You Will Actually Have To Work Hard To Get There

"I don't want to move all the way there, have no job, and have to live in my car!"

"I did."

"But it's so far away -- halfway across the country -- and it scares me sometimes."

"Excuse me? Do you know who you're talking to? And when I moved here, there was no Internet!"

Arguing with Kate has never proven itself to be a very successful, worthwhile activity to me. Especially not when I know that she's right (which accounts for about nine out of every ten of our arguments). Kate and I have both come to know that eventually, a few weeks after she suggests something to me, I will usually decide she was right and do whatever it was she told me to do.

I usually call Kate "my academic advisor" when people ask me who she is, but my rightful academic advisor is really some person who sits in an office in the basement of the business school and tells freshmen what classes they need to take. I honestly couldn't even tell you which advisor is assigned to my student ID number. That's because over the course of the last three years, every time I've had a question pertaining to the university, my major, or any future career options I may have, I've always just sent Kate a Facebook message immediately after the question occurs to me. (Usually there is an abundance of follow-up questions included, and the questions always seem to come to me frantically sometime after midnight.)

In reality, when I met Kate, she was the Assistant Dean of the business school. She has a long list of esteemed credentials and titles to her name, but most importantly to me, Kate is the woman who saw some flicker of potential in me as a sassy, seventeen-year-old high school senior when I entered a scholarship competition all the way back in 2011; and she is one of the people responsible for choosing me as the recipient of an extremely helpful sum of scholarship money to finance my college education. In essence, one could reasonably say Kate is the reason why I am at WSU.

As I mentioned, Kate has known me since I was seventeen. I am now closing in on twenty-two. I cannot emphasize enough how much a person changes over the span of those five years. I will also say, that for better or for worse, Kate is at least partially responsible for some of those changes. As I have grown and changed since the day we met in November 2011, so too, has our relationship.

The one constant that I secretly hope will never change, however, is that Kate doesn't put up with any of my shit. She has heard all of my excuses about how I am afraid of being a real adult, how I despise math and hated all of those required business calculus and statistics classes, how I love my on-campus job and don't want to push myself to find an internship which will pay better. And she has tolerated absolutely zero of all of it. There have been times when I have been highly irritated with her pushing me to do something I was simply too lazy or unwilling to do, just as I know there have been times when she has rolled her eyes at my lazy unwillingness and known, to herself, that at some point in the future when I finally decided to agree with her, I would do it. She is one of the only people I've ever met, besides perhaps my own mother, whose stubbornness contends with my own.

The particular conversation we were having on this day was one we have had many times, in many forms: what am I going to do after I graduate? I can tell you what I want to do after I graduate. And Kate has told me endless times that she knows I can do what I want to do after I graduate. The only remaining piece of the puzzle is connecting point A to point B, crossing my fingers, and hoping it all works out.

I want to move to Boston. I want to work for a publication -- no particular one, but one that fits my views, naturally, be it writing about feminism, travel, international peace and humanitarianism, or be it researching consumer behavior and target markets in the publication production industry. Beyond those two goals, I really just want to be able to afford an apartment (probably with a roommate), buy cute clothes at Target, and maybe visit my family in Kansas on Christmas. They are certainly not uncommon or grandiose goals, but from the perspective of a recent college graduate moving alone 1,625 miles away from her birthplace with relatively little money saved and impending student loan payments due in six months, every day these goals feel daunting. The goals are simple: Move to Boston. Work for a publication. Simple, although not easy.

You know how earlier I said Kate is sort of like my academic advisor? Well, she's also sort of like my free therapist. For the umpteenth time, I was whining and crying to her about how I was terrified of being poor and alone with no job prospects in my dream city, and she ruthlessly shut me down. You see, one thing I also forgot to mention earlier about Kate is that she was born in Taiwan. In addition to naturally possessing a high amount of tough love, she further feels no pity for me moving a few states away to Massachusetts because she moved halfway across the world to another country and learned another language, while working multiple jobs and putting herself through college to eventually become a professional businesswoman -- all by herself. So I guess it really comes as no surprise that she wants to smack me sometimes. I would have done it by now, if I were her.

So, this discussion we were having about me moving to Boston was going in about the same circles as usual:

"I want to move to Boston."

"Then move!"

"But I'm scared."

"Scared of what?"

"Being poor."

"Then get a big girl job now and save your money."

"But I love my job."

"Then get another."

"But I don't have time for one!"

"Well, I don't know what to tell you."

"Ugghhh but Kate!"

*silently purses lips and gives me motherly side-eye*

And this is how it goes. See? I told you I would've smacked me by now.

That conversation is actually what sparked me writing this very blog. When I told her I was afraid of having no money and having to live in my car, she told me that she had done that very thing before, as if it were just an expected part of the struggle I was knowingly signing myself up for by falling in love with a big city. Then, when I started complaining about being so far away from my family and friends, she was rightfully appalled, because she also did that very thing back in 1990 (pre-Internet, as she reminded me). Then she said, "Write about that! Talk about your struggle, because I promise you, there are a lot of other college students standing in your shoes right now. They will relate!"

We had this conversation two weeks ago. And here I am now, delayed long enough to make the decision on my own, typing away because Kate told me to. Just like clockwork. (Although, the blog intended to be about the college struggle has actually materialized as a blog about Kate, instead.)

When I think about the situation from Kate's perspective, I shake my head at myself because I realize just how privileged and lazy I am. Kate worked much harder to get where she is today than I am working to get to Boston by this time next year. I think that's just it though: I didn't realize that I am going to have to actually work hard for it. Of course it's going to be hard. If it were easy, it wouldn't mean as much. If it were comfortable, it wouldn't make me grow.

Kate chose me as a finalist so many years ago because I demonstrated something to her that made her feel I was a good investment. I have never asked her what that was, and I don't plan on doing so. I prefer it remain a mystery for my own imagination. But I can tell you this: whatever it was that I had, I'm sure glad I had it. I am so grateful that Kate liked what she saw and that she extended her hand to me, on the behalf of some very generous scholarship donors, to pull me up and help me through college, thus making possible all the experiences that come with it.

Now I don't know this for sure, and I don't want to put words into anyone's mouth, but I'm betting that Kate didn't have a Kate when she was in college. Most people are not lucky enough to have a Kate in college, someone whose tough love and persistence supports and pushes them throughout the entire process. I would wager to guess that she was not the recipient of such a benevolent gesture as I was when I was awarded that scholarship package. I don't think she has ever had anything handed to her. That's not to imply that I have had things handed to me, or to say that I haven't known my own fair share of struggles, either. But it certainly puts things into perspective for me and makes me think hard about how badly I want to move to Boston and what I will have to do to get there.

