Hearing this may not be a surprise to some of you, but I’m not a sports fan. No, not baseball. All those stats just make my head hurt. Yes, I know I go to football games, but it’s not for the football. Soccer? I’ve dated a few players, but the games, egh.
Now, if they had a shopping league, I’d be all over that. I’d be playing fantasy shopping all day long. I would have NationalShoppingLeague.com as my homepage. I would spout out Nieman Marcus, Versace and Gucci stats at every gathering with friends. I would cancel plans and ignore loved ones to watch intense shopping playoffs on television (especially on holidays that involve lots of work in the kitchen). But until NSL is born, I’ll just be a woman without a team.
I blame this intense disinterest in the world of testosterone for it taking me an entire year to write two sports stories in order to graduate. Not just putting these stories off, but writing them the day before the last issue, exactly a week before my graduation. That’s how much I love sports.
Fortunately, I recently acquired a good friend and insider in the Sharks world, and thus the idea of two sports player profiles was born.
I didn’t have anything to say about hockey, because I’d never watched a single game. But the stories about bodies and teeth simultaneously flying in the air had me slightly intrigued.
However, I’m just going to be honest, if a date with a really cute boy wasn’t involved, I may have never gone to a single game. And I may have never learned that the Sharks happen to be the best team in the National Hockey League. I also would never have learned that there is a bar beneath the rink where you can watch the game and drink. Suddenly, hockey wasn’t looking so bad.
Just between you and I, one Thursday night, alone, in a dark living room, I even had a sudden urge to turn on the television and watch a game. And, I may have even liked it.
So, there I was, a confused girl at the verge of conformity, on the day of deadline, inside a French vanilla-colored room with windows overlooking an ice rink, so nervous to interview hockey players when I wasn’t even sure how I felt about hockey.
The door opened and the media relations manager told me it was time to go downstairs. I grabbed my tape recorder and a few deep breaths. Two San Jose Mercury News reporters had now joined us. So, is this the backstage-pass life of the reporter I’ve always dreamed of being?
“We’re going into the locker room, but don’t worry, they’ll only be taking off their gear,” he said.
Whew. What a relief. I wouldn’t go near that room otherwise.
As soon as I entered the locker room, I turned around to see Joe Thornton, currently the top scoring player on the team, walk down the hallway.
Seconds later, veteran blue-liner Rob Blake walked in and a Mercury reporter lunged for him. Following Rob Blake was Jeremey Roenick, the player who constantly sends my roommate into passionate hockey tangents.
Douglas Murray walked past me a few minutes later, towering above all the players at 6-foot-3, and a reporter asked him if he could answer a question.
“I’ve got an answer for every question,” he responded, with a grin and sparkling blue eyes.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, Torrey Mitchell walked in, glanced at me with the prettiest face and shiny brown hair, and said, “Hey, how ya doin?” in what was possibly the sexiest Canadian voice I have ever heard.
Speechless, I could only nod. My knees went weak. And then, Torrey Mitchell took his hockey pants off. Suddenly, in that moment, the thousands of dollars in student loans, the multiple jobs while taking multiple classes, the late nights, the ever-looming deadlines, the major I’ve spent five years studying with no secure job opportunities — it was all worth it.
You know that saying, “Everything happens for a reason?”
I finally understand.

