Relationships

In hindsight, it probably smelled like burnt rubber early on. We were jet-lagged, though, and wet from splashing in the Irish Atlantic, so our senses were dulled. I leaned my head against the cool window of the van, focusing my eyes in and out on the water droplets that clung to its surface. The sky was, like usual, cloudy, and the air was chilled with the misty remnants of that afternoon’s rain shower. In the blur behind the window droplets, kelly green painted every grassy space from sidewalk cracks to the pastoral hills beyond.

From a very young age my father instilled in me a love of cooking. Over the years he tried to teach me the culinary basics: the art of pairing flavors, the five mother sauces of French cuisine, the importance of making sure meat remains tender, and the fact that if you ask any Italian chef they will downright condemn putting cheese on seafood. Thinking back now, I realize that I have encountered fish and cheese before (your classic lox and cream cheese on an everything bagel), but for some reason this “no cheese on seafood” rule always stood out in my brain as an important one.

The worst year of my life started when I walked on Grounds in the stiff August heat to move in to my first year dorm (sans AC). Red-faced, insecure, and awkward, I felt like an intruder on an intimate scene--as if I had just walked into someone else’s life and didn’t know how to leave.

For the most part I have good judgement when it comes to people. I have surrounded myself with a group of strong women who bring fulfilment to my life and build me up and support me just as much as I like to support them. These relationships are mutually beneficial, and I am happy that I can rely on these people in any difficult circumstance. Where my people judgment tends to falter, however, is when it comes to my taste in men.

1.     Does the thought of Valentine’s Day make you wanna:

a.     Gag.

b.     Call up some girls and drink wine and talk about how you hate l*ve.

c.     “Boooo” at couples who show PDA on the street.

When I tell people I’m never getting married, their faces usually look something like this:

The equation is seemingly simple: woman = desire to get married = one day married. Their brains are running around in confusion trying to figure out why in the world a woman wouldn’t want to put on a white dress and say “I do.”

My dad is sitting across from me eating Eggos. He doesn’t eat them gracefully. They are stuffed into his mouth, loudly chewed, sugars clinging onto fat as they enter his bloodstream. I imagine my dad’s body is made of all the unhealthy things: corn syrup, GMO’s, candy bars. He’s had cancer already, but it’s no fault of ambiguous FDA regulations or the orange soda he sips casually as he watches Fox & Friends. “It’s inevitable,” he says.

“Arab women are a lot like coffee. strong. refreshing. Roasted until nearly burnt and then marketed as bitter. Expected to keep you going when you can’t do it yourself. Mis-used. Under appreciated.” (Yasmeen AlFaraj, University of California, Berkeley @_alfa_ya)

My great-grandmother was a lifelong smoker.

I wake up alone in bed. A winter chill has somehow drifted through the window I struggled to shut the night before. All I can do is pull the covers around me and huddle for warmth.