Not Suitable for Human Beings

So this "grumpy" mood has turned into one of the foulest moods ever. Seriously. For the sake of society as a whole, I'm trying my best to remove myself from it. This is one of those times that I sort of wish I liked camping because I can't think of any other way to get completely away from everyone and everything. (Except my dogs. They might suck sometimes, but boy are they cute.)

Last night I ditched book club (fellow members can thank me later) so as to be able to keep calling those people my friends, and planned on spending a quiet evening at home being in a foul mood. Maybe the dogs could cheer me up. Apparently notsomuch. After not quite being satisfied on the couch, I ended up deciding to take another bike ride. I mean, if you put on your iPod and ride your bike, there aren't many activities that are more solitary, right? (Well, I guess I could have taken a jog....but no thanks. I mean, I was already in a bad mood...)

The bike ride tired me out, I didn't speak to anyone, and I came home a bit more calm, so I think it served its purpose. But still, there was a litany of horrible thoughts going through my mind about stupid geese (I swear to God I'll kick the next one that hisses at me,) the emo kid capital of Indianapolis (I tried to ride through really quickly to avoid getting any angst on me,) people who are still riding skateboards at my age (seriously?) people who walk side by side (slowly) along the Monon trail (and don't seem to think they need to move over when a polite voice reminds them that bicycles are also allowed on the trail. Note to these people - you only get one polite reminder before I run you over. Kthxbai.) and finally, other bicyclists.

Seriously, if you ride a bike with a tire that is less than an inch thick, you dress like Lance Armstrong, and you're NOT a complete douchebag, I would like to meet you. Because right now, I think you're a mythical creature right up there on the level of Bigfoot and tiny green spacemen. I mean, I get that your workout means you must ride as fast as you can in an effort to break the sound barrier. And I get that I'm not riding NEARLY that fast. But let me point out to you that A) obviously neither my bicycle, nor its rider, is built for speed so it's not like there's any false advertising going on here, B) I'm staying on the right hand side of the trail like a good little slow rider, and C) You do know that you're not actually Lance Armstrong, right?

I mean, it's springtime, so you do know that there will be other people out on the trail, right? And sometimes, there's congestion. Sometimes, you'll have to slow down and get in line with everyone else to be able to cross the street. Trust me, the little Italian/Peruvian on the bike that's about one inch too big for her is doing her best to get through the congestion as well. There is no need to inch up right behind her, and then put your front tire next to her rear tire, and then keep inching up until you're practically right next to her in a mass of pedestrian congestion because, believe me, as soon as she's through and can get out of your way, she will. And if you continue with your current behavior, she might just "accidentally" fall over right on top of you. She's not so steady on her bike, that one.

Those of you who zoom around other cyclists and only give an inch or so of clearance aren't immune to my wrath either. I mean, there's a whole trail for you to go around. No need to scare the bejeezus out of people who are minding their own slow little business and cause them to swerve themselves. Seriously. Rude. Either slow down or give us more clearance. Again, we're not doing anything to you, you know.

In an odd way, it makes me want to get out my rollerblades again. Because then I can randomly put out my arms and accidentally hit people in the face. (okay, stomach. Not so tall is Emily.) Unfortunately, the route that connects my house to the Monon is graveled, and not so friendly for rollerblades. So the bike it is. I keep hoping that it's the magic answer to end the foul mood. I mean, it worked on Saturday. Does anyone have any other suggestions? (And no, chocolate doesn't work. Emily is not so much a fan of chocolate.)

This weekend, if I can find a "spotter" I'm going to try getting Casey out in her brand new harness and see how she does with Emily on a bike. I mean, that sounds like a great idea, right? Nothing could possibly go wrong in that scenario... I'll make sure to keep you updated (with pictures if possible.)

Blargh

So, I had another physics test last night and an interesting topic that I had explored briefly in the past reared it's ugly head again. Last time I mentioned that while I was overjoyed about my test score, I didn't say a word about it until I got into my car and could call my friends. It was just an offhand comment, but it was brought up in my book club later that week.

I was asked why I was ashamed of my performance, and how I would have to work on being more proud of my accomplishments. I tried to explain why I kept quiet in class (basically, I didn't want to make anyone feel badly about how they had scored) and I thought about it more that night when I went home. In my mind, I was no way ashamed of my performance (as evidenced by my blog the next day.) I just wanted to be sure that I was crowing to my friends who could be genuinely be happy for me, instead of irritating others who may not have scored as well as I have. I mean, I've been there too...when you don't get quite the score you were hoping for, and you really really really want to be happy for your friend who did well, but there's that tiny part of you that just wants them to shut up because you hate them and their high score. Bringing up that feeling in others, that's what I wanted to avoid.