Picture this: You’ve been pursuing your dream job for years, and finally you’ve got it. Now you need to relocate, find a great school for the kids and something that will keep your wife busy. After all that’s settled, it’s time to prepare for that new job of yours. As soon as you’ve handled the necessary accommodations you can sit back and enjoy your new life.
Oh wait, you’re now President-elect of the United States. And one more tiny detail: You’re black.
Sounds like an easy transition.
After the past eight years, I have a hard time imagining why anyone would want this job. Obama is facing two wars, ever-sprouting terrorist attacks, a rapidly failing economy and a country desperate to be saved.
On top of that, citizens all over the world have fallen in love with him and the idea that he represents what was deemed impossible. He couldn’t shake the “hope” off him if he tried.
Watching his speech on Election Night, in between the tears I suddenly couldn’t keep up with, I wondered what he was thinking at that very moment. He held that confident, charismatic demeanor he’d had during the campaign, but at that very moment he must have realized his whole life had changed.
And if it was me, I would have thought, “What did I just get myself into?”
This man is not just inheriting a huge mess in America, he is also being put on a pedestal by people all over the world, who already have their own presidents. I think we just took overwhelming pressure and we raised it.
If you take a glance at our current president, he looks pretty worn and beaten (although I think he asked for it). Harry Truman left office without an ounce of hair on his head (although he didn’t have much to begin with). And if you look at the decisions these men (can we have a woman … someday?) have to make, it’s no wonder.
Abraham Lincoln declared the Emancipation Proclamation, knowing it would tear the country in half and force us into Civil War.
Franklin D. Roosevelt showed unwavering leadership during the Great Depression, knowing he needed to uplift the American people even as they entered another war.
And although this could be considered a “desk job,” four presidents have been assassinated while in office, which definitely gives the job of “president” a James Bond “street cred.”
But, in my personal opinion, Obama is facing more challenges than any president before him. Not only is he the president of our great nation and the leader of the free world, but in only a few months, he became someone the whole world was hoping we would elect.
I listened to a French man on Charlie Rose explain that Obama would be able to help solve the poor relations with Russia. Really? Can you at least let the man move into the White House first? And maybe spend a day sorting it all out?
My political junkie/baseball-obsessed roommate now refers to President-elect Obama as the Jackie Robinson of politics.
I just hope that in a few months, when we continue to face these same challenges, we can all take a step back from this unrealistic euphoria and realize that the president-elect is up against problems that were created during at least eight years, which cannot easily be solved in four.
The best way I can explain this is to combine the two things I love most – dating and politics. Obama is basically the man of my dreams. He is wickedly intelligent, dangerously handsome and overwhelmingly confident. And all I can do is hope that these butterflies are actually real and that these wonderful promises won’t add to a landfill of historic lies. But no matter what, he will still always be better than the last guy.

Proposition 8. Now there’s a topic.
Here’s what I can’t understand. I know I was raised by two amazing liberal ladies, my mother and grandmother, who believe in equality for all, and that may have influenced my “why do you feel the need to stop gay people from marrying?” attitude, but when the poll numbers were showing, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
Why would that many Californians feel the need to stop two people from marriage?
Ah! I get it. You don’t think they deserve the right to an equally miserable marriage? It would just be too painful and you don’t think gay people should go through that. As a child of divorce, I understand your consideration.
You also don’t think they should have the same right to raise children who will inevitably carry on the same mistakes you taught them as children? Messing up kids is only for straight people. You’re right.
Two married men would surely have a higher combined income than a man and woman. And two gay men would surely have better fashion sense, too. I guess the idea of married, rich, well-dressed gay men settling down behind white picket fences is just too intimidating for us? How could we keep up with those Joneses, huh?
Oh. That isn’t it?
It must have something to do with money. But, statistically, married people are more likely to buy homes and settle in a housing community, instead of renting. And married entities pay more taxes than a single person. Sounds to me like more money for Uncle Sam.
I know, I know. It’s the Bible. The Old Testament states that homosexuality is “detestable.”
The Old Testament also asks you to make “burnt offerings” on a consistent basis. Hope you’ve been keeping up with that, along with your Comcast bill.
The Old Testament has regulations on mildew, stating that any mildewed article of clothing must be shown to a priest and then isolated for seven days. Let me know your priest’s reaction this Sunday when you hand him your mildewed clothing for it’s necessary incubation. (Leviticus, Chapter 14, Verse 7)
Does it sound like the Old Testament is strictly relevant to today’s society?
Before you tell me that gay people are going to hell, let me tell you about a boy who was part of my Christian youth group in high school. He deemed me hell-bound after I joined a sorority. I guess sororities weren’t in the Old Testament either. Damn.
Now, he wasn’t perfect, but every time he had an “un-Christian” moment in the sheets with his girlfriend, he would just fast to make up for it.
Well, there you go. You can be gay! You just can’t eat!
Before you tell me I’m going to hell, let me say that as a Christian, I feel no right to cast judgments on others. Who gave me that right? I am in no position to say what is right or wrong for an individual in the eyes of God. I am only human. And so are you.
An amazing friend I met while studying in France happens to be gay. And religious. When I asked him if he struggled with his faith because of his sexual orientation, he said, “I am right with my God.”
I can’t stand here and make judgments on your religious beliefs, because I don’t understand them. I don’t feel the right to criticize the beliefs of something I know nothing about. And I don’t feel the need to discriminate against people that may be different from myself.
And that is why I don’t need to stop gay people from having the same chance of married life that I do. And my beliefs are right with my God.