There comes a point in time when a flower outgrows its limited environment, and it needs to be transplanted from its small pot into a bigger garden so its roots can continue to expand, stretching out like cramped legs to gather nutrients to provide the plant with life, otherwise it faces a slow and painful death. If I don't take advantage of my opportunity to grow and develop in a bigger environment, staying where I am will stifle my desire to leave and eventually it will permanently stunt my growth. My roots are smothered and crowded and itching to break free of the pot into which I have been crammed for so long. I need to find nutrients in a bigger garden in order to sustain my life.

I want to move to Boston. I have to move to Boston. I need to get out of Kansas. I know that I am capable of feeling more fulfilled than I do here. I know that people are capable of better understanding me than they do here. I want to reach the high of euphoria again that being in a place I love so much brings with it, and which is impossible for me to ascertain here. I have to go explore what is out there waiting for me, otherwise I will never know.

I have always been one to do what I want. The more I want it, the more likely I am to do it -- and more quickly. I will do anything I have to in order to get what I want. Both of my parents can attest that I have been this way since I was a child. It is intrinsic to who I am.

Even with my vast vocabulary, I cannot adequately explain how badly I want to move to Boston. So, if working hard is what it takes to get me what I want, then I am going to do it, quick and with a passion. Especially when I stop and think about how much harder Kate worked when she was in similar shoes.

I remember during one of the presentations at that scholarship competition in 2011, somebody told us, "Kate is here to help you. But she doesn't come to you. If you need help, you go to Kate." Well, I've gone to Kate for help more times than I can count. And she has endlessly given me her help when I've asked for it. She has shared her knowledge and experience with me for years, trying to guide a stubborn girl in the right direction.

And now, eight months from graduation, I guess it would be a pretty good time for me to think about doing what she tells me. After all, I wasn't selected as a finalist because she thought I wouldn't listen or work hard for what I want. She knows what she's talking about when it comes to all of this, because not too long ago, she worked hard to make it on her own very similar journey. Thankfully, I will still have a Facebook connection for when I run into late night identity crises and career catastrophes in Boston.

What Happened When I Followed My Heart

I have spent a lot of my life doing what other people want me to do. I have spent so much time adhering to the expectations placed before me, the loose guidelines of what any number of things is supposed to look like: success, happiness, inner peace, a good role model, a worthy scholarship recipient... Without even realizing it, my life has been plagued with these ideas of what I am supposed to be and the things I am supposed to attain.

Now, I realize my life is much easier than that of a lot of people. I do not discount that fact, nor take it for granted. However, I am able to clearly notice the small, yet meaningful, differences in my own consciousness when I am doing something for someone else as opposed to when I am doing it for myself.

Some people -- okay, a lot of people -- would say I have a bad attitude. They would say I am negative, pessimistic, and always complaining about something. It's true. Other people -- fewer people -- would say that I have a positive attitude, compassion, wonderful insight, and plenty of big ideas to offer this world. For the longest time, I was conflicted by those two opposing opinions of who I am. How on earth can one person be perceived in such polarizing ways by others?

Then I paused for a moment to examine what it was these people saw in me. I stepped out of my shoes and into theirs and I tried to imagine myself through their eyes. If I were to ask these people what it is I am always so unhappy about, what would they say? I can create a list of my most common complaints from my own memory: being stared at by strangers, inconsiderate co-workers, lazy classmates, being talked down to, and having too much homework. All in all, not unreasonable irritations.

All right, but what about the other people who would say I am a hopeful beacon of light for the future? If they were asked what it is that makes me so great, what would they say? The compliments I receive most often include: being mature and professional for my age, being intelligent, giving solid advice, being inclusive, and being able to see things from another perspective.

Now, perhaps the most important question: who are these people? Who are the people in my life that seem to think I am nothing more than a Negative Nancy? Conversely, who are the people who see the raw material I'm working with and encourage me to mold it into something more? What positions do all of these people hold in my life and why do I even listen to them, anyway?

This is when I understood the reason why I was so disappointed by trying to live up to the expectations of others. Each individual person expects something entirely different from me. By worrying so much about having good relationships with so many different people in my life, I neglected to have a good relationship with myself.

The people who have made me feel badly for being "too negative" are greater in quantity, but noticeably less in quality. They are acquaintances, co-workers, classmates, and even strangers I encounter in passing, who know only the surface of my life. They comment on what little behavior they witness from me, and they honest-to-goodness believe they have me all figured out: I complain too much and I'm so unhappy and I am always angry or in a bad mood. (Do you know what actually makes me unhappy? Feeling the need to defend my happiness against people who barely took any time at all to know me before judging me.)

On the other hand, when I think of the times I have had awe-inspiring, hopeful, optimistic conversations about the future, I think of an entirely different caliber of human being. I think of teachers, mentors, parental figures, and even a few very close friends. These are the people with whom I have discussed my worries about today and my plans for tomorrow. They are the ones who have taken the time and interest to more closely observe some of the things that make me tick; they're people who have read what I wrote or heard what I said and understood with a single look into my heart and mind that I had it (whatever it is), and then pushed me to be more.

Because of all the ambivalence I felt from such opposing forces, I was unsure for a while even who I was. Was I this mean, hateful person that so many people painted a picture of? Was I an insightful, wise-beyond-her-years, eclectic individual with something deep within her soul that stirred the interest of kindred spirits? Or did I fall somewhere in the middle and fluctuate slightly between good and bad days? I didn't really know for sure, and it resulted in a miniature identity crisis for me, at the age of 21. (Which, granted, is a better age for a crisis than 45, when I'd probably have many more long-term commitments.) So many people wanted me to be so many different things. But what did I want myself to be? Through all this struggling, I was able to find some answers by myself.

You see, I was so preoccupied with worrying about these two very different perceptions of my personality, that I forgot to take into account one very important opinion on the matter: my own. I became so worried about why I might seem bitter and cold to a mere acquaintance, or if I were falling short of the exemplary mark set for me by a mentor, that I failed to leave enough time and energy for me to examine how my personality was measuring up to qualities that I valued.

I can't pinpoint an exact moment when it happened, and I can't even tell you the exact sequence of events that led up to it, but there was a moment in time when I just quit. I didn't quit listening, I didn't quit trying, and I didn't quit caring about the people in my life. What I did quit, was concerning myself so much with the validity of others' opinions. I quit caring more about how they perceived me than about how I perceived myself.

In that moment, I stood up for myself. I realized that what was in my heart was the only thing with any true consistency -- the only thing that really mattered -- and I decided I would give following that a chance, instead. It occurred to me that I was always going to let someone down if I kept trying to please so many different audiences, so I might as well try to please the one audience I knew best: me.