And last night my feelings on the matter were enforced.

I don't feel good about the test last night at all. I mean, I don't think I failed like F failed, but I'm super nervous about it and probably won't stop obsessing about one stupid problem that I missed until I freaking get my test back on Monday. (four long days away.)

I have a good friend in the class, Jess, and we were going through a post test debrief during the lecture following the exam. (Yes, the professor lectures for 90 minutes following each exam. Seriously. It's like torture for your brain that has been reduced to mush. Ugh.) She's the one who enlightened me on the problem that I missed. I told her I had trouble on it, she told me how she did the problem, I realized she was correct, and I was obsessing musing on how many other problems I probably only got partial credit on and how that was going to turn out for me overall. My brain was obviously fully occupied with these obsessions thoughts and I was responding to Jess mechanically as she asked me questions about the other problems that she had trouble with and how I answered them. She obviously knew I was distracted and upset, so after we were done going through the eight questions she said, "It will be fine. You're fine. I mean, how did you do on the last test? Seriously. I don't think I ever asked?"

On autopilot, I answered, "an 81%."

She said, "What?!" Which immediately brought me back to reality.

"Um, an 81%." I said a bit more sheepishly.

"Oh my God! You are fine. You will be just fine. What are you even worried about? I can't believe you're worried if you got an 81% on the last test. Do you even know what I got?" [I didn't.] "You did so much better than I did...."

It went on and on. I have no doubt that she originally asked me the question in an effort to make me feel better about the big picture overall. And I'm sure she expected to comiserate with me about how we could still pass if we worked really hard. But the thing is, I don't want to just pass. I didn't come into this vet thing completely unprepared. I know how difficult it is to get into vet school, and I know (believe me, I know) that it's more competitive than med school. I know. So I can't just pass. I need A's. (I will grudgingly accept B's. I will not be happy at all about C's. Getting a C would be like failing to me. I never said I was easy on myself.)

And it's difficult to explain that to someone in the trenches with you. It's difficult to say that to you, missing one question on an eight question exam feels like the end of the world, because it already drops you down to a B, and that's if you got everything else perfectly correct (which, let's face it, you probably did not.) That doesn't really seem to matter. All the other person sees is that you got a much higher score on the last test, and for that it's easy to dismiss a bad score because it all evens out in the end. But me? I can't take that chance. I want the A that I'm working hard for. I DID do well on that last test, but that was the last test. I can't rest on that. I need to do well on this test, the next test and the final. I can't lose sight of that.

So when I get this test back, no matter what I got, I won't discuss it in class. If it's decent and I'm excited, I'll post here and have you guys be all exited for me so that I can be all proud and happy like I want to be. If it's horrible, I'll be sad and mopey and THEN you guys can tell me that it will be okay, and you'll all bring your animals to see me when I'm a veterinarian crazy dog lady with five cats.

Have I mentioned that I regularly question my sanity when I think about what made me decide on this path for my life?

Carnivore?

In his quest to get me to eat more vegetables, the boy brought over a veggie tray on Saturday night. I had requested that we grill steaks, and I'm pretty sure the boy's version of a "balanced diet" isn't red meat and more red meat. So he brought some veggies to share.

It's not that I dislike veggies. I mean, there are some that I wouldn't touch with a 10 foot pole, but on the whole I'm not averse to them. I just prefer red meat. But the boy chose wisely, and scored with three out of four of the veggies he brought. I love broccoli and cauliflour. Carrots are "meh" but if there's ranch dip, I'll eat them with no complaint.

My diet is so very healthy, no? I will say that I love love LOVE V-8 juice. I drink at least a bottle a day, so I'm not entirely missing out on essential vitamins.

The fourth compartment of the veggie tray housed celery. Celery is one thing that I won't touch. NOTHING will make me touch celery. Gross. And so it sat there. And sat there. And sat there. Until I got tired of Blue's begging and decided to teach him a lesson.

