My Teenage Self Has A Few Ends to Tie Up.

I was thinking the other day about what total balls I have when I deal with employees. For a girl that’s a total pushover when it comes to my boyfriend or my family, I’m totally a hardass. I stand up for myself when someone is rude to me because of my age or my gender–which happens pretty much, well, everyday. And then I was thinking that’s it’s just such a shame I could have had that gumption back in the day.

I think we all have a few people from our younger days that we’d like to confront and be all “look at me now, asshole. You were awful! The worst. You owe me an apology.” I have three. I’ll start from the weakest and go to the strongest.

1. My High School Spanish Teacher
The Situation: Not to pin all of my short-comings on dyslexia, but I do have an affirmed learning disability from people that affirm stuff like that. And that means that foreign languages are not easy. I mean, have you ever spoken to me in person? I struggle with speaking my native tongue. And before you think I’m just making excuses, dyslexics struggling with foreign languages is a scientific fact. Google it, okay? Anyways, my spanish teacher would always ride my ass about participating, but I was really embarrassed to. I would always mess up the words and then she’d make me repeat her over and over again in front of the class and I could never do it properly. Worse, the girl that liked to pick on me in high school was in that class and she loved to mock me. My spanish teacher loved the bully and would giggle along with her. Later, in college, I couldn’t stand foreign language class. Before my professor had even introduced herself, I was shrinking in my seat. No gracias, no hablo espanol.

Como Estas, Bitches. (Anchorman. It's a movie. Get with the times.)

What I’d Say Now:
I actually don’t care enough about this to ever say anything to her. Yeah, it’s a wee annoying, but I’m kind of over it. However, I would, if pressed on her ability to teach, tell her that although she might be a fluent spanish speaker, not all of us easily adapt to foreign languages and maybe to have a little sensitivity. And to stop giggling along with bullies. Just because you were picked on in high school doesn’t mean you have to laugh at the fat girl making fun of the skinny girl. You’re a teacher, shouldn’t you be better than that?

2. My 8th Grade Basketball Coach
The Situation: My 8th grade basketball coach had a really weird thing about me. Whenever we lost a game or our team was bummed out, he’d instantly blame me. He’d have these meetings with me where he’d be like, “Maggie, what did you say to the team?” By the end of the season, I was having full out panic attacks and I’d lost 10 pounds. I was constantly doubting myself, thinking “am I that awful? What have I done?” I would literally say nothing after the game and the next day in practice, I’d have this coaching meeting where he’d say “what did you say to the team yesterday?” It was especially annoying because I don’t give a shit about sports. I really never have. I’m super competitive with myself, but I have never, ever cared about winning or losing games. I didn’t even like basketball and this guy certainly did not help the case.
What I’d Say Now: I actually ran into this jerk a few months ago. I didn’t even look him in the eye. I’m still brimming with anger over the 40 year old man that picked on the 12 year old girl. Like, seriously dickwad?  But if I was pressed, this is how the conversation would go: “You are an asshole. You took a weak 12 year old girl and you made her doubt herself even more. Do you know what it’s like to be a 12 year old girl with frizzy hair and braces? Do you think you helped your cause? How would you feel if your daughter’s coach killed any of the confidence your teenage daughter had?” I would probably then take a cue from Charlotte in Sex and the City and ended with a very dramatic “I curse the day you were born!”

I think jerk-coach would take me seriously if I wore polka dots and a pink coat.