I didn't know where else to start, so I just asked myself, "what do you want, Alyssa?" My heart answered, and I made sure to listen closely. It spoke softly to me about all of the glorious, adventurous, beautiful things it wanted to see and feel. After it was finished whispering many splendored things to me, I started with the smallest, easiest item on the list: writing.

I had procrastinated accomplishing anything at all with my writing for months, and I had made excuses for myself about how busy I was with my life. I let other things (albeit credible things like class, work, and family) dictate my actions. I did not make time for what my heart really needed. I had not been listening to my own desires, and I had suffered because of it. But that was about to change.

I sat down one afternoon, and I wrote. I applied to publication after publication, and I sent several different samples of my work into numerous websites which I had previously scouted. And when I was finished, I felt so good about myself. I felt accomplished, like I had just crossed something very heavy off of my heart's to-do list... finally.

A few short days later, when I began to receive email responses with positive answers from those publications, I was absolutely elated. My heart was so happy and I felt so pleased with myself, because I knew that I had made this happen. I was the one who had done the hard work which earned me this reward. Because I chose to finally listen to myself and value my own opinion above others, I took action toward my dreams and I had now reaped the fruit of my labor. I did it all by myself and I was beyond proud.

This is what happens when you follow your heart. It applies to every area of your life: personal, professional, academic, and even athletic. When you act based on your own heart's wishes, you will be happy with the results. As soon as I stopped allowing the perceptions of others to set boundaries and expectations for me, I opened myself up to endless possibilities for joy with a horizon limited only by my own imagination. I reminded myself that I don't have to impress anyone else, fans or critics alike. I always took for granted that I knew this before, but society has a nasty way of creeping up on you and ingraining things into your mind before you are even aware it's taking place.

I think that's what happened to me. I spent so much time listening to so many mixed messages from everyone else, that I lost myself among the noise. The only thing louder than all that racket was the consistent, steady beating of my own heart. I chose to focus on it, and soon its reverberation rose above all the external static, until eventually it was the only sound I could hear.

Friend or foe, the opinions of others are irrelevant to your existence. You are the only one living your life; and ultimately, you are the only one affected by the decisions you make. So save yourself some stress and follow the instructions written on your heart. They are the words that will lead you exactly to the place where you are most happy. They have always been there, and that's where they will remain, for you to fall back on when the commotion of everyone else becomes too loud.

Why I'm Absolutely Unafraid To Travel Alone

I like to do things alone. I like to be alone. I always have to some extent, and I probably always will. Don't get me wrong, I do not dislike people and I have no fear of interacting with others -- quite the opposite, really. I love fiercely and I am not known to shy away from extensive conversation. I just enjoy the quiet and space to be myself -- to be with myself -- that being alone brings with it. I have learned that it is easiest for me to listen to myself when I have few outside distractions. And boy, is listening to myself ever important.

Like being alone, I am also contented to travel. Anywhere, anytime, by any means. I relish discovering new things, and I revel in the sphere of possibility that comes with moving about unexplored places in this world. To me, the allure of travel is simple: I can explore anywhere my heart desires and I can have any adventure I decide. Traveling is simultaneously a way to exercise control over your life, as well as a way to lose total control.

Travel allows you to control your life because of the small bit of planning it necessitates. Booking a plane ticket, saving up money, and packing your bags are all things that require long-term awareness and self-discipline. On the other hand, delayed flights, lost wallets, language barriers, and unfamiliar public transportation systems all demand patience and composure as things that are totally out of your control directly affect you. I have experienced both some of the most peaceful and most stressful moments of my life while traveling. That's the beauty of it. You really never know ahead of time what is going to happen and what lessons you are going to learn. The only guarantee is that something will happen and you will learn a lesson. The latitude to decide exactly what that may be is between yourself and the universe.

So I guess it shouldn't really come as a surprise that someone who enjoys her alone time, and who has learned the importance of listening to her heart and tuning into her own consciousness, finds traveling alone to be one of the greatest joys life has to offer.

When I'm alone, I can decide where I want to go, what I want to eat, and what I am going to do next. Perhaps this is a selfish aspiration, but I am entitled to take care of my own well-being, and for me, solitude offers a nurturing quality that allows me to do just that. In my experience, you become most yourself when you are traveling, because your comfort zone is transient and you don't exactly have time to create the superfluous projections of yourself that the cushion of everyday life affords you. So, being most myself when I travel, I like to be alone.

Please don't misunderstand; I enjoy being around others and I know that socializing with locals is one of the best ways to really get to know a new place for the short while you're there. I love making friends when I go someplace new. In fact, traveling has taught me to appreciate friendships more quickly, because the bonds you build while traveling often have an expiration date. At home, a person does not have the opportunity to make friends out of strangers in the same capacity as while traveling. Often, our lives are very different from those of strangers, and sharing our experiences teaches everyone lessons. There is beauty, not only in learning how you are different, but also in uncovering what you have in common.

But there is a qualitative difference between temporarily befriending someone you encounter on your path, and being surrounded by others for the entire journey of your path. So I guess my preference for traveling alone really comes down to this:

1. I make my own schedule.
This is the part that sounds a little harsh and selfish. But I will not apologize for it. Life is short, and the time you are allotted in any given place while traveling is even shorter. I am a selectively patient person and I don't like to feel like I'm wasting my time. I can sit and enjoy the silence all day long, completely at ease, as long as it was my idea. But drag me through a crowded tourist attraction when my feet hurt and I have no desire to be there, and I just might resent you forever.

Traveling together creates a certain bond of intimacy between people. You are likely to share beds, food, money, and quite a bit of personal space. When it works, it's marvelous. But when it doesn't work, I can guarantee you will never want to see that person again after you return home.

Let's just say I am being noble in caring too much about my friendships to sacrifice any of them by traveling together.

2. I learn so much more about myself.
I spend a lot of time in my head. I have learned to (usually) think before I speak, and as a result, some thoughts never make it out of the space between my ears. Other times, I am simply observing and retaining information for myself. Just sitting and watching your surroundings can teach a traveler so much; there's no need -- and certainly no possible way -- to comment on it all. Watching the behavior of the locals is sometimes the best way to teach yourself what to do.

Going far away from others who know you allows you the freedom to be anyone you want to be. You miraculously no longer feel the pressure to conform before the opinions of your peers, and being surrounded by perfect strangers gives you the opportunity to behave completely differently, if you so wish.

It's true that we are most ourselves when we are alone. We learn to form opinions for ourselves, because the judgment of strangers matters far less than the judgment of friends. We are honest with ourselves and we face what's inside of us because we have no distractions in which to hide. We learn how self-sufficient we are capable of being, and realize that we've been this way all along.