Instant gratification. Dating in a world where everything is right at your fingertips. Even the term dating is … outdated.
We’ve been programmed to always want the newer model, trading in, upgrading any time we can. Girls in their twenties are working more toward boob jobs than bachelor’s degrees. Why do we all feel like we need to look like the next Victoria Secret model?
While men are quickly being surrounded by silicone, I’m quickly being surrounded by receding hairlines. If I’m being judged by my bra size, why is it OK with me if he doesn’t have a full head of hair?
Being a “playa” isn’t just for Biggie and P Diddy anymore. It’s the status quo. Most boys just like to play games. Board games, video games, athletic games. They even like to play house on occasion, play respectful gentlemen for a night or two, or even play “vacationship” for a few days.
But that’s it. They play it, and then they get bored and they need to play something else.
Sure, some of them put in more work than others, opening doors, taking you to dinner, showering you with compliments and those wonderful empty promises. But just like the inevitable need for the latest Xbox, or that Nintendo Wii I hear guys talk about more than Jessica Alba in a swimsuit, soon enough there will be an inevitable need for a new girl to play with.
And I know boys aren’t the only ones suffering from this Instant Gratification Plague.
How can anyone ever keep up? How do couples begin their relationship without that dark gray cloud of “other possibilities” constantly hovering above them?
I saw a sign in a home goods store that read, “And they lived happily ever after.” Just walking past it gave me chills. Who in this world has the unreasonable optimism to put that up in their house? The same house where one day you might come home, after several years and endless fights, to find out that the two of you aren’t in love anymore. Or that maybe you never were.
We’ve all been raised on those classic Disney fairytales, but if you look at the divorce rate, we’re obviously not living them.
The obsession to have everything has left us with an inability to focus on any one thing. Isn’t it fair to say this attention deficit has carried over to our relationships as well?
What do you do when your desire to achieve everything leaves you with no desire for what you already have? And can you ever have a future with someone who is constantly consumed by a craving of excessive achievement, which will always lead to a feeling of under-satisfaction?
And in this world of instant gratification, surely the perpetual power struggles of tallying up each other’s gives and takes will eventually become too tiring. Isn’t this supposed to be easy? But for how many people was it actually easy?
That line from the movie “The Mexican” always pops up in my mind, “When two people really love each other, when is enough, enough?”
In today’s world, I think enough is enough the minute things get tough. There is always a newer, more exciting, and easier version that will hit the market. We’re just not in it for “to have and to hold, till death due us part.”
I’m ready to hear you all prove this retired, hopeless romantic wrong.

Chrissy Ramoneda, staff writer

You can see why I’ve given up dating… it leads to disappointment.

But, for whatever the reasons, here I was, an hour before meeting time, forcing myself into the shower. At the last second, I panicked, stating out loud, “I just don’t want to do this. I have homework I’d rather do.” But there was my mom, literally walking me to my car, telling me I had to get out there because I hadn’t “had enough dates yet.”

Humph.

Well, I’ll tell you, the guy from Fresh Choice who sucked each of my fingers during our movie date? I would’ve called him to pick me up from this one.

Warning signs: Now, when a guy you’ve only conversed with a few times via Myspace (I know, I know…) starts text messaging you the minute he gets your phone number about taking a trip to Napa Valley, you should be concerned.

Foolishly, being a girl who can never get the “game” right, I misread it as a womanizing tactic instead of insanity.

We meet for dinner, he has a single red rose for me… cheesy, but I’m supposed to be open to this Kamikaze mission. So I try.

