[It doesn’t matter what school you go to, what state it is in, how big it is, whether it is public or private, all girls or coed…there are experiences that all college students share. No matter how crazy you think your personal situation is, it is not just you.So, let’s bring it all out in the open. Right here. Because you are not alone - we’ve all been there before.]

You walk into the fancy department store at the mall, and, like a moth to a flame, you are immediately attracted to the jeans section. So many designers. So many colors. So many choices. Yaaaay!

You move around the section with a goal in mind: going-out jeans. “You came for one pair,” you think to yourself. “ONE PAIR.”

But that doesn’t mean you can’t take 27 pairs into the dressing room. Come on! They all fit differently and you don’t know exactly what look you want to take home. Skinnies? Wide leg? Black? Super dark? To wear with flats, or to sport with heels?

By the time you make it to your dressing room (which seems extremely small when filled with 40 pairs of jeans…and a few shirts you found along the way) you are sweating. You begin to strip off that baggy mess of a pair you reserve for Saturdays and start attacking the pile o’ denim in the corner.

The first few pairs are “Eh,” but you keep trucking. You were saving your favorites for later anyway. You finally get to that oh-so-hot pair of super tight and super sexy dark skinnies. You know these would turn heads and you have been eyeing them for months. You want em, you want em, you want em!!

You put one leg in. Then the other. You pull them up. They stop. Read More »

“Glenn,” my husband declared, “this routine has got to change. I accept that you’re in mourning, but you can’t be self-destructive like this.” He was right. We both agreed that I either “suck it up” and get through this first semester as a junior professor or that I resign immediately and look for a job outside of academia. We had this conversation over dinner one night, and just few days before classes resumed.

As I had become accustomed to my new routine of binge-drinking, it was on this rare occasion that I found myself actually sober and even hungry. My husband, Jason, had surprised me with a home-cooked meal of hand made gnocchi – one of his many specialties. Along with his gift for making fantastic Italian food, he also had a special way of giving me advice in the simplest terms. As he poured me a nice glass of Sangiovese, he gave me these two options. Recalling my days as a pianist and listening to the meticulous clicks of a metronome, my ears followed each syllable that rolled off his tongue and onto his lips. And, as I listened my eyes were fixated on that empty wine glass. I watched it change into a brilliant kaleidoscope, bursting with swirls of various deep red hues. Once he had finished speaking, I watched the wine settle, and suddenly I felt a rush of confidence.

“Jason, you’re right,” I said. “I’ll quit this new job and find something different.” That declaration and the agreement we made that late August evening filled me with a type of hope that I had previously thought died with my mother. That renewed hope, however, was soon dashed when I met Jack and his volatile middle-aged ego. Read More »