In all my traveling experience, I hold one frustratingly glorious truth above the rest: getting lost helps. I have never intended to get lost; I don't think anybody really does. But inevitably, at least once, I somehow end up far away from my desired destination, without any idea where I took the wrong turn. There have been times when I was a little panicked and thought surely this was where I was going to die. There have been times when I have asked directions, pretended I knew what they were talking about, and walked away just as lost as before. There have been times when I was so lost that I straight up abandoned my original plan and just found something else to do instead.

But every time I have gotten lost in some giant, unfamiliar place, I have ultimately relied entirely upon my own resourceful skillset and listened to my own primal instincts. I have always adapted to my surroundings and, somehow or another, I have always found my way back into the familiar again, and I've survived far enough to be here typing this now. My point is, things going wrong can teach you so much more than if everything goes according to plan. Your reaction is more important when your cell phone dies, you lose your map, and it's getting dark, than when conditions are normal. You learn quickly what you're made of when that's all you've got to rely on.

3. We are all alone already anyway.
My first real experience of travel came into my life at a time of great personal transformation. From the beginning of that first journey, I saw it as an opportunity to prove to myself that I could do big, wonderful things all by myself. More importantly, I could do these big, wonderful things all for myself. I guess that tone of sovereignty hasn't really left.

In the past, when I have told people I am planning a trip alone, their reactions have been varied. However, the reaction that sticks out the most to me is, "You're going alone? But aren't you scared? I could never do that!"

The truth is, we can all do just about anything if we are motivated enough. At face value, the question "aren't you scared?" would appear to be concerned for my safety as a lone wolf traveling in a dangerous world. At least, that's what I thought at first. But then I asked myself, what if the thing I am supposed to be scared of is being alone? What if these people who say they "could never do that" are more afraid of sitting alone with themselves than they are of being mugged?

That's when I realized it: I am so capable of being alone, of facing myself and my feelings, of looking myself in the eyes and loving myself, that I am not afraid. Traveling alone does not scare me because I know so well who I am and what I am capable of, that my internal confidence is greater than anything I could possibly encounter in the external world.

Maybe I'm a narcissist, or maybe I am just fiercely independent to a fault, but I like being alone. It is my time to sit with myself and reflect on my own life, thoughts, and feelings. I can dream all my big dreams and think deeply about the world around me. I enjoy it. It brings me peace and healing. I'm certainly not afraid of it.

Being alone means being with nobody but yourself. Being afraid means something scares you. Therefore, being afraid of being alone means being with nobody but yourself scares you. I'm not afraid of being by myself. There is nothing inside of me that I am afraid to face, because it is only a manifestation of myself, after all. I am the only one who controls it. I do not occupy myself with others in order to avoid facing who I am. To the contrary, I want to know who I am.

The fact of the matter is, we're all alone in this life anyway. Some of us just like to maintain the illusion that we aren't because it makes the world seem like a little less scary of a place to live. But others of us know that this is just a pleasant façade generated by our minds to act as a buffer against fear and isolation. My mind has always operated in a very blunt, matter-of-fact manner, so I consider myself lucky that I don't struggle with this. It simply is what it is.

So, I suppose I could be afraid of being mugged or assaulted in an unfamiliar place. But I have a taser and a pretty strong right hook for a situation like that. That doesn't make me afraid to travel alone. I could be mugged right here at home. Money and belongings can be replaced. Memories and opportunities cannot.

I am absolutely unafraid to travel alone because the good things that come from it are far more valuable to me and my journey than any of the potential bad things that could happen. It's all experience in the end, really.  If I can face myself and like what I see, then I can surely go out and face the rest of this big, old world and like what I see there, too.

"We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we are not alone." - Orson Welles

My Body

My body is my home.
It houses my soul and every part of who I am.
Like a house, it is my decision to decorate it and make it comfortable as I like.
It is up to me to take care of it with regular maintenance.
I must keep it safe, and protect it from anyone who may desire to harm or invade it.

My body is strong.
It presses on through the pain when I push it one more mile.
It does not fail me when subjected to late nights with research papers and caffeine.
It holds me up when I work on my feet eight continuous hours a day.

My body is fidgety.
It grows restless after several mundane hours spent in lecture halls.
My fingers start to tap in rhythm when my attention span has dwindled.
My leg shakes when my body wants to move about, but I will not let it.

My body is alert.
The little hairs on my neck tell me when there may be danger.
My heart speaks only to me when something is not right.
My stomach tells me who I should avoid.

My body is tired.
It collapses into my bed at the end of a long day.
My eyelids droop shut when my body requires sleep more than Netflix.
My arm drowsily finds its way again to my alarm clock every morning.

My body is resilient.
My shins scream at me in agony after a long run.
My back joins in unison after standing for too long.
But my body quiets the aching parts like crying children, and carries on.

My body is beautiful.
From my eyebrows to my toenails and every other part in between.
Even the parts others would prefer to change.
It is beautiful because it simply is -- and I let it be.

My body is dynamic.
It changes day to day, every time a new hair grows on my legs.
It looks different today than how it did yesterday, and how it will tomorrow.
It may lose or gain weight, and my skin may become freckled or tan.

My body is powerful.
It can command the attention of a room simply by being present.
It could create and nurture new life if I allowed it.
It is able to do many astonishing things.

My body is free.
It answers to nobody, not even to me.
It does as it pleases and its only regard is for safety and pleasure.
It mirrors the soul it harbors.

My body is opinionated.
It lets me know when I put something in it which it does or does not like.
It informs me with no delay that something was a bad idea.
It reports back just as quickly when I have done something to please it.

Above all the things it may be, it is certain only one constant:
My body is my own.
Only those whom I allow may touch it.
Only that which I believe may motivate me to alter it.

Its appearance is a direct consequence of what is done to it.
What is done to it is an effect of how the soul inside of it feels about it.

My body is worthy of love and respect and security and pride.
Certainly from everyone else, but most importantly, from myself.
This much will always true.

Welcome To New York (Boston).

I was driving to work last week, weaving through busy rush hour traffic on Rock Road. Taylor Swift's 1989 CD was absentmindedly playing as background noise in my stereo, as it has been since the album dropped last October. I was preparing to spend the next several hours begrudgingly earning $7.50 an hour around co-workers whom I didn't like, and customers whom I liked even less. I wasn't exactly in the brightest of moods. Then, through the haze of my own bad attitude, I heard good ol' T-Swift crooning to me the words I needed to hear, like she's done hundreds of times before.

You see, I have a dream. Many dreams, in fact. But the dream currently responsible for the high in my life is one about travel, one about adventure and freedom and finding myself. Like many young people before me, I yearn to leave my safe, familiar comfort zone and get wonderfully lost in a new, giant, mesmerizing place, eventually making it my own.

And since the day I bought it three months ago, I have been all too aware of that plane ticket to Boston with my name on it.