We order. He talks. And talks. Only stopping, periodically, to rejoice when the WORST songs begin to play. My heart plummets.

Somewhere during his entire life story, while I’ve been fascinating myself with dipping broccoli into a cup of ranch dressing for what seems like an eternity, he asks, “So, when do you run on campus?”

I weakly respond, “Oh, it’s different every day.”

“Well, tell me. What is it?”

I reluctantly give him the six-day schedule. Enthusiastically, he informs me that he can run with me every Tuesday and Thursday. (I was unaware I’d sent out an invitation.)

Then he starts talking about his demanding sports practice schedule, and the rigorous workouts that are required. He stops, mid-sentence, realizing that he “can run with me Wednesday too,” because that’s his day off.

I, needless to say, am overjoyed.

Conversation continues (on his end), until it winds up leading to family issues. (His.)

“Things have been kind of bad lately. It was pretty tipsy turvy before I left. It’s a long story, so I won’t get into it tonight.” Brief pause, during which I thank God for forgiving me for all the Sundays He’s missed me in the pews… and then, “Well, I might as well.”

The topic, which I won’t punish you with entirely, had to do with such things as adultery, financial obligations, family businesses, and new sleeping arrangements.

When I think it’s finally over, he then says, “Oh, and I have a sister too. She’s twenty and just had a baby. They live in our backyard, because she can’t hold a job and her boyfriend is a convicted felon.”

Unable to hide my shock, he comforts me with, “In the boonies I live in, my entire family is wanted for arrest, but the cops can never find them because they all live in shacks with no addresses.”

That must make for one hell of a reunion.

At this point, realizing the obvious (that too much unwanted information has been shared), I begin darting my eyes around the restaurant, searching for Ashton Kutcher. (Perhaps, only out of sheer denial.) Not ready to accept the rapidly growing odds of my becoming the “cat lady” who finds egocentric felines to be more endearing than male companionship, I am now embracing the idea of being “Punk’d.” Ashton never shows.

Note: It is not that we don’t want your family history. We’re all dysfunctional. But maybe that shouldn’t be shared on the first date. In fact, maybe holding out until the double digits is the best idea.

But the date continues. He asks me about a movie I’ve never seen. Then, he leans back into the booth, puts one arm up, and says, “Great, we’ll run 3 days a week, I’ll cook you dinner once a week (because I’m a great cook) and we’ll have a movie night. I have quite the collection.”

Looks like I need to throw that trusty day planner out the window because the days that make up my week have quickly become full. He’s too enthralled with his own voice to realize I’ve never once agreed to any of our new “rituals.”

He mentions that he’s been single his entire 22 years of life and he has no idea why. I would’ve offered him some feedback but I never got a chance to speak.

Next, the topic moves to his mother. Now, this could’ve been a great move… if done properly.

He describes her as five feet tall and full of life, always wearing neon colors. I can’t help but smile. Then… “But, you’ll see her this spring. She goes to all my games, and I’ll make you go too.”

Really?

As he chatters away, he mentions a Christmas gift that brought tears to her eyes. I mention that shopping for my mom is the best feeling because I can never go wrong.

He exclaims, “Let’s go shopping for our moms’ Christmas gifts together!”

“Ummm… It’s not even Halloween yet. We’re on our first date. And you’re scaring me,” is what the brave little voice in my head states.

I cringe.

Additional side note: Making plans is a quality most guys are lacking in. Throughout the last three years, having a guy say, “So, we’re having some fat kegs at our house tonight; there’s supposed to be like 300 people. You gonna run through?” has been the closest thing to setting up an intimate evening. It’d be great to have a guy arrange some plans with you, say, before 10 pm the night of, but making plans for Holidays that are over two months away the same night you meet them? Too much.

Finally, not through the grace of God, but because of Applebee’s closing hours, the date ends. Or it would have if he hadn’t text messaged me the entire way home.

I cancel the “running date” for the following day and let him know I won’t be able to go the next day either. But still the phone calls and text messages continue, with me repeating my cancellations.

