If I wrote an Autobiography

Every one of the nights (and early mornings) of sheer debauchery with my girlfriends in college were reminisced upon for days afterwards and they often ended with me being told that I should write a book. I should write a book because — I am so dry, I don’t give a crap, I am a good story teller, I have crazy things happen to me, and the list goes on. And in my stereotypical self-absorbed early 20's I believed that I truly had stories to tell and feelings felt that no person could ever articulate the way I could.

I entertained the idea of putting it all into writing while on a raw cookie dough break from the movie “Good Luck Chuck,” which is a movie about a fella who would date girls and as soon as they broke up, she would end up marrying the next guy she met. I was on a streak similar to that. Maybe it was my laid back charm or knack for being illusive and emotionally unpredictable that sent men running for the alter.

My dearest, and philosophically deepest, friend was with me on the couch when I asked her what she thought the title of my autobiography would be. After tossing around a few ideas that ironicly mocked my poor decision making in life — we had rested on the fact that “Quarter Life Crisis” was a real thing and at the ripe age of 23, we were certainly experiencing it. But that sure makes for a shotty title and storyline. Most of my talking points for this hypothetical book were about my failings as a friend, a lover, an employee, a Christian, a dog owner, a tenant and a daughter. My autobiography was starting to sound more like sad manifesto. Chelsea Handler had not written her first book yet and social media was only just picking up momentum, so we didnt consider the fact that the average American loves a good trainwreck story.

She was always very cautious to not allow these trips down memory lane get too serious for me — because my shortcomings would quickly become too real to handle with the daily hangover I was inevitably fighting. And, man, there is something about a hangover that can really send a girl into a self-loathing spiral. The downward spin was already starting in my mind though and she didn’t recognize the symptoms: I was fidgeting, I was “what-if-ing” and my shoulders were getting that all too familiar sorrow slope. I leaned forward, back curled in, indian style, elbows to knees, hands hanging freely over the edge of the couch, almost mimicking my mental freefall and soberly asked her — why didn’t we listen to our parents?

She laughed at me, as she always did when I would ask a simple question with such conviction; she was unsure if I was serious. I maintained my empty yogi gaze and after a few seconds of contemplation, she responded, “because then what would we warn our children about?”

If I wrote my autobiography, I dont know what the title would be, however, I know what the purpose would be. To document the wealth of ways I did not follow the grave warnings of my parents, ultimately realizing that they were right all along. And not in the “don’t have sex” sort of way. More in the “the cool crowd isn’t always as cool as you think” kind of way.