Note: My dogs beg. They are active beggars. This is why I usually put them downstairs when guests are eating. They know that they are supposed to lie down and wait to see if someone will be so kind as to give them a scrap. And this is what they do for me. But they will take advantage of anyone who isn't as tough with them. If you get flustered when they get near you, or just try to avoid them, you're obvously weak or playing a game. They will shove their noses as close to your food as possible. But if you tell them to sit, and then lie down, they will stay about two feet away and just wait. Wait and drool. Drool and wait. Such is my life when eating dinner.

So Blue was watching us eat veggies and looking more and more pathetic as we did not share. The strings of drool had almost reached the ground (think Hooch from Turner and Hooch.) So I decided to give him some celery.

He took it gently in his mouth, took it to the corner where he could protect it from Casey, and laid it on the ground. He licked it a couple of times, and then decided to take a bite. The look of surprise was comical when he heard the crunch produced by biting down. The celery landed on the floor in two pieces. He sniffed them again, and then cautiously took one piece into his mouth. At this point, Casey came over to investigate, and Blue decided the time for indecision was over. He wolfed down both pieces. The boy and I waited. Blue chewed, and seemed to think. Then his tail began wagging, and he came back to lie down in front of me.

Um, what?

So I gave him another piece. This one he crunched immediately and then ate. I think he liked the first crunch sound the best.

And thus the birth of a new treat for Blue. (Casey prefers the carrots, so she has to share with me, although she doesn't get the ranch dressing.) I can seriously use the celery instead of a dog biscuit to get Blue into his crate, get him to do tricks, whatever. He's ALL ABOUT his celery now. It was such a funny surprise to see him eating it. I'll try to post a picture soon, but it's generally wolfed down so fast that I can't capture it. I guess it goes to show that there's no accounting for taste.

(I will note, however, that when the steaks were off the grill, I couldn't give Blue a piece of celery to substitute for the steak he was smelling. He would take it with no complaint, trot off and hide it in the corner, then come back and wait for steak....that he never got. Emily doesn't share steak. When the heavenly steak smell was gone, he went over and chowed down on his stash of celery. I think he was happy anyway.)

Owie

I just had an interesting weekend. This is a change. Normally my weekends are filled with volunteering on Saturdays, studying, and....um.... trying to get my couch to have a permanent butt shaped indentation on the left cushion. I was in a miserable mood on Friday, and the outlook for the rest of the weekend was grim. Luckily, Candy came to the rescue.

I think that in every group, there's a planner. A motivator. Someone who gets the group moving. I'm usually that person. Except for when I'm busy. Or I don't feel like it. And then I don't plan anything and it's rare that I get to see my friends. (Yes, Craig. I'm looking at you.) Surprisingly, even though I love being the planner and the motivator, sometimes it's nice to have someone else take the reins. My mood was rotten enough this weekend that I probably should have stayed in and been grumpy to myself, and there was no way I was going to be able to plan something. But Candy and I saw a movie last week and had discussed taking a bike ride together on Saturday. We left the specifics up in the air...we would call each other around noon and decide what we were going to do... Honestly, had she decided that she didn't want to go and not called me, I probably would have shrugged it off and slept all day long. That's how grumpy I was.

But Candy is a planner and a motivator. When she called, I got my lazy butt up, got my bike into my car and headed over to her house. It turned out to be exactly what I needed and was the best decision I made all day.

Let me start at the beginning. When Candy did call me, the boy was over. We were in the middle of a very heated game of MarioKart*. When that ended, and I had firmed up plans to leave, it occurred to me that A) my bike probably had spiders all over it from being stored in the garage all winter and B) the tires were most definitely flat. The boy said that he could understand how I needed help with the spiders (see the progress we've made?) but that I'm a big girl and I could air up my own tires. I played the "I'm a girl" card until I realized he definitely would not help me, and then began trying to figure out what gas station I could stop at to put the air in the damned tires. The boy, realizing that I was going to do it without him and that I really didn't have any idea what I was doing, got exasperated and pestered me to ask Candy whether or not she had a bike pump. (He was muttering something about "popping the tires" and "never hearing the end of it.") He pestered me until I called Candy and found that she did, indeed, have a bike pump. The boy was satisfied that Candy and I could figure it out from there and left us to our own devices.

What he didn't know was that Candy had never used the pump without assistance. I was obviously not any help to her as the only advice I had received from the boy was "Make sure you hear a hissing sound before you pump." Um, I won't go into the details about putting air in the tires with a bike pump. I will only say that it probably took a lot longer than it should have taken, it involved tools that it probably shouldn't have involved, and I was genuinely laughing about 2 minutes into the whole experience. We did eventually figure it out, though, and put air in the tires of both bikes.** All that was left was deciding where to go.

