my peak fatness, but I'd say it was around 280 pounds. Before you say anything - as I know my generation is especially fond of being offended at everything, even well-timed Holocaust jokes - I'm not trying to make anyone feel bad about being overweight.

When I use the word "fat," I am directing it at myself, not others. I felt fat. I did. If you or someone you know weights 280 pounds or more, I am not calling that person fat. Fat is a state of mind, and I can't detect a stranger's state of mind.

Overweight, of course, is measurable. I realized how bad my weight was when I was too overweight to walk up a flight of stairs without my chest feeling heavy. I couldn't help but think of how I had looked and performed prior to college.

I wore a size large to extra-large. (I know this is still bigger than average, but you really need to see my hips to understand.) I could stay on the elliptical for 60 minutes without stopping. I had no problem lifting weights and I knew when to stop eating.

It was a lot to swallow when I realized that I wasn't the person I used to be anymore. My weight had taken a toll on my physical health, yes, but more on my mental health than anything. I felt fat. I felt useless. And I knew I had to do something about it.

So I started losing weight slowly the summer before my senior year of college. I lost roughly 20 pounds during that time and stopped trying to lose weight for a while, basking in holiday food and just trying to get through my last semester of college. To my credit, I didn't gain the weight back. (And I started wearing pants again!)

I didn't really talk about this publicly because it makes me nervous to tell people I'm trying to lose weight, but I started a diet and exercise regime in January. Yesterday, I went clothes shopping and was elated to discover that I fit into my high school sizes again!

I'm really, really happy about this, but not because of the way I look. I feel so much better. I can walk and run and stairs don't intimidate me anymore. I look at my reflection when I pass mirrors now. Most importantly, I feel worthwhile for most of the day instead of having confidence pop up every once in a while.

I usually hate before and after photos, and I'm certainly not finished, but for the sake of really putting myself out there, here you go:

This was my worst. After I saw this photo online, I didn't take any photos for  two years or so.

I still have a way to go, but I am so, so proud of where I am now.

I don't really have a takeaway from this, except that being overweight and feeling fat are two very different things. I'm still overweight, and I'm working on that. But most of the time - not all the time, as I am human - I don't feel fat. I feel active and happy, and I know I'm working toward a goal that I'll eventually reach.

What matters is how you feel, not how you weigh. And you can put that on my urn. (But write in Sharpie or something. Don't spend extra money to get my ash-collector engraved. That's just silly.)

A journalist's POV: the Duggars, dead people and liberal media

Two weeks ago, a local man was killed when a V8 engine fell from a truck's flatbed and struck him through his windshield. I wrote about the accident last Tuesday and followed up on Friday with an article about how a memorial scholarship fund has been set up in the man's name. For that article, I spoke with his friends and family. 

That same Friday, another local motorcyclist was struck by a semi-truck that failed to negotiate a curve. The motorcyclist died and his dog, who was on his motorcycle, was injured and later euthanized. I spoke with his friends, too, to write an article about the accident. 

This is why I love my job. I write about really painful things sometimes - things that make me question my own mortality and, in turn, cling to my loved ones that much more - but I get to portray life as it happens and people as they are. I've been consistently shocked at how quickly grieving people respond to my messages, wanting to share memories of their loved one through their pain.

"Thank you for writing this story." 

"Thanks for telling people about [name redacted]."

"It means a lot to celebrate him like this."

That's only a sample of the responses I've received after asking people to talk about their lost loved one. These comments don't really flatter me; in my opinion, it's my job to do what I do and any other person in my position would be asking these questions. It doesn't make me special or generous to write about a person who died too young. 

I don't think I am a noble person, but I do think journalism is a noble field if executed correctly. I hear so much about the evil "liberal" media that it makes my head spin; even recently, following the molestation scandal, the Duggar family tried to change the conversation from a family that hid a history of sexual abuse to a family that was abused by the media after sealed case files were released. That is an argument I do not want to get into here (mostly because I'm obviously unhappy with the Duggars and would just be reiterating what thousands of people have already said) but I do want to note how these kinds of situations create a caricature of a journalist. 

journalist (noun - jour-nal-ist) 

a. a person engaged in journalism; especially: a writer or editor for a news medium

b. a writer who aims at a mass audience

c. a shitty person who just wants a story, will do anything to get it and is likely a liberal commie

I am prone to getting upset when people misrepresent what a journalist does - especially since these days anyone with a computer and basic cognitive ability thinks he/she can be a journalist and that's just not true at all - and the way the Duggar family has responded to this scandal by blaming the media has absolutely enraged me. But it's not just the Duggars; it's everyone who attacks the media for reporting a situation when the facts are right.