3. Poli-Sci Graduate Student Instructor
The Situation: When I was in my first year of college, I took a poli-sci class and I had a GSI (so basically a PhD student who was as annoying as ever) who led our recitation, or the meetings between lectures. I had my first paper for the class and I asked my dad to help. I was totally nervous. I didn’t know what I was doing. So, I took the GSI up on her offer to read my paper before I turned it in. I emailed it to her, she emailed it back with a few corrections, and a week later, I turned it in. When I got it back, I got a D- with a “THIS IS PLAGIARISM” written in huge letters over my work. After a meeting with her the next week, I learned I hadn’t cited my work correctly. When I asked her why she hadn’t pointed that out when I’d asked her to review my paper, she just shrugged my shoulders. Then she told me that in most colleges, my paper would have gotten me kicked out. Can you say “huge bitch”?
What I’d Say Now: So in a crazy turn of events, I actually know how to contact this woman. She’s now a blogger for one of my favorite websites (although I never read her column and my stomach lurches when I see her name) and there’s a tiny chance that I’ll actually meet her again because of this little coincidence. I wouldn’t call her a bitch to her face, because that’s unlady like and I am nothing if not a lady. HOWEVER, I would like to tell her she impacted my life in the most negative way anyone ever has. And that she might not remember me, but I remember her. And that she is a big mean, meanie pants and I hate her. Is that mature enough, you think?

So, who would you talk to? What would you say?

The Cutest Boyfriend Ever

Caution: Reading this post about my adorable boyfriend may just make you vomit. It’s that adorable.

So, Monday afternoon, I was driving home from work and I get this text from my boyfriend:

Intimate moments between lovers are just soooo fascinating.

I know, right? He got my hopes inflated like a giant parade balloon and then he just stuck his metaphorical pin in my metaphorical balloon and POP. Dead. Boyfriend will attest to the fact that I was so not nice to him the rest of the night.

So, I go to bed and the next morning, text my best friend, Nicole, all day long from work. I know. Bad. This was our talk Tuesday morning:

She's hilarious. Not as funny as me, but still, she tries.

So, Mark never said a word all day. And because he knows that I don’t get home from yoga until, at the earliest, 8 pm, I knew that unless he texted me and said he was coming, he wouldn’t be able to catch me until really late. Nicole and I gossiped about  our affinity for oatmeal, and then I had to pee because I go pee approximately 85 times a day. I’m walking out of the bathroom and the front desk girl  is like, “Maggie got flowers…AGAIN.” And I was seriously surprised. I stopped. I go:

“Are you joking?”

“No. Again, flowers for you.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

“No!”

“Huh? Yes. Flowers. For you.”

So I walk over and here they are:

Okay, seriously. Are you not a little in love with Mark too right now?

And they have a note that say: “Skip yoga and go out with me tonight? Be at your place at 7.”

I smiled like an idiot all day.

He’s great, right?I know. Are you puking over how adorable he is? Sigggggghhhh.

Speedy McSpeedster

Long sigh.

I got my first speeding ticket. Sadly, and against what my lead foot often led me to believe, I am not above the law.

It went like this:

I went to Naples with my parents and then, after a two hour drive to the airport, a three hour flight, and a 10 minute bus ride, I had to then drive myself two and a half hours back home to Fort Wayne. My first issue, of course, is that I had to drive myself. If I was a born and bred Naples girl, I would totally have a driver and would have avoided the speeding ticket all together, not just because I would not be driving but because I would not be going to work.

I digress.

So, I was cruising down I-69 South, listening to NPR. Whatever, I was listening to, I was really bored. My phone rang. It was my boyfriend. I’m glad he called because the sound of “All Things Considered” puts me to sleep faster than my parents insisting we “drive around Naples.” I’m chit chatting away and I see a cop. And I honestly didn’t know I was speeding until I saw my pedometer when I glanced down.

Oh shit.

In my defense, I drive a Toyota that doesn’t have cruise control. And it also accelerates really fast. Like, really fast.

So, I looked at the police officer’s car, and we caught eyes. And that’s when I knew: game over. Freaking game over.

So he put on his lights and blah blah blah. I got a ticket. I was going 80. He wrote me for 75. 90 bucks. No points. I couldn’t even be mad–I speed all the time. Seriously. I’m on the road 10 hours a week. I was so overdue for a speeding ticket. I have no one to blame but myself. And why? So I could be five minutes early to an empty apartment?