I'll be honest. After seeing this post, I really didn't want to put Candy through what I imagined would be the trauma of relocating her bike in that manner. I wanted to leave from her house, but she lives farther north than I ever have, and I wasn't sure what was near to her. I seemed to remember her taking a rather lengthy bike ride recently. She reminded me of this. I asked her if she was willing to do that again, and she agreed. I'm not sure why, but she agreed.

I should probably take this opportunity to remind you that I'm the girl who just randomly decides to do silly things. Like one day deciding to run the Indianapolis Mini-Marathon when I had never run further than three miles before. Or one day giving up high fructose corn syrup for Lent when I love me some Coca Cola. We can now add, "decides to go on a 15 mile bike ride after not having ridden a bicycle in six months, and not having worked out in at least three." Sometimes I don't seem to have the gene that makes me think things through.

But the verdict? It was SO fun. I think most of the fun initially came for me because I didn't have to worry about a thing. I'm not as confident on my bicycle as I probably should be (that's a whole 'nother post) but Candy was pretty sure that I wasn't going to die. I had no idea where I was going, but I trusted Candy. I would have followed her into a brick wall, I think. I learned this when she initially pedaled through some grass to get to the bicycle path. Um, going back to the whole, "not too confident on her bike," thing, Emily generally likes to stay on concrete. But Candy made it, so I followed her and I didn't fall off, and I didn't die. It was a monumental achievement. We rode at a steady pace that allowed us to have a fun conversation, and she only scared the bejeezus out of me one time on the "roundabout of death." I actually stopped traffic on this roundabout, people. Like, cars that weigh thousands of pounds had to stop and let me on my bike go around the roundabout. Candy, being braver than I, had already gone and I hesitated just a bit too long. My plan was to let the cars go, and then follow Candy. Unfortunately, I was sort of already IN the roundabout. So the nice mom with her kids wouldn't go before me, even though I was stopped and I waved her on. So I had to go. Did I mention that we were making a left-hand turn? Which means I had to pedal 75% of the way around the roundabout? With a trail of three cars behind me? I was embarrassed as hell and fearing for my life all at once.

Luckily Handel's was really close and the deliciousness made the fear go away pretty quickly.***

Getting back on the bike after eating delicious ice cream was not fun. But I don't think the fun conversation ever ran out, so I was able to keep my mind off of the mounting pain in my rear end. The only obnoxious point of the entire ride came near the end when we were riding side by side on a rarely-trafficked country road (with a llama farm. It had a llama farm, people. This was not a major highway.) We were having a pleasant conversation when a honk almost made me pee my pants (scared little bicyclist that I am.) Shortly after the honk, what looked like a teenage girl and her boyfriend (brother?) sped around us and drove off. It was one of those times that I kind of wish I had something to throw at her. Or at least wish I was confident enough to take one hand off of the handlebars to flip her off. Alas, neither of those things happened.

We made it home without further incident, and that was the end of our adventure. At least, until Candy sent me a text that night asking if my legs hurt. They didn't, but I was drinking wine, so I probably wasn't a good person to be asking. I did know that my butt hurt, though. Even THROUGH the wine. When I got up to go to bed, it wasn't that my legs hurt, exactly, it was more that I didn't really want to be standing on them. The next day all the pain was gone. From my legs. My butt continues to hurt.**** Ouch. I think I need a new bicycle seat. Either that or a sign that can adequately communicate my feelings should someone honk at us next time.

*He won. Didn't help my mood any.
**There was never a hissing sound, btw.
***And probably gave me back all the calories I had burned and then some
****Which is a suprise considering all the padding I've got back there

It's the most wonderful time of the year...

Time for the NCAA tournament.

I know, I know. I'm not so much a huge basketball fan. But there are a couple of things about the NCAA tournament that tip the scales to make it one of the more fun events of the year.