The thing is, people don't want anything negative written about them, even if it is true. My boss wrote a column about the Duggars expressing frustration that the family loved the media and the fame the media brought them until their not-so-wholesome history came out of the woodwork. This is likely true for everyone: Michelle and Jim Bob Duggar, Jeb Bush, that guy who took your order at McDonald's, me, you.

This creates the image of the evil journalist, notebook in hand, prepared to attack at any given moment. Basically, people who don't know me but know what I do will view me as a snake forever on the prowl for unsuspecting mice.

I'm sure these people would be surprised to know that, when I came home last Tuesday after writing that article about the man who died in a freak accident, I cried for an hour. I asked Gideon why things had to happen so unexpectedly, why bad things had to happen to nice people, why the world keeps spinning on and why I felt so helpless through all of it. I told him how nice the guy sounded, quoting his widow verbatim.

"He was the best person she knew," I told Gideon. "Now he's gone."

Please don't take this to mean that I hate my job; on the contrary, I love it. I love that it allows me to feel and to help other people through tragedies, even in a small way. I love that the article I wrote might have encouraged some people to donate to that scholarship fund, in turn helping a student through college who likely needs the help.

However, I don't love that few people understand how empathetic a person needs to be to work as a journalist. That means that I go home at the end of the day worn out in the best possible way from all the research and interviewing and writing I did that day.

As I said, I love my job.

I just wish more people would understand what my job is.

Open letter to myself, age 16

Hey Sam,

Woaaaah. Calm down. I forgot that you don't like being called "Sam" yet. I know, I know. It's a boy's name. It doesn't sound refined. It's just one syllable! And no, you will absolutely never let people call you that, especially not your boss or your professors or that teller at the bank who never watched Lost. As you assumed, you know this about her because you asked.

With good reason, too. Lost is the best television of all time, and I'm telling you that as a person who has seen the full series. You should be going into season five about now, which is awesome because it's probably the best season. Those people who like season one so much are still the worst; I have to confess to you that your live-in boyfriend is one of those people. He has other perks, though, like his height and how he knows something about everything.

I should probably stop right now and tell you more about what your life looks like. Although I know you love spoilers, I won't tell you how Lost ends or how you meet that guy even your mother even likes despite the fact that you live with him and have yet to propose. Some things should remain a mystery. Anyway, here's the run-down:

1. Age: 23
2. Occupation: Newspaper reporter
3. Location: Northwest Arkansas 
4. Relationship status: Dating (and living with)
5. Pets: Still have BJ
6. Favorite part of the Lost series finale: I SAID NO, SAMANTHA!

You haven't dated Taylor yet, but I can promise you you'll get some great stories out of that. How many women can say their first boyfriend once took the sock off his foot in economics class, placed it on his hand, attached googly eyes to the top and spoke only through the sock puppet for the rest of the day? That dating experience will give you enough material for at least the first couple chapters of your memoir. In an effort to avoid spoiling you completely, I'll tell you a few small things about how that ends up:

• You don't actually kiss him back when he kisses you for the first time; you just sit there and stare at him and wait for it to end.
• You accidentally run over his foot after he breaks up with you, and you still don't really regret it.
• He takes you on a date involving him playing a game on his computer and you sitting on his bed and telling him how cool everything is. "Yeah, you're good at completing the objectives in this game!" < your idea of cheering him on, verbatim
• You never actually go on a date with him, probably because that would involve him leaving his room. 
• He tells you he loves you for the first time on the phone. You stammer, "Umm...I...I...that's so sweet. I feel the same way." You continue to tell him that you "just don't feel comfortable saying it" when he tells you he loves you. In fact, you won't start returning the affection fully until a week or so before the breakup. 

High school is basically the same from start to finish, but college is kind of terrifying and painful. I'd tell you to avoid dating the first guy who asks you out if I didn't believe you had to experience a pretty awful relationship to truly know how it feels to get it right with someone. No, I'll tell you. 