I’m sitting here, wondering if anyone else has reached this point. Feeling like love is its own food chain… you eat someone, and someone bigger eats you. I’ve only been able to attract two types of guys. The ones who have your unborn children named while you’re running for the Witness Protection program… or the ones who are charming the pants off you (figuratively?) while you wait in line as they charm everyone else as well. When their (short) attention span moves on, maybe this “gentleman” will offer to walk you to your car (some guys have a “block or more rule” before they do this… ) and then it’s time for the next “lucky” girl to be called.

Neither type of boy seems to be working for me.

Is middle ground really such a mystery? Is being over 6 feet tall and fabulous so impossible? Why are they always one or the other?

Sometimes, through all the classes, textbooks, and midterms, I feel like there’s only one important concept to learn. It’s the same one I learned in kindergarten – that you can’t fit a square into a circle.

Yet all this time, I still find myself trying.

That being said – I’m in love with Nora Ephron.

Yes.

Truly, madly, deeply. In love. And I have been ever since I can remember. Just the mere sight of her name: Nora Ephron, and my eyes well up, as a smile beams across my face. It’s uncontrollable admiration.

I watched “When Harry Met Sally” in the theater. I was five years old and definitely the youngest person in the audience. During Meg Ryan’s infamous orgasm imitation scene, as the theater filled with laughter, this tiny five year old girl let out the loudest, longest chuckle as well. And suddenly, in utter shock, the theater went silent.

Years later, I watch that same scene, and still laugh just as hard. And now I understand it.

Every word Nora writes is poetry. Painfully honest, hysterically funny, real-life poetry. She can make a casual statement about her own purse and it will be so inspirational it’s worth engraving onto a plaque and then mounting above your non-existent fireplace.

That’s how amazing she is.

When I find myself confronted with a situation I can’t handle, I stop and think, “What would Nora do? How would she have this scene play out?”

Reading one of her books once is not enough. There’s too much wit hiding beneath every sentence. You have to truly absorb it, make sure each word soaks in.

For the first of several connections during my flight to France I brought “I Feel Bad About my Neck” in my carryon. Just before take-off I got up, pulled it out of the stow-away and kept it in my lap. For the entire flight. Sometime during that six-hour journey, the woman next to me asked, “Are you ever going to read your book?”

I answered, “I already have. I just like to have it with me.” From her incredulous glance, I was sure she’d never read it. And I was right. But I have a feeling she has now. And that she has it nearby, ready to clutch in a potential moment of need.

The only DVD I packed for my four-month French adventure was “When Harry Met Sally”. My first Nora film, and still my favorite after all these years of cinema. I don’t know how I could think that only one of her films would get me through four months. But don’t worry. I called my mom. She mailed “Sleepless in Seattle” and “You’ve Got Mail” today. It’ll take 7-9 days. I keep telling myself I can make it that long.

I started reading “I Feel Bad About my Neck” again, during one of my many relaxing, rainy days in France. I’m trying to take it slow, really savor it as a delicious treat. I only have two chapters left before the third go around. And it just keeps getting better.

Love is blind. You can think you would jump in front of a moving train for someone, and a few years later, you can find yourself sitting there, trying to put together a list of what you loved so much about that person. Your mind goes blank. Nothing.

And unrequited love is just a bore. One-sided love leaves you with nothing but time-consuming daydreams and empty heartache. Loving someone who will never love you back not only makes you feel depressingly anonymous, but simultaneously, and somewhat ironically, it is also exhausting.

I don’t recommend it. But if you choose to venture into the lost battle of a blinded, unrequited love, please make it worth it. Someone who may not know you’re alive but is definitely worth that jump in front of a train.

Because Nora is worth it. And when relationships fail, when I’ve been betrayed to a point unbearable, when I feel like all love is lost in this world, I will always have Nora. I will carry this torch of true love forever, knowing the flame will never die.

Nora, you may feel bad about your neck, but I think it is positively lovely. A neck I will live my whole life trying to live up to. So throw out those turtlenecks. And hold your head up with pride.

A few days ago I spotted a wrinkle on my forehead, and although I haven’t been able to locate it since, I know it’s out there, somewhere, just waiting to make it’s next appearance. After a severe anxiety attack where my young life flashed right before my (what seem to be rapidly aging) eyes, I knew it was imperative to begin treatment with the latest products available. Driving home, forty dollars lighter, I started to wonder what the world would be like if everyone stopped being so concerned with appearance.