I'll be heading east on a grand, new exploit of my own, in as little as twenty-seven days from now. That's the dream that's been fueling my passion through the mundane activities of two summer jobs and three summer classes since the middle of May. What has filled my sails with wind as the days dwindle away is anticipating the joy I will experience during my short four-day caper in the city that will hopefully soon be my home.

So last week when I heard Taylor Swift's lyrics in the song she wrote about her love for New York City, even after hearing them and mindlessly humming along to them time and time again for months on end, I paused. I thought about the gravity of her words.

"Like any great love, it keeps you guessing

Like any real love, it's ever-changing

Like any true love, it drives you crazy

But you know you wouldn't change anything, anything, anything"

I have been a dedicated T-Swift fan since "Teardrops on My Guitar". I was there for Taylor when she was just a sixteen-year-old girl who lived in Nashville and wore cowboy boots and sundresses to the Academy of Country Music Awards. I remember when she said that Nashville was her home, furthermore, that country music was her home; and that she'd never dream of cutting her hair or moving to a big city like NYC or LA. Well, well... how things change.

"Welcome To New York" is Taylor's declaration about how she fearlessly fell in love with a city, with its people, and with the experience itself. And, like any Taylor Swift song, she is vividly painting a picture of it as one huge, beautiful love affair. Taylor Swift is in love with a city. And why not? A city is just as full of human emotion as the people who inhabit it.

These lyrics are the ones that spoke out to me last week on my drive to work. They were casual and commonplace, yet they were gently reminding me to keep pushing myself toward whatever it is that draws me in, to whatever feels right to me.

You see, love comes in many forms in this lifetime. And heaven knows I'm a sucker for falling in love with new places. It's been barely over a year since the Travel Bug bit me, and the virus has only been incubating and growing stronger within me this long; it has not been dormant or forgotten.

Travel will surely keep you guessing, much like life itself. How am I to know what lies around the corner for me? How am I supposed to find out, if I'm never brave enough to take the steps necessary to arrive at the corner in the first place?

Travel is certainly ever-changing, most obviously by the number of possible destinations one could choose to explore and make their own.

And travel is definitely enough to drive a person crazy, especially those of us who so quickly get emotionally attached to people and places, with little foresight for the consequences we will inevitably face when the time comes to leave.

But I wouldn't change anything. Not one single part of the delightful, possessive, magical beauty that is creating my own home in a place faraway from anywhere I've been before.

In the few seconds it took for my copy of 1989 to play those lines, my brain and my heart merged into the same wavelength. For one fleeting moment, my mind and soul were alive with the wondrously dangerous combination of adrenaline and oxytocin that only comes from love. To people who have ever traveled before to some other place and who have instantly fallen in love with the new scenery and the new perspective of life, no explanation of Taylor Swift's love affair with New York is needed. We already understand, because the feeling is pumping through our veins with every beat of our lustful, wandering hearts.

How I Learned To Remember What I Already Knew About The Opinions Of Others

I learned in my Consumer Behavior class last semester that the average consumer is hit with over 3,000 advertisements every single day, from television, radio, Internet, print, and even billboards. And only about 8% of each one of those ads registers on the conscious level of our brains. The other 92% access the subconscious recesses of our minds and stick with us much longer, without us even realizing it.

Sure, these messages influence our purchasing behaviors, but more than that, they reflect whatever values the advertisers imply are important to our society. Marketing starts to mold who we are as consumers, and it also begins to affect how we perceive the world, as well as ourselves. We can say we don't pay attention to commercials, and we can mute them during breaks from our favorite television shows; but they get to us, whether we like it or not.

So think about the power these ads have over the populous. Marketing is the fastest and most effective way to communicate a message to the masses. Many of these messages are good; they're positive, uplifting jingles for BBQ restaurants and serious PSAs for suicide prevention hotlines. However, can you imagine the potential damage a single advertisement with negative implications can have? Even if the negative message is only implied, can you fathom how bad a person could feel if they identified with any of the qualities perceived as negative by the ad? An ad, which is rerun several times, since repetition is key in marketing? What about if negative messages were implied from more than just one ad? Two, or twenty, or five hundred, or a thousand ads? What if the negativity surrounding certain qualities became so pervasive in our advertising, because the advertising is simply reflecting how pervasive the negativity surrounding those qualities is throughout our culture?

I'm talking about the omnipresent, pervasive, and normalized message from society, and in turn, advertisers, that women should be thin. Or at the very least, not to be fat.

Women, especially young women, are targeted by advertisers for products like shampoo, makeup, nail polish, and tampons. But they're also targeted for things like weight loss pills, plastic surgery, and even clothing products that are designed to make a person appear thinner. Young women are the market segment targeted by advertisers because advertisers mimic society. Society provides a cultural script that says young women need to be thin and beautiful, so advertisers come along and offer young women products to help them adhere to society's demands. How kind of them, hmm?

I am a twenty-one-year-old woman living in the Western hemisphere, in perhaps the most commercialized nation on the planet. I've never really had a problem with not caring about what anyone else thinks of me, least of all some advertising executives who don't even know me. But they do know me. They classify me together with other Caucasian heterosexual cisgender female people who make less than $20,000 annually and live in Wichita, Kansas and attend university and drive a car and wash their hair and drink alcohol and eat pizza and listen to Taylor Swift.

These marketers may not know me personally, but they've got a pretty good idea of how I'll behave based upon what society tells me to do. They can guess my hopes and fears and a multitude of other things, because it's feasible to believe that I'll behave in generally the same way as others in my demographic. The power of marketers derives from how closely I follow the cultural script I've been taught. If they can predict my behavior, they can sell me a product.





Now, I must say, that from a young age, I have always considered myself to be very accepting of my body, regardless of whatever flaws society may have perceived it as having. It is my body, after all. I've never really paid any attention to the demand that women be thin, because like most fads and trends, I couldn't be bothered to play along. I've never even really considered myself to be "fat" as society would like it, because, well, I just don't have time for it. It wasn't until this year that I really started thinking more about my body, and I became much more aware of its appearance. Though I certainly didn't intend for it to be, this became a problem.

It all began a little over ten months ago when I returned from studying abroad. I spent four weeks in France, going to school most days from 9 to 4, with little exercise beyond just walking through the streets and across campus. And I mean, I was in France. What do you do when you're in France? You eat bread and you drink wine! So basically, I spent four weeks doing nothing besides conjugating verbs and consuming complex carbohydrates. Don't get me wrong; I had the time of my life! In fact, I was so busy loving life that I didn't think very much about anything else.

I came home at the end of July. It's important to know a few things here in order to understand where my mind was at:
1. I was terribly heartbroken to leave France and my host family, and I went through some rough reverse culture shock.
2. I had missed my biological family while I was gone, but that didn't mean I necessarily wanted to be staying with my mother until school started.
3. Being home reminded me of the breakup I had just experienced prior to going to France, and I was no longer on the other side of the world from this reality.