You will "lose" all the embarrassing photos of you at this age and this is all that is left. So sad for you!

DON'T DATE THE FIRST GUY WHO ASKS YOU OUT! Seriously, think of dating like buying a car. Would you buy the first car you took for a test drive? (That is rife with innuendo and I do not intend it. I'm sorry to report that you end up being one of the least slutty people you know; when one of your friends brags about kissing three people in one night, your response will be, "But that's so much.") 

Now I know that you'll make certain decisions because you don't feel attractive/smart/funny/good enough. You should cut that out. You are going to graduate from college valedictorian with a 4.27 grade point average and a score of 29 on the ACT. Plus, you have hips manufactured for childbearing and a sense of humor envied by all. You aren't that bad.

You certainly deserve to date someone who treats you well, or at least who showers more than once a week. If I could give you only one piece of advice, I'd tell you to value yourself at least triple the amount you think you should. It'll serve you well in personal and professional environments, and I know that because I am future you and I have a successful-ish career and personal life. 

If I can do it, you can. And not just because I am you.  

Stay cool,

Future Sam

P.S. Cut your mom some slack. She's a human too even though she always seems invincible. 

P.P.S. Yes, you totally rocked those orange tights and anyone who disagrees can jump off a cliff. 

P.P.P.S. You will lose a really cute knee-length black skirt in college. Try not to do this. It's from Target, the brand is Xhilaration and you get it during the summer of 2010. KEEP AN EYE ON IT FOR ME. Thanks.

Hark! A birthday!

His first job: Cat Dad

Gideon turns 23 today. It is his second birthday that we've spent together and I'm finding it difficult to write something worthy of it. I've already given him his gift - I gave that to him on Sunday because I keep secrets worse than Monica Lewinsky - and I've had a piece published in the paper I work for in his honor, too.

Still, I can't figure out how to write something that accurately describes how important Gideon is to me. And since his birth is kind of the beginning of all this, it seems appropriate to express that sentiment today. 

When I met Gideon, I didn't believe I would ever find the right person for me. I confirmed this fear by finding the absolute wrong person and continuing to date that person for a period of years. Once that ended, I felt I was back to square one: hopeless but settled, lonely but comfortable. It wasn't the worst existence and I certainly wasn't risking getting hurt again, so things appeared much better than they had been, at the very least. 

That's when something wonderful happened. I started casually dating Gideon. Those two months before we began seriously dating felt kind of like a renaissance to me. Slowly but surely, I began allowing myself the small joy of talking to other people. I began texting Gideon every morning and ending most nights with him on Skype, and it felt so natural that I didn't worry about how other people would view me for moving on from a long-term relationship so quickly.

With Gideon, I felt as if I could do all the things I'd always considered impossible. Being with him, even casually, was a blank slate that I sorely needed to rediscover who I am and who I want to be. I know that sounds like a tall order, but Gideon didn't shy away from me the way many others had so I kept pinning all these implicit expectations on him. 

And he met those expectations. Every single one of them. During that time, he was a genuine, kind friend to me and tried his best to understand my intentions even when I freaked out and told him not to talk to me because I was on a date with some guy at Starbucks even though there totally wasn't a date and I was just telling him that to make him jealous. (I didn't say I'm problem-free, guys.)

We officially started dating January 5, 2014 after an apartment party where I drank so much different alcohol that I ended the night slumped over in a bathroom yelling, "Love me!" at Gideon, who was also intoxicated. This was certainly not the most flattering of ways to end up in a long-term relationship, but Gideon didn't seem to care. 

I don't remember a whole lot from that night (and, subsequently, have had little to drink since) but I do remember waking up that next morning. 

"Look outside," Gideon told me.

I wondered why I was wearing two different socks inside out but ignored it and looked out the window. The entire mountain (we lived on a mountain for a short period of time) was covered in snow. It was so white and so pure and I felt it symbolized everything that had happened to that point. I didn't have to worry about my troubles so much anymore; with Gideon, I knew, I'd be safe from all that pain. 

He's kept me safe since. In the past year, we have moved to Eureka Springs and started a life together, a life that continues to improve with each passing day. I am so lucky to have Gideon in my life; if I were into blasphemy, I'd say I was maybe luckier than I was to catch Lost on the night it first aired in 2004.

Happy birthday, Gideon! My world shines bright with you in it. I've a feeling it always will.