I bet that last line made you feel sorry for me and made you laugh, which then resulted in a bit of a guilty feeling for laughing at my misfortune, huh? It’s cool.

Too bad I couldn’t go to jail. Of course, I went to work today, which is similar to being in prison, except I didn’t get to sleep in. Anyways, tell me about your first speeding ticket? Did you survive? Did you cry?

Yoga (ass)Mats

I recently purchased a one year, unlimited yoga pass. And holy crap, was it expensive. Like really expensive. Like for a girl that nickel and dimes her vending machine purchases, this yoga pass was out-of-this-world expensive. But it was, long term, the cheaper option. The best value. Or at least that’s what I told myself as I rocked my knees into my chest in a cold shower, crying as the credit card bill arrived.

So, in other news, I’ve been going to yoga a lot. My original goal was to go everyday after work, so 4 times a week (since you know, I live in Michigan the other three days). But lately, I’ve had work obligations, so it’s been 2 or 3. Still a fantastic deal, in case the thrifty spender inside of you was starting to have a heart attack about a possibly wasted dime spent on yoga.

For the most part, everyone is really friendly. The studio does not attract primarily college kids, as was the case with the studio I attended in East Lansing, so there’s a lot of stay at home mom types and a lot of older women. They’re super nice. They always say hi and tell me it’s great to see me. Considering they’re basically my only social interaction outside of work during work days, they are saving me. They are gracious and kind and lovely, especially to a total yoga rookie. And I’ve witnessed the same treatment to other new yogis in the past few weeks.

Except a few ass-mats.

I feel like people think I’m going to be good at yoga, because I am tall and thin and young. So usually people leave me alone. But bring in a new yogi who isn’t regularly carded at the liquor store anymore, and it’s a whole new story.

The AssMats (get that play on words? It’s because they’re asses. And we work out on yoga mats. Hilarious, I know. Isn’t corporate life making me so much funnier?) are a few middle aged people who are either really, really amazing at yoga (and think they’re soooo special because they can put their legs over their heads–newsflash, there’s a whole industry for that and it has nothing to do with finding inner peace) or they’re really bad and they’re going to tell you how hard it is so that you can understand that even though they’re really bad, yoga is so hard they have no choice to be really bad.

So I’m on my mat today and a new girl walks in. Think mid-30s. I hear her tell the receptionist she works out a few times a week, but it’s her first yoga class. She rents a mat, her hair’s in a pony, and she’s wearing a long sleeve shirt and sweatpants. She probably thinks she’s blending in because those are her workout clothes, but yoga is done in a hot, hot room so she’s kind of sticking out only because only someone with a death wish/super hardcore would ever wear a long sleeve shirt.

AssMat 1 makes his move over. “So, is this your first yoga class?” He says all creepy like. I roll my eyes from across the room. I’ve had variations of that line whispered to me at bars and unless they come with a Diet Coke and Rum, they just make the questioner a douche. “Yup, I’m excited.” the girl answers. She grimaces. I’m not sure if it’s because she clearly just lied and is not excited, or because the guy looked as if he hadn’t showered in several days. “You’re in for the ride of your life. It’s so hard. You’re really going to struggle, but every big journey starts with a single step, you know? You just hang in there and you can look around, watch other people, see what they’re doing. And if you can’t keep up, you can just stop.”

At this point, I felt some type of woman-hood commodore with this poor girl. First of all, this guy is in sweatpants shorts, so he’s really not in a place to be giving any fitness advice, until he starts wearing athletic shorts and deals with his own issues. Second, encouraging someone to stop when they haven’t even started yet? What are you, my 7th grade biology teacher after I told him I wanted to be a doctor?

Before I had a chance to walk over and be like, “sorry for the crap welcome, you’ll be fine,” the instructor walked up. Now, in the defense of the studio–which I LOVE–this girl was a sub. And also, she was a bitch.