So, I was generally irritable and unhappy to be back in Ark City. Furthermore, I realized upon stepping on my mother's bathroom scale, that all that wine and bread had caught up to me. So, one day, near the beginning of August, I decided I'd go for a run.

This wasn't unusual for me, as I'd gone for runs off and on many times at Mom's house. I knew my preferred running route well, and it didn't present itself as very dangerous. It was only about a mile and a half total, but I ran it so inconsistently that it always seemed to be a challenge.

I came home, stretched, did some abs, and that was it. Until two days later when I decided I'd do it again. And after that, I kept up with an every-other-day schedule pretty well, running in the evening as the sun set so as not to die from heat exhaustion. School started a few weeks later, and I kept my routine pretty consistently by running on campus in the evenings. I was proud of my diligence and commitment to something that was better for me than Netflix. Then I started to notice my weight loss.

I hadn't begun running back in July with any particular motivation or goal in mind. I guess I just felt like I'd gained a little weight in France, I wanted out of the house and away from my mother, and I felt like exercising regularly was a healthy outlet for dealing with my residual emotions from the breakup. I wasn't doing it because I had a man "to keep happy" or because I thought I was grossly overweight. Overall, running seemed like a healthy thing to do just for me. And that's why I liked it.

I've never felt like I'm very good at running, and in high school some of my rude track teammates made fun of me because I stomped when my feet hit the ground. I was not highly involved in sports, and to this day, I don't consider myself to be very athletic. So it was never about that, for me. It was always much more about having my own personal time to let my brain flat-line and forget my worries. Running was an escape. But when I started to see visible changes in my body, which were confirmed by the scale, I got excited. I was proud to see that something I'd chosen to do by myself, for myself had benefited me in this way. But "benefited"? Who says?

My pants started to get looser and looser. I had to go buy new jeans, this time in a size 5 instead of a 9. My legs were no longer sore from running like they were when I started, but the mornings after doing an ab workout, I'd feel the burn while trying to sit up in my bed. I noticed my shirts and dresses were now laying more flatly around my body, and this made me happy.

But as the over-analyzing feminist that I am, I began to wonder if perhaps my happiness as a result of a change in my physical appearance was actually a good thing. I've always been a firm believer that happiness comes from within, and if something as vain and external as physical appearance was making me happy, that couldn't be a good thing. Right?

I kept running, though my every-other-day schedule started to waver as the semester progressed and I became busier. The cold weather moved in and I started making visits to the Heskett Center to run on the treadmill, instead. I didn't really allow myself the time to mull over my thoughts about my weight loss, because I was busy with work and school, and finals were approaching. But all the while, doubt started to creep into my mind about whether or not I actually wanted to lose the weight in the first place.

Part of me wanted to keep eating salad before every meal and doing crunches after I ran. Part of me wanted to go to the nearest grocery store and buy all the candy with high fructose corn syrup and genetically modified junk food as I could afford, and eat it all in an hour as I binged on Netflix. The cantankerous feminist devil on my left shoulder was arguing with the self-loving feminist angel on my right. And I was caught in the middle.

Had I actually, perhaps subconsciously, wanted to lose the weight when I started? Did that mean admitting to myself and others that there were parts of my body with which I was dissatisfied? That, in fact, I wasn't this portrait of an all-accepting, self-loving überfeminist? And did all of this mean that I valued my twenty-pound-lighter body more than I did the body I had in August? Did any of this have any bearing on the way I thought, and had I become convinced by my experience with weight loss to value skinny people the most and fat-shame others? My brain extrapolated possible conclusions well past the point of rationality.

Of course my thinking hadn't changed. My values and convictions run deep. If intersectional feminism were a color, it would be the same pigment as the blood that pours out of my leg when I nick myself shaving. I know this, in the very fiber of my being. So why was my brain running amuck with extreme ideas about what a change in my weight meant? Were people really treating me differently because of a few less pounds, or was my feminist brain just imagining things, as it sometimes does? There was just so much to reconcile.

I began to think I liked it better when I was "fat and happy" because then at least I could dish out the "your opinion of my body doesn't matter" attitude and people accepted it. When a "fat girl" says that, she's just that: a fat girl, automatically silenced by her appearance, and invalidated by her nonconformity to societal demands. When a "skinny girl" says that, she's a stuck-up bitch who can't take a compliment. Before, I was familiar with defending my appearance to those who criticized it, and funnily enough, I never found myself being one of the critics. But accepting compliments based on my physical appearance -- some kind of "accomplishment" at making myself more attractive to society -- has never really sat well with me. It's a strange, convoluted, messy entanglement between my brain, my heart, feminism, and patriarchy; but, I know I'm pretty because I think I'm pretty, not because someone else does. I guess the problem came when I started to wonder if people were treating me nicely because of who I am and they genuinely wanted to treat me nicely, or if it was just because I had recently dropped the weight of a very small child.





It wasn't until very recently, like within the last two weeks, that I came to an epiphany about this mess of emotion and flawed logic that was brewing in my head. I wasn't unhappy because I had lost weight. That was never the change that caused any of these problems. I was unhappy because I started to worry about what other people thought about the weight I lost. Before I lost the weight, I had already accepted myself and my body the way it was. I already knew what I looked like and how to expect people to treat me based on it. (Not that it was ever nearly as bad as many millions of other people in the world, by any means.) But it was familiar. Then I lost the weight, and as a result, I expected people would treat me differently, because I know a woman's physical appearance is her most important quality in our world, for some godforsaken reason. Then I became so acutely aware of and militantly defensive to everyone's interactions with me, that I was thinking so much more about their opinions of me, than I was about my own opinions of me. And that's just it!

I realized that because I've been indoctrinated by society, via television ads and magazine covers for twenty-one years to believe "thin is in", that I was the one who actually internalized the message. Me, with the impenetrable wall of feminism specifically designed to detect and repel patriarchal garbage in every form! I had somehow unwittingly allowed the messages from advertisers to creep into my brain, and then I let the opinions of others overpower the importance of my own self-acceptance. I had handed my power right over to the patriarchy. Then I sat and wondered where it was I had gone so wrong and why I was in such a state of emotional unrest. It was because I started subconsciously comparing the state of myself to the unattainable standard which the advertisers set for me. Then I constantly wondered how closely I measured up, instead of simply not caring, as I'd always done before.

I never realized that I had actually changed two variables, not just one. Instead of blaming the real culprit, which was ever giving a damn about what others think, I blamed the most visible change I could think of, which was a change in my physical appearance. Because, once again, we've all been taught that a woman's physical appearance is what matters the most. It just goes to show that even the most passionate of know-it-all feminists can be taught to play right into the hands of a patriarchal society if they are exposed to its harmful values enough.