Would relationships last longer if there were no concept of ugly or beautiful? Wives would no longer have to stress if they don’t lose all the weight after having a baby, girls wouldn’t have to continue buying the latest fashions and make-up products in order to keep that new boy’s interest, guys wouldn’t have to begin extensive therapy the minute they see a strand of hair in the sink and I wouldn’t be having a panic attack over an imaginary wrinkle.

Everyday, thousands of people seek out plastic surgery to try and improve their appearance. Botox treatments are easier to arrange than getting an appointment for a manicure. T.V. shows like “Nip / Tuck” and “The Swan” are all the rage. I plead guilty.

I was one of the millions of people, along with half the girls in my sorority, who were crowded around the television set, scolding that one girl for never wearing her face wrap after her plastic surgery. What brought all those girls to the point where they had to become contestants for a show that breaks you down just to build you up again into something society will consider more “attractive?”

Even my friends have been affected by this new epidemic. My longtime friend Heather, who happens to be gorgeous and just won a spot in a modeling competition, is convinced that she’ll only really be beautiful after she has a nose job. A nose job she doesn’t even need. My friend Leah, wising up to the collectively plummeting self esteem all across the nation, has planned a very profitable career as a plastic surgeon. Just as doctors will always have sick patients, plastic surgeons will always have people who are certain they need to correct the slightest imperfection.

At first I wondered why Shrek was able to make millions in the box office. This little cartoon movie was all the rage and I just couldn’t understand why. After seeing it, I realized why Americans cling to the movie. It’s the real fairy tale.

Not the kind where perfect Cinderella meets her equally perfect Prince Charming and they live happily ever after. It’s where Princess Fiona meets her ogre and realizes that what’s on the outside isn’t important; it’s what’s on the inside that really counts. She doesn’t want the gorgeous, wealthy Prince Charming, because he’s just a self-absorbed jerk who would never be able to comprehend the concept of real love.

Even in Shrek 2, when Shrek feels that he’s too ugly for Fiona and goes on a destructive mission to change his appearance, the message remains clear; Fiona loves him for the person he is, not the ogre he appears to be.

But Shrek is just an animated movie. Could we all act as Fiona did? I don’t know if I could fall in love with a giant green monster. (Although, let me tell you, I’ve come pretty close a few too many times.) Maybe the reason so many relationships and marriages don’t last is because they begin on such a superficial level.

You go for the hottest guy at the party or in the bar, but maybe Mr. Right is the one standing in the corner; you know, the one standing by himself, a little too skinny, a little too fat, a little too dorky, just not your type. I think maybe, this next time, I’m going to make it a point to go for the guy at the party that just isn’t my type because my “type” doesn’t always turn out to be so great. I’ll find my ogre instead.

I think it’s true that people become more attractive after you get to know them. It definitely proves the Shrekerian theory because once you get to know the inside and you like it, the outside starts to look even better as well.

One thing is certain; life is too short to be worrying about little wrinkles. And although I can’t stop the reoccurring nightmares of having a giant prune for a head, age is part of beauty and it’s going to happen to all of us no matter what creams we spackle religiously on our faces every night. It’s the cycle of life. I might as well embrace it.

Chrissy Bryant is a sophomore at San Jose State University. She writes A College View about local college life and things that catch her fancy. Contact Chrissy at editormh@morganhill-times.com

The summer before my first year of college hasn’t exactly been what I’d hoped. From the very beginning it was off to a rough start. In one month, I lost sight of myself, my importance, my happiness, and I had the painful realization that someone I believed to be a close and important friend was actually never one in the first place.

But, after gaining more perspective from it all, I can see that it was an important lesson in life. It sparked something inside of me and made me crave change. A change in myself, and my life. And it gave me an even more powerful determination for my life goals. I was suddenly aware of the precious time I’d wasted when I could’ve been doing so much more.

I started writing my message that night and it turned into a list of personal goals. Things that I will accomplish within the next five years, while I’m in college and also during my lifetime. A list of all the changes I suddenly want and need.