“Hi, I’m CrabbyPants, the instructor. You must be knew. Did you wear a shirt under that?” she asked, with a twinge of attitude. “Um, no. I didn’t know,” said poor workout girl who was by now wishing she’d stuck with her spin class. “oooh, well, you’ll learn,” (insert wicked laugh here.)

If class hadn’t started right after this interaction and also, I wasn’t such a lazy girl, I probably would have interjected at this point. Because first of all, these ass-mats are total assholes. Yoga is a welcoming, calm, and peaceful exercise. Yeah, I stretch my hips in ways I’m certain God only intended to be done during childbirth isn’t always “peaceful,” but to my second point, it’s not about other people. Yoga is a solo exercise done in a community room. New girl’s outfit or lack of experience are really no one’s business.

I’ve been really lucky in my practice of yoga. I have some really gifted yoga friends who have never been like “BAHAHA MAGGIE! You’re 5′9″, you ain’t touching your toes anytime soon,” but instead have been all, “you will love it! You will be able to do a headstand and the splits, and then you can quit your job and join the circus!” I hope that someday when I’m actually not total crap at yoga, I’ll be able to pass on such enthusiasm to newcomers who have accomplished something just by showing up–because as we all know, with exercise, that’s usually the hardest part.

But to the Ass-Mats, I say: Adjust your attitude, you little namaste jerks. Why are you making people feel bad? You do realize by being not welcoming, you’re encouraging her not to come back. And by not coming back, that means she won’t support the studio, it will close down, and MY YEAR PASS WILL BE VOID.

If you’re ever in Indiana, come to my studio with me! It’s gorgeous and you will love it and I will protect you from all mean yogis in the Fort Wayne Metropolitan area.

3:00 pm.

This is what I look like at 3:00 pm:

So sleepy.

My lunch/food stock is gone. My coffee is no longer activated within my system. I’m tired. All that’s left to do is my crappy work–the work I’ve put off all day. And I’m tired. Pity Party, table for one.

I’ve tried everything to get around the mid-afternoon blues. Nothing works. The only thing that’s every perked me up at 3 pm is Happy Hour, and I’ve been told I’m not allowed to drink on the job (lame).

What’s your secret to staying up all day? Any super foods you can recommend?

A Graduation Critic

After a fun-filled two weekends of graduation, I have a few thoughts that I’d like to share regarding graduation ceremonies. I attended two: Michigan’s big graduation and Michigan State’s Advanced Degrees. And let me tell you, neither were exactly exciting.

First up, Jake’s graduation at The Big House, University of Michigan:

Wahoo, real world!

In the defense of U of M, they cannot control the weather. I get that. Of course, with their giant egos, I’m surprised they don’t think they can control the weather. Speaking of egos, I’m also surprised so much Wolverine ego could fit into one stadium.

I digress. The weather was awful. Like, really, really awful. Miserable. We bundled up and slipped hand warmers into our mittens and gloves. I was instantly bored, so I began a twitter rampage:

You should follow me on Twitter. I'm inappropriate. And hilarious.

Twitter got old, so I started devising Ann Arbor business plans, such as: set up a scarf shop. Donate a scarf to a child in need in the Bahamas for every scarf I sell. Genius, right? The hippies in AA would eat. that. shit. up.

The actually ceremony was not awful. I appreciated that everyone acknowledged the weather, instead of trying to pretend like sunshine coming out of the graduates’ asses was enough to warm us up. The music wasn’t shitty band music, but actual singers (who weren’t awful) and the speaker, Sanjay Gupta, was charismatic, an anomaly in Michigan alumni.

Exiting the ceremony was probably the low point. For some reason, the graduation officials decided that 10,000 people should try and fit through a 10 foot opening. It was horrendous. And frankly, a total fire hazard.

The food at the Union afterwards was pretty good, but considering I ate peanut m and ms for breakfast, it’s clear I don’t exactly have an advanced palate.

Overall rating: B. Solid speaker. Crappy weather. Crappy exit plan. Crappy school.