I never should've worried for a second what anyone else thought about my body. It is my body, after all. I never gave the opinions of others a second thought before I lost the weight. Because I already accepted myself as I was, and I was happy with that. Then my body changed, and as I had to begin accepting myself as I changed, I began to worry if perhaps the rate at which others were or were not accepting me had anything to do with it. Happiness does come from within. It comes from accepting yourself and loving yourself right now, today, right where you are. Consciously or not, no advertisement can ever sell you that.

So I look in the mirror today, and I see a woman whose body has indeed changed. I see a woman who knows she can run farther and longer than she ever even tried in high school. I see a woman who really, honestly did accept her body before she lost the weight, and who wouldn't hesitate to give a middle finger to anyone who disagreed. I also see a woman who worried herself entirely too much over the thoughts and opinions of others about her body for a time. I see a woman who got caught between two opposing sides in a false dichotomy of options for women in our world: unmotivated, lazy, fat girl, or healthy, vegetable-eating, athlete. I see a woman who is somedays both, lazy and healthy. I see a woman who painted herself into a corner with internalized patriarchy without even realizing it, because the message was ingrained so deeply into the subconscious of her brain. I see a woman, whom for a time, played right into the cultural script that society has laid out for women to always be concerned about the perception of their physical appearance. I see a woman who felt more pressure to remain skinny after she'd lost the weight, than she ever did to lose it in the first place. I see a woman who knows her happiness, along with her self-worth come from within herself, and nowhere else. And I see a woman who realized all of this, just now, as she wrote this, and who became very relieved as soon as she understood, once again, that the opinions of others -- advertisers, a patriarchal society, or anyone else -- have never actually mattered in the past, nor will they at any point in the future.

Three Days of Internet Dating

I'm not even really sure why I thought it would be a good idea. Scratch that, I didn't think it would be a good idea. As someone who considers herself a vocal feminist as an adult, and as a child who grew up in the Internet age, I knew already that there is almost never any overlap between male strangers online and good ideas. I guess I was bored and I thought a little bit of attention sounded like fun. I don't know. Regardless, I searched the Play Store for a dating app and made myself an account.

The timeline of these exploits is short: a three-day period, spanning from Thursday night through Sunday night, last weekend. I deleted my account and uninstalled the app right before going to bed on Sunday, without any warning to any of the potential "suitors" with whom I'd been chatting. Yeah, I'm a cold-blooded heartbreaker. I figured it was the best way to end my little curiosity-turned-social-experiment.

My experience in the world of online dating brought with it some of the gross things I had anticipated, but it also opened even my know-it-all eyes to some positive encounters that I hadn't expected. I didn't sign up for it with any intention whatsoever of writing about it afterward. That thought occurred to me later, after I'd begun to receive some of these interesting messages from strangers. I've saved screenshots of parts of my experience, and I guess I perceive it as an archive. I'd like to share a narrative of my adventure, and reflect upon the lessons I've taken away from it. I've classified the strangers into distinct categories, which I'll explain along the way.

First, let's take a look at my own stats. Here's the data I entered for my own account on the app:

  

I tried to fill in the data as honestly as possible, but I also wanted to cast a large net and see what I got in return. So as not to isolate anyone or make myself a target for trolls, I refrained from plastering "I LOVE FEMINISM" all over the place. For equal opportunity, I checked the boxes for both men and women and I chose every option for "interested in" except for long-term relationships, because ew. And boy, did I yield some fascinating results. (I knew from the very beginning that I was never going to meet up with any of these people in person, because I have watched way too much television and I'm a little paranoid. So I felt totally safe to be as bold as possible from the safety of my keyboard.)

Out of over 200 messages through this three-day period, only two women messaged me (both were very kind and much less aggressive than the men). The rest were heterosexual cisgender men, and I would estimate that approximately 90% of them were white. The remaining 10% were composed of Hispanic or African American men, and I didn't attract a single Asian. (It is important to note that I did answer a question about the importance of dating within my own race at the beginning of the process, and I elected that race did not matter.)

Below are the images I uploaded to my profile, all five of which came from my Instagram. I am about 99% certain that this little sociological observation of mine wouldn't have happened had it not been for what I call the Pretty Principle. Basically, in a society as stuck on physical appearance as ours, there come certain privileges with possessing the physical characteristics that society tells us are most valuable (whiteness, thinness, blue eyes, blonde hair, clear skin, new clothes, etc.) Now, that's not to say that the people who possess those traits are doing so for the simple purpose of benefiting from them. They are oftentimes just simple genetic phenotypes over which the person had no control. But, that does not mean the person does not derive (intentionally or not) certain benefits from possessing them. I have blonde hair and blue eyes. I enjoy curling my hair and wearing makeup.

I like to take selfies when I feel pretty (as defined by myself, but influenced by the values of Western culture), and I have enough confidence that I do not need someone else to tell me I'm pretty; I already know it. These things being the case, I can't help but wonder: what might my online dating experience have been like if I had not uploaded these specific images? What if I had portrayed my online persona as someone else, without these highly-valued traits for which so many people swiped right? They never would've made it to my profile to read the things I typed (out of my heart and brain) if they hadn't initially seen the image of my face to lure them there in the first place. It's more than enough to make one ponder the unjust ramifications of physical appearance. But, this is what I look like, so this is the (privileged) experience I live; and as such, this is the online persona I translated from real life into cyberspace. I uploaded five photos, typed some stuff into the profile, and waited for the boys to come to me. I never sent a single message first. That is the Pretty Principle. (Also patriarchy that says boys are the ones to pursue girls, but whatevs.)

However, some guys were stumped by my being pretty and also having a brain:

I assume it's part of the dichotomous system in which our entire world operates. You know, the one where everyone is allowed to fit into only one box out of two? (Pretty OR intriguing, virgin OR whore, boy OR girl, democrat OR republican...) There are never more than two options, and a person can certainly never have qualities of both.

Compliments on my physical appearance have always been secondary in value for me. I just feel like I have much more control over my actions, my beliefs, and who I am as a person, than I do over which genes manifested themselves on my face. That's why I like it much more when someone tells me I'm smart or nice or brave, than when they say I'm pretty. (Again with the dichotomies.) So I couldn't help but chuckle at the guy who thought this was a good initial message, as if I would be tripping over my feet to reply:

And these guys, whose sheepishness was probably supposed to be part of their charm:

 

(I do hear it a lot, but that doesn't mean your self-deprecation is attractive, nor that you shouldn't have confidence in your statements.)

Some of the pickup lines I received actually made me laugh quite a bit. (I love corny pickup lines, but I didn't tell any of them that.)