1) I live in Indiana. We, um, sort of like our basketball here.
2) I have friends who get ridiculously excited about this tournament. Like, take-two-days-off-work-to-watch-all-the-games excited. It's like Christmas for them, and it's impossible to not get swept up in the anticipation.
3) I get to watch sports and eat food all day long.
4) My Alma Mater is in the tournament, so I have someone specific to root for (instead of making a huge effort to feign some semblance of support for Purdue.)
5) Bracket picks make the whole thing that much more fun

I have a long standing tradition of picking my Alma Mater to go all the way in the tournament. It dates back to, oh, 2003? And it's ridiculous. Butler is not going to win the tournament. It's just not going to happen. And by picking them, I risk a repeat of this year where my will power was sorely tested. But I really and truly believe that someone who picks winners randomly has just as much of a shot at winning as someone who does all their research and knows the teams inside and out. And if they're in the tournament (and ranked decently,) there's always a chance that my team could win.

And so this year was no different.

Don't be a hater. If you think my bracket is ridiculous, remember that I'm not trying to actually win money. I'm just hoping that my school goes all the way. So think good thoughts about Bulldogs today around 12:20pm EST, if you don't mind. A certain hyper-competitive, Italian/Peruvian Butler grad will appreciate it.

Just put the dork stamp on my forehead and get it over with

I know I've been slacking on this whole blogging thing, and I'm sorry. I'm bored as hell and you can bet I've been trolling your blog (if you've got one) but I can't seem to think of anything to write about on mine. I must reiterate that boring life = boring blogging.

So I'm going to share some of my dorkiness with you, because it made me oh-so-happy one dreary day in physics class.

I have recently discovered that sitting in one of the chairs in the back of the lecture hall (you know, the chairs that have an "arm-desk" attached?) is far FAR more desirable than sitting in the actual seats of the lecture hall. In fact, I don't know why I don't have to fight off hoards of students when I get to class each week. As it is, it seems that only I realize the benefits of these chairs.

Sure, they're not padded like the lecture hall seats, and they're in the back, but dear GOD is there more space back there. I mean, I don't need much leg room (ahem, 60 inches tall, ahem) but even I'm cramped in those lecture hall seats. And forget about putting my backpack anywhere other than where my feet SHOULD be. Ugh.

Sooooooo... this past Wednesday, I was sitting in the back of the class, and my attention started to wander as the professor answered a question about something I already understood. I looked over at the dry erase board behind me and saw this: and it made me ridiculously happy.

So happy that I took a cell phone picture to share with the boy.

Who promptly called me a dork.

But at least he understood why I was ridiculously happy about it. Which is good, because it means I can still date him.*

Now I want to know how many of you get it. So leave me a comment and let me know. Be honest!!

*Okay, I probably wouldn't have left him if he didn't get the significance of this picture. But if I ever use "YOU MOCK MY PAIN!" or "Let me explain....no, is too much. Let me sum up." in conversation and he doesn't understand it, well that's just unforgivable.

Abby Normal

Last Saturday I was in a particularly good mood after getting up early enough to pick up Starbucks on my way to volunteer. This is unusual because volunteering begins at 7:30am every Saturday. I never have time to get my caffeine fix in the morning, and for obvious reasons I am rarely in a really good mood while I'm there. Not being a morning person, I don't even think I'm fully awake by the time I leave which is usually around 11:00am.

But last Saturday (with the help of a vanilla latte) I was jovial, I was happy, I was laughing and loving on puppies, there were two very interesting (read: gross to normal people) cases that I got to be a part of... it was a very good morning. And so I was joking with the veterinarian that I volunteer for.

Let me tell you this, if I am rarely in a good mood in the mornings, the veterinarian that I volunteer for is NEVER in a good mood in the mornings. It's not that he's mean, or that he's angry... he's just never really happy. He's nice enough to me, and on most days he's got the patience of Job when I'm questioning him on why we're doing this or what that possible diagnosis is. But, I hardly ever see him smiling, and Lord can I NOT get that man to laugh. And of course, if I can't do something, it becomes my main mission in life. I will get this man to laugh or I WILL DIE TRYING.

So Saturday my happiness was spilling over into "sparkly Emily" mode. The mode that makes people around me laugh, has no room for awkwardness or sadness or anger, and generally makes my day a good one. I'm pretty sure this mode is 99% of how I roped my friends into being my friends. Then they were introduced to "evil Emily" or "angry Emily" and it was too late to renege on our friendship. (Insert evil laugh here.) Regardless, last Saturday I was using this extra energy to finally make Dr. Veterinarian laugh.