Next: Mark’s Graduation, Michigan State University:

Accounting, wahoo!

This graduation was indoors at the Breslin Center, so for that alone, it topped Michigan in terms of atmosphere. However, it was awful. Just awful. There was no passion in the voice of the speakers or the dean. It was really disheartening. It was almost like the dean was sending the message, “listen, it’s Friday night, I’m missing happy hour for you little overeducated bastards.”

To prevent me from dying from boredom, I did a lot of tweeting. Please, indulge yourself:

Twitterdee

Tweeterdum

The more bored I became, the more inappropriate I became.

The exit plan from Breslin was fine because…well, we left early.

Afterwards, we went to the bar. I think that’s about all I’m going to say about that.

Overall Rating: C. Maybe a C-. Michigan can’t control the weather and the Exit from the graduation is really just that: the exit. Not part of the ceremony. But MSU needs to work on getting better speakers and seriously, at least pretend that you’re excited for the graduates. They’re funding your overpaid salaries, funding your pensions, and allowing you to only “teach” 2 days a week so you can “research” the other three days. Think they need you? No. They don’t. They’ve graduated. But all of those accounting grads or IT phd students? Yeah, you’re going to need their donations.

All in all, I’m thrilled there will be no more graduations for several years. Not just because my twitter account is overloaded for the foreseeable future, but also because I ate so much, I will be bloated until 2013.

Happy graduation, Jake and Mark!

Happy Graduation-Anniversary!

It’s been an entire year since MSU kicked me out the warm, cozy lifestyle I liked to call “college.” It’s been a weirdo year, for sure.

I was super excited to graduate. Some people aren’t ready to leave college, but I was. My liver is pathetic and I didn’t find the schoolwork particularly stimulating, so by the time May 2011 rolled around, I was getting antsy for a break from the routine. I was bummed to leave my friends and super bummed to leave my boyfriend, but I was not bummed to leave crappy college housing, overpriced textbooks, and boring lectures.

I remember not really thinking past August 2011. That’s when my job started and really, that’s when the anniversary of “the real world” is for me. But as I sat through commencement yesterday, I couldn’t help but take a gander at the Big Question: has anything really changed since a year ago?

Well, yes. Everything. And no, nothing.

Much like when I was in class, I’m still bored all the time. Except now I get paid to be more, which is pretty nice. I like that I don’t have homework. I can afford things like yoga passes and gifts, but I have to pay all my own bills and let’s get real, that totally sucks. I love my boyfriend and my close, close friends more than ever, but I’ve lost touch with a lot of the fringe friends or my high school friends. I don’t really mind, usually, because friends are just a shitload of work if you have too many, anyways.

When I was in school, sometimes I didn’t learn anything all day. School was really boring and a lot of it was bathtub learning: fill up my brain just to dump it out at the exam. At work, I learn something every hour. Sometimes it’s not things I want to learn, but I’m always amazed by the things my professors forgot to mention. I’m amazed that I didn’t ask more questions! I used to wonder if there was a way around the 3-year waiting period to get an MBA, but now I’m glad I have to work first. The experience I have not only makes me a more attractive and useful employee, but actually makes classroom learning so much more relevant.

I was in yoga last week and the instructor, during our meditation period, discussed obituaries. How the emphasis should not be accomplishments, but instead, we should want to be able to write “I was who I wanted to be.”

I love hard. I’m a good friend. I have a great family. I’m nice. There is still so much I want to do in my life, but for now, I am who I wanted to be at 23. And in the last year, I think I became a grown up.

Are you who you want to be? Do you want to go to yoga with me?

My Top 12 in 2012: An Update

So, for those of you who don’t read my blog daily (perhaps the inner workings of my brain scare you), I had a post in February about my 12 New Years Resolutions. 2 Months later, let’s check in:

1. Be More Social
2. Be More Relaxed About Exercise
3. Ease Up on the M and Ms
4. Get Back Into Yoga
5. DIY Furniture
6. Get More Energy
7. Be Nicer to My Boyfriend
8.  Travel!
9. Take the Running Class–and Then Use It!
10. Get A Puppy!
11. Cut My Hair
12. Have a Christmas Card!