When I finished it, I felt like it would be a shame if it never washed ashore and the little fishies in the ocean were the only ones who would ever read it. So … instead, it has washed up onto your front porch, or depending on your paperboy’s aim, underneath your car, in your rose garden or on your neighbor’s lawn.

My Message in A Bottle

I will graduate from college with a master’s degree in journalism, if not from Columbia University, then from SJSU. I always pictured myself graduating from Columbia, living in a studio apartment and writing a column for the New York Times, but, at the same time, I picture myself staying in California, living in a beach house and writing for the Mercury News. Partly because I’m way too much of a flip-flop person and I look funny in turtlenecks.

I will be happy. I will smile more. I will always remember where I came from. I will love my body. I will love my soul. I will put others before myself. I will follow my spiritual path instead of running away from it.

I will cook an entire Thanksgiving dinner for my family. I always help my mom, but I want to know the feeling of cooking the entire meal without any help. Plus, I’m sure mom would like a break after being responsible for it for 20 years.

I will fall in love with someone who loves me just as much. I will not settle for less than I deserve. I will be brave. I will do more community service. I will own a puppy, even though I am allergic.

I will be more selective about whom I give my cell phone number to. I will try not to text message during my classes. I will play my flute every week. I will always keep in touch with the handful of important friends who have meant so much in my life. I will make someone else feel special. I will cry less.

I will buy clothes from second-hand stores. My best friend Katie always finds the coolest clothes at garage sales and stores like Goodwill and I always thought she was crazy to buy clothes worn by other people she didn’t know. But after experiencing the sheer joy of shopping in her closet this entire summer, I realized she might be onto something. We plan to go on a giant, used-clothes, shopping spree together before we start college.

I will be kinder to my mom. I will be stronger. I will have a closer relationship with my dad. I will have a bigger heart. I will eat more tofu. I will still worry about others. I will take more bubble baths. I will write poetry. I will always take time to smell the roses. I will never be too old for Disneyland. I will make sure everyone knows how important they are to me. I will make a difference.

I will go skinny dipping in Anderson Lake. I know, I know. But honestly, everyone has to do it at least once in their life, right?

I will play my guitar instead of letting it collect more dust. In ninth grade, I insisted that I had to have a guitar for Christmas. I think it’s been sitting in the same spot since that Christmas morning.

I will run more. I will learn to surf. I will look up at the stars. I will be wiser. I will always love movies with Meg Ryan. I will learn to dance. I will no longer be ashamed that I secretly listen to country music. I will visit Italy and ride in a gondola. I will continue to discover how amazing my grandma is and learn from her.

I will see the penguins at the zoo. I love penguins, and apparently a penguin searches its whole life for that one special penguin and once a penguin finds its penguin mate, it stays with it forever. And when one of them dies, the other one just waddles around alone instead of finding another penguin to hook up with. I don’t know if it’s true but it sounds adorable.

I will buy fewer clothes and shoes. Even I will admit that my closet is a little ridiculous. I’ve already had to replace two closet rods because they broke from being overloaded and the floor is an avalanche of shoes, many of which I have no intention of wearing.

I will laugh more. I will sing in the rain. I will eat octopus. I will learn self-defense. I will go to San Francisco more. I will see and hear the ocean once a week. I will recycle. I will always remember the important things. I will be even closer to my brother.

I will dance the tango in a red, frilly dress with high heels. Yeah, I know. That only happens in movies and I’m going to look really funny doing it in my living room. But I can’t resist the urge.

I will be more outgoing. I will go back to Paris. I didn’t get to see the Louvre when I was there last time. I will realize that letting go takes courage but it is not closing a door, it is opening one. I will no longer be afraid to let go. I will strive to make my writing meaningful. I will be blonde forever. I will cherish the memories I have. I will make more wonderful memories. I will live every moment like it’s my last. I will have fun. I will be a better person.

Chrissy Bryant
Chrissy Bryant is freshman at San Jose State University. She will write A College View about local college life. Contact Chrissy at editormh@morganhilltimes.com or (408) 779-4106.