This guy who totally appealed to my white girl love of FRIENDS. (I read his pickup line in Joey's voice in my head.)

And this dude whose match criteria included Rod Stewart:

But this one made me scratch my head the most, by far:

But then there were these boys who all basically decided we were perfect matches. (Spoiler: no, we're not.)

At least that one dude didn't like dichotomies, I guess. The third dude told me he was going to cry after I read his messages and didn't respond. (Because guilting a woman into chatting with you by sarcastically telling her you're going to cry is a healthy way to start any relationship, and it's definitely void of any kind of power struggle.)

Some guys took this whole online dating thing way too seriously:

"Personal defensive tools" or just being a douche? You decide.

Some of these men were pretty persistent and just would not leave me alone. I initially replied to some of them, then they wouldn't stop bothering me. But even if I didn't respond, some guys just kept sending me messages, like maybe I'd change my mind:

 

What is a woman supposed to take away from these kinds of interactions? I can deduce that these men have learned that complimenting a woman on her physical appearance right from the beginning will improve their chances with her. Just keep complimentin' until she likes something you said! (Pro tip: maybe you shouldn't say "I'm bored" in the first sentence.)

However, these two dudes were particularly creepy to me. They're good examples of why the "Block" button was invented. The first guy got upset with me because I responded to his message before I went to work (for a measly three hours!) but then I stopped replying to him while I was clocked in. GASP. That guy, in specific, really ticked me off. But the second man, he just kept messaging me with more and more disgusting, unsolicited detail and he was one of the reasons why I was very pleased to delete my account at the end of all this. What makes a person think they can talk to someone like this? I was clearly not responding. That means stop. If the person you're chatting with is responding with anything else besides positive feedback (like an affirmative yes), or not responding at all, that means stop. Seem a little rapey to anyone else, or is that just me?

This is why it's important to stress not that "no means no," but that "only yes means yes."

HE MESSAGED ME 46 TIMES. We're strangers. He's older than me. He has no right to harass me in such a way. LEAVE ME ALONE.And then there were these guys who were much more direct with what they really wanted: 

Sounds like I could star in my own Fifty Shades of Grey movie if I really wanted to. Thanks, Dudes of the Internet.

But, no, I'm not interested in trading any pics.

And, no, I do not want to meet you, either.

The last three were from the same guy.

These men are all much more of the age to be best buds with my father than to have any business messaging me on an online dating site:

I just turned 21.

I also noticed that mentioning anything at all in my profile about speaking or studying French got me some predictable responses:

This (American) guy's initial message was asking me how I am today in French. He even told me I am a "very interesting person :)".

This Wichitan asked me if I would like to dance with him, then he told me he loved me. (To be fair, he claimed he didn't know what it meant, and I sort of believed him.)

But this guy! He was French and he lived in France and I really just can't help myself when it comes to speaking French with the natives. All bets were off. I had a genuine conversation with him. (Take note, Internet creeps. Alyssa is a sucker for the foreigners.) He told me he thought I must have a pretty accent when I speak French. *fangirl squeal* (I don't; it sounds awful. But he doesn't know that.)

Harry Potter was also a hot topic of conversation. And to be honest, I could talk about Harry Potter with just about anyone.

 

I'm actually a little disappointed I didn't get any "mind if I slither-in" jokes, now that I think about it. I have higher expectations from the Potter fandom.

And, of course, the one section in my profile where I said "feminist" did draw me a little bit of attention. Though thankfully, it wasn't too terrible, and of course, I know better than to reply to Internet trolls on a dating app.

This was this dude's actual picture. A photo of him holding a gun with his face whited out. I wonder what his views of feminism are...

This adorably original troll.

This guy who told me he considers himself a part of the first wave of feminism because he considers it to have the least amount of "female entitlement"... whatever that means.

This dude who got a legitimate round of Emoji applause from me for his apparent understanding of boundaries and consent.

And this fella who was legitimately stumped by me and my response to the following question:

I wish real life interactions with other people had settings like this, where I could answer a question for myself, choose which answer I wanted the other person to have, rank it in order of its importance, and calculate a compatibility percentage as a result. For all types of relationships. Seems like that'd save a lot of wasted time.

And, out of all the messages I received, I did get to chat with at least two genuinely nice people:

I'm not sure exactly what I expected to get out of such an experience. Like I said, I didn't intend to write about it. But after about a day's worth of solicitation and pickup lines, I couldn't not do it. I got the attention I wanted, and then some. But after three days of exhaustion from having to keep all the different boys straight and making sure to reply to them all when they messaged me, I decided the online dating life is not for me.

My opinions of online dating haven't really changed from what they were before I did this. I've always thought of the idea of "falling in love" with someone on eHarmony or Match or even BlackPeopleMeet.com sounds ridiculous. If it works for you, then more power to you. But personally, I believe it's nothing more than a capitalistic opportunity for businesses to profit from during the Internet Age, due to everyone's desire to be loved. But maybe I'm just a cynic.

I was certainly not looking for romance, nor did I expect to find any. If anything, this little adventure of mine has just made me appreciate my free singledom so much more. A lesson I have learned in the last year of my life is that there is a profound difference between being "single and ready to mingle" and being single for yourself, by yourself. They're worlds apart and the implications are different for everyone. "Playing the field" for three days exhausted me. I just simply do not care enough to try to keep up superficial conversation with strangers about small talk and things that don't really matter to me. To me, the definition of being single is that your time isn't obligated to anyone else, and you don't need to spend every waking hour with your cell phone in your hand, and your eyes glued to it. Singledom is about independence and self-discovery, being resourceful for yourself and resilient in your own interpersonal growth. And I experienced absolutely none of that during this three-day period. I felt stress to keep people's lives straight, pressure to reply on time, and annoyance and the constant onslaught of online patriarchy I'd come to expect... Certainly not the self-sovereign feeling I've come to know and love.

So, on Sunday night, shortly before I turned out my bedside lamp, rolled over and went to bed, I deleted my account and uninstalled the app from my phone. I felt a little bit bad about it for the handful of dudes who were actually pretty nice. I was just going to disappear into cyberspace and they were never going to hear from me again. I imagined I could hear the sound of hearts breaking as I became an electronic ghost to them. We had a splendid three days, but I guess that's all it was meant to be. Some of the boys were from Wichita, and I hope I don't ever run into them face-to-face, or worse, have them in class next semester. Can you say A-W-K-W-A-R-D? Oh well. What's meant to be, will be. There is something to be learned from every experience in life, and I don't think this one was without value for me. That being said, I certainly don't think I will ever want or need to do it again. Once was enough. And if I can learn something, possibly help teach others, and even chat with some new friends along the way, then I call it a successful lesson in life.

So for now, that's the end of this love story. I've got more important things to do.