So, I think we can check…only number 9 and 11 off the list. I cut my hair. Wahoo. A girl at work told me I now look like I’m 19 instead of 16, so that’s an improvement. I ran a half marathon, but now I have the running bug and all I can think as I sit here in type is MEDALS, MEDALS, MEDALS. I NEED MORE MEDALS. Yeah, I have issues.

I eased up on the M and Ms, but only because I added them to the cookies. Now I need to ease up on the cookies, probably. I became more social by joining a bowling league, which is either super awesome of me, or super pathetic. I’ll keep you posted. I’m nicer to my boyfriend, or maybe I’m just drinking more wine, I’m not sure. I cut back on a day of running, but I added mileage, so I’m probably just as insane as I was two months ago.

Overall, I’m hanging in there. 2012 will be a year to…well, it’ll be okay.

The Anatomy of a Half Marathon

I ran a half marathon today because I am a total rock star. I’m also probably a little insane. And  between the hours of 9:30 and 11:30 am, I was simply freezing because the wind was literally pushing me. Although I am Indian and therefore, believe the wind is my friend and can communicate through it (as seen in many historical Disney movies, like Pochahantas), I was so not into the wind today.

wind is not a good look with bangs

I don’t run with an iPod for a variety of reasons (read: I can’t do two things at once), which means I have approximately two hours to think. After I hit the finish line, my SUPER AMAZING WONDERFUL LOVE HIM SO MUCH IT MAKES YOU WANT TO VOMIT boyfriend asked me what in the world I even thought about for two hours. Wasn’t I bored?

Well, let me recap for you.

Mile 0: There are so many people here. Why don’t they run faster? And why won’t those people over there slow down? Oh shit, I just tripped over that person’s heel. Hopefully nobody noticed. Nobody noticed. La, la, la, la. Okay, time to zone out. What should I think about? Hmm. I wonder why they hold half marathons on Sundays. Probably because everyone’s in Church so they won’t be in the road. I wonder if God’s going to be pissed that I missed Church today for this so when I yelp out in pain and want His mercy, he’ll be too mad to help out. Then again, if he’s mad about me missing today, he’s probably holding a grudge over the fact that I haven’t hit church in the past four months.

Mile 2: Passed the first water station, where Army men passed out water. I like that philosophy. I run a mile, you get a hot guy in Uniform to give me a glass of water. Not that I’ll drink it. I do NOT want that stuff slooshing around my belly. Slosh, Slosh, Slosh. Slosh is such a funny word. Christ, I cannot belive we are running through this part of town. I wouldn’t even drive through this part of Lansing.

Mile 3: If I was running a 5k right now, I’d be almost done. Why do I always have to overachieve like this? Curse me and my need for medals.

Mile 4: This is like doing the town loop. I’ll finish this mile, and it’s like I just ran the town loop. Like I did last Sunday, when I was hungover. Except now I have to run the town loop 2 more times. I hate the town loop sometimes. I wonder if my mom will want to go on a walk this afternoon. I wonder if I’ll be able to walk this afternoon.

Mile 5: La la la la la la la la la. This is boring. La la la la la la la la la la.

Mile 6: It is freezing. Oh sunshine! Ohmygod, I am so hot. Oh my god this wind is killing me. A half marathon isn’t enough, you need to push me back? Ohhh now the wind’s at my back. I love the wind. It’s pushing me forward.  Ohhh no. Now it’s cold again. I’m like a menopausal woman going through heat flashes.

Mile 7: Well, I’ve officially gone further than half way. I’m hungry. What do I want? French fries? No. A cookie? No. A latte? OF COURSE.