So while we were squeezing a cat (long story) I kept up the teasing and the joking, occasionally making self depricating comments, all in the hopes that the man would chuckle. I failed. Everyone else was laughing, but the man wouldn't even crack a smile. Then, after commenting that the cat was high maintenance, a conversation followed where I said, "Who me? I am the very picture of low maintenance." This is, of course, completely false and was only said to at LEAST get a smile and a funny comment back. I'll sacrifice myself for humor. It's okay. I'm a fun target. What Dr. Veterinarian said, however, stopped me short.

"Oh really? Why aren't you married then?"

The joking continued because if there's one thing I've learned about humor, it's that hesitation will kill it dead on the floor in front of you. And there's nothing more awkward than dead humor.

But the comment made me think. And think I did. A lot. Dr. Veterinarian and I are about as completely different as two people can be. Despite our mutual love of animals, I don't think we have a thing in common. And while I wish that people would never judge me based on their values and what they perceive my life to be, I know that it's going to happen occasionally. Everyone in my life is not going to know all the ins and outs of Emily. Sometimes a quick judgement is all people have the time, or the information, to make.

So a single female, living with two dogs and a cat, I mean, obviously her life isn't fulfilled, right? She would yearn to be married. If she's not, well, there must be something wrong with her. Because she's young, but aging. Her time is passing. She must be desperate to be married at this point.

Obviously I can't know that that's what he was thinking. But based on our previous conversations, I know that Dr. Veterinarian and I view life very differently. I also know that his view is not that much different from other more conservative people that I have met. And all at once, it made me very very sad that I'm getting to the age where people are going to think that there's something wrong with me because I'm not married. (Wait until they find out I've never been married. Dear God! She must be a leper!) I mean, I know that this viewpoint exists because a lot of single women really WANT to get married. And if they're not, well...
So I started thinking about why I'm not married. I can't say it's because I never wanted to be married. Obviously at one point I did. But it was an extraordinary stroke of good luck that it didn't work out, because I'm free to choose paths for my life now that wouldn't had been an option if I had tied the knot then.* And I can't say that there's nothing "wrong" with me because I obviously have my fair share of emotional baggage crazy. But last I checked, I had all ten fingers and all ten toes, and while I may not be "normal" I don't think I'm too far left of center. On top of that, I am currently in a relationship - what's up with that? It's been long enough...why don't I have a ring on my finger? Dear God, am I wrong? IS there something wrong with me?

The boy and I are still working on things, but right now... if I wanted to be married right this instant... am I the type to wait around until the boy decided to ask me? I don't think I am. I think that if getting married was something I really wanted, I would pursue it the same way I pursue all things in life that I decide I want. With a relentless tenacity until I reached my goal. (see: deciding to run the mini-marathon, or alternatively: deciding to be a veterinarian.) If it happened right now, the boy got down on one knee, would I get married this year?

I don't think so. That's not to say that I wouldn't say yes to the boy if he asked, but I think he knows it's not the time. Right now I love my life. I love the freedom I have to completely change my career goals - go through a "life overhaul" if you will. I love the freedom to be able to pick a school that's far away if they accept me. I love that I don't have to consider anyone else's future but my own when I make my decisions. Don't get me wrong - during the difficult times, I still wish I had made this career choice at eighteen. But since I can't turn back the clock, I've got what I've got, and I'm excited about it. So where does marriage fit in?

Like any girl I love the romance and the companionship of dating a monogamous relationship, but I think that one of the side effects of not being married yet is that I'm selfish too. I've had all this time to focus on me, and what I want, and I guess I figured out that being married is not one of the top things on that list right now. Somehow, I figured out that if I'm not married, I'm still okay. My life can still be fulfilled.

And I'm lucky I found a guy who's willing to wait to get married as well, huh? I mean, he's got to know that right now he's second in line to what I'm trying to do with my life. That's not a very easy position to fill, is it? If I move away, we've discussed that he's not coming with me. And that means either a really long break, or a break up. But right now, if that's what I have to do, I'll do it. And apparently, if that's what I need, the boy will work with it.

So why am I not married yet?

Because I'm lucky. Because I was lucky enough to escape a situation that would have ended horribly for me, and I'm lucky enough to have found someone who's patient and supportive enough to let me achieve my goals before we begin setting our goals.** It's definitely not the norm, and if that means that some people are going to think that something is wrong with me, I guess that's just how it's going to have to be.***

*This doesn't mean that I still wouldn't punch him if I got the chance :-)
**He sounds perfect, right? He's actually paying me to write this blog.
***Seriously, though, 31 isn't old enough to be considered "spinster" is it?