Mile 8: I really wish this person behind me would shut up. I get that you want water, but saying every five seconds “water station? water station?” is making me think about how much I have to pee. And also making me hate you.

Mile 9: ENOUGH WITH THE WATER STATION.

Mile 10: Ten ten ten. Three and a half more. I can totally do this. As long as this cramp goes away, my foot stop hurting, and also this wind stops. Not be picky or anything. Also, I’m bored. Who’s idea was this stupid half marathon anyways? I hope Mark’s at the finish line and didn’t get lost. I’m totally wearing my medal to work tomorrow.

Mile 11: Two more miles. I have a headache. Are they sure this course is right? I feel like this is a lot longer than 11 miles. I feel like maybe they accidentally put me in the marathon course and I’ve run 22 miles. At least. I. Am. Dying.

Mile 12: I’m never running again.

Mile 13: OH THANK YOU LORD!

Mile 13.1: Is that seriously my time? How is that possibly? No wonder I’m dying, I was running kind of fast. I am a total rock star. I am totally running a marathon. I am…I need to sit down first though. I’ll run a marathon later. Not now. Why won’t my mouth form words? Is it frozen shut? Who cares, where is some grass. Sit. I need to sit.

So, now you know. The secret thoughts of a not-pathetic half marathon runner. I mean, not great, but not pathetic. Like 10 minutes better than average. Which is, you know, totally awesome.

My Theories: How I Met…

I’m watching How I Met Your Mother and the episode was all about First Impression–or the first time two lovers or two friends meet. And it dawned on me, I haven’t ever told you my “How I Met” theory. My apologies. I’m not sure how you’ve survived this long without it.

The theory goes like this: Every “How we met” story has a classy version and a real version. The classy version is what you tell your grandparents, your parents, or people who are generally judgmental and/or you’re trying to impress. For example, just read any wedding website or wedding announcement ever. It’ll probably be generic, vague, and happy. It’ll sound like a fairy tale, like gosh darn fate. For example:

“Allison and Marshall met in college, where they were both business majors.”

Sounds pretty fine, right? Totally a story to tell the Catholic nun that they’ll invite to their wedding.

But I call bullshit. Let’s break down that story. First, colleges have 2,000 to 40,000 students. Even if they were the same major, there’s like, a tiny chance they just randomly met. Maybe they’re super outgoing, but in my college, we didn’t really make friends in class. You maybe met in class and went out, but chances are, Allison and Marshall met through mutual friends. And where do mutual friends meet? Probably at a part. See where this is going?

The second part of the theory is that every tale has a nonclassy, realistic version. It’s not a bad version, it’s just real. I know in the movies, we have “meet cues” and cute little stories where a Prince kisses his Princess. But sorry, that’s just covering your ass. Here’s a real story:

“Allison and Marshall went to college together. They had mutual friends and went to the same party. There was a lot of booze involved. They hooked up. But Allison thought it was cute that Marshall insisted on walking her home and Marshall liked that Allison was fun.”

See? The story is still cute. It’s just more realistic. And more detailed. And way more personable.

A few examples from my life:

Classy: I met my college best friend, N, through our business fraternity at MSU.
Real: I met my college, best friend, N, through a party at our b-frat. We bonded over our love of yoga, boys, and tequila. Mostly tequila. She helped me use the bathroom and I bought her Jimmy John’s as a reward.

Classy: My older brother met his girlfriend while doing volunteer work in South America.
Real: My older brother met his girlfriend while doing volunteer work and LIVING IN SIN.

My favorite thing to do, when meeting new couples, is to ask them how they met. If I get a Classy story, I follow up with a question like, “That’s like a story from a newspaper article. What’s your real story? You know, the dirty details?” You’d be amazed at what people will tell you. I’ve heard it all. Half of my job is getting to know people and if I get a vibe that they’re willing to share, I’ll dig a little deeper and I love the results.

So, what’s your story? Your classy version and your real version? Tell me!