I love the story of how my parents met because it says so much about them as people. It also explains a lot about why their children are all academic nerds.
My parents met in college. My mom was an undergrad violin performance major and my dad was getting his masters in electrical engineering. My mom’s roommate had decided to throw a party at their apartment. My mom, who was not much of a party person, decided to spend the night doing physics homework in her bedroom instead. Physics was not a required class for her major, but she was taking it because she, “thought it sounded fun.” That is my mom for you. My dad, who was also not a party person, had been pressured to come to the party with one of his friends.
At some point during the night, my mom got to a problem she couldn’t figure out. Desperate for answers and unwilling to turn in an incomplete homework assignment, she tracked down the engineering grad student and asked for help with her homework. They went to her bedroom and worked on this physics problem for hours, while a party raged just outside the door.
My dad, brilliant as he was, couldn’t figure out how to solve the problem before the party ended, so they said goodbye and my dad went home with his friend.
The next day, he worked on the physics problem all day and finally solved it so he could call her with the answer and ask her out.
They have now been married for 26 years.
I hope and pray I could have a love story even a fraction as cute as theirs!
“If you want to feel sexy, wear sexy underwear!” It’s one of those fun, sexy, and kinda-naughty-but-not-enough-to-be-shameful pieces of advice that gets passed around in female circles. I’ve had conversations with friends on this subject, I’ve read about it in Cosmo and equally-classy women’s magazines, and I’m pretty sure Oprah has said something to this effect.
Up until I got to college, my underwear came exclusively in economically thrifty packages from Target. They are awesome for several reasons:
- Sooo cheap!!! $5 for a week’s supply of 7? Um, yes please!
- Soft and cottony… mmm
- Fun and colorful! Yay!
Then I spent my freshman year of college living in a co-ed dorm. I know that there is controversy about allowing young men and women to live so physically close together, but for a girl who was raised to fear boys, living with 22 of them all at once was a very educational experience. I’ll probably write more on that experience later, but back to underwear: we talked about underwear a lot. Actually, we talked about sex a lot, but underwear was a frequent tangent.
It was through these deep conversations with my floor mates that I learned that the clear winners in women’s underwear were these things called thongs. The term “thong” was not foreign to me because I grew up wearing thongs all the time. Of course, by “thongs,” I mean what the rest of the world calls, “flip flops” (my parents still talk about how much they love wearing thongs in the summertime. It’s embarrassing.). I had no idea what an underwear thong was until middle school, when I had a conversation with my friend who was talking about sexy underwear, while I was talking about summer footwear. Thanks to that horribly awkward experience, I at least knew what my college floor mates where talking about, though I had yet to wear one.
Intrigued, and feeling behind-the-times, underwear-wise, I decided that maybe I should try one of these things for myself. I went to my old trusted friend, Target, and bought a pair (probably for under $5! Go me!). I saved it for a special day when I knew I would be seeing this guy I had a huge crush on at the time, to see if Oprah was right.
At first, it wasn’t that bad, it was just different. I felt kind of sexy just knowing that I was wearing something scandalous under my jeans. But as the day went on and I realized that the string in my butt wasn’t going anywhere, it got increasingly annoying and uncomfortable. By the end of the day, it was all I could think about! Instead of feeling sexy, my mind was plagued with thoughts of my own discomfort, worry over whether or not this boy I loved could see this discomfort, and how I wished I had just gone commando instead. I was not confident, funny, smart, interesting, smiling, or any of the other qualities that I would normally associate with being sexy. I was just fervently annoyed at a stupid piece of string.
Since then, I have occasionally tried wearing them again, in hopes that I could get used to it and just feel sexy, dangit! I even somehow ended up with a few more pairs, but I always come to the same conclusion: it’s not worth it! They are currently stuffed in the back of my underwear drawer, along with all my ugly old worn out underwear that is reserved strictly for days when I run out of clean laundry. Maybe one day the thongs will come back out, but for now, I’m just going to wear what makes me happy and comfortable. I don’t care what Cosmo or Oprah says; being happy and comfortable makes me feel infinitely sexier than being distracted by a relentless wedgie.
Did you ever play that popular middle school slumber party game called “Never Have I Ever”? In case you were deprived in junior high, here’s how my friends and I played: everyone started with all ten fingers up, then we took turns saying “never have I ever [insert interesting experience]” and anyone who had done that thing puts a finger down. Usually the experiences had something to do with *eek* boys! Once someone had all ten fingers down, they were out. We played until there was only one person left, who would then be declared the winner!
Well, kind of.
The “winner” was almost always me. But though normally winning is the goal (just ask Charlie Sheen), this wasn’t really a game anyone wanted to win. The real winner was whoever put down all their fingers first, because it meant that they had done a lot of stuff with boys, and in the eyes of a group of tween girls, that made them really really cool. But then there was me, the tiny shy girl with all ten fingers still up, all accusing me of being really reallyuncool.
Now, a decade later, I find myself in my early twenties and not much has changed:
- Never have I ever had sex.
- Never have I ever been in a serious relationship.
- Never have I ever kissed a boy on the lips.
Sometimes I find these confessions kind of embarrassing. I mean, it’s rare (but not completely unheard of) to be a 20-something technical virgin of the done-everything-except-had-a-penis-in-my-vagina variety, but I was terrified of what would people think if they knew I was a super virgin – a virgin of the never-even-been-kissed variety.
The obvious question, then, is how and why did I let this happen? Oh trust me, this wasn’t on purpose. I always wanted a boyfriend to take off the last two bullet points, but a disfiguring medical condition effectively kept the boys at bay all the way through high school. Having been in and out of the hospital and called everything from “monster” to “freak” my entire life, it wasn’t any surprise that no one wanted me. Don’t worry, my story isn’t a tragic case of social isolation; I was super blessed to have many friends, including boys, but even if they liked hanging out with me and felt sorry for me, they certainly weren’t about to ask me out. In fact, I was told I shouldn’t expect to date until I was in my 30s, when men would be mature enough to see my “inner beauty” and/or desperate enough to settle for an ugly girl (ironically, this was meant to encourage me with hope that I could ever have anybody at all).
However, as I got older and came towards the end of my treatment, I miraculously also started to look more and more normal. It surprised everyone, including my doctors, who had expected that becoming healthy would make me look more normalish, but it’s rare that people with my condition ever get to successfully blend into a crowd without at least getting double-takes. I know that I don’t deserve to look normal, but I am so so so grateful for this blessing.
I graduated from my small town high school, where everyone knew my story, and moved to Los Angeles for college, where no one had a clue what had happened. Moving to LA – a notoriously superficial metropolis – would be the ultimate test of whether or not I really looked normal. I thought that people would definitely notice something and judge me for it. But when I arrived, people didn’t whisper insults or stare when I walked by, children didn’t run away screaming, and creepy old men were even hitting on me – I really was being treated like a normal person! And it was awesome.
Being normal brought many perks, just one of them being that guys finally took an interest in me. I was nervous about the fact that I was so far behind everyone else, but I figured that since I had mastered calculus and far more difficult subjects in high school, catching up wouldn’t be too hard. For the record – I’m not “hot,” just “normal.” However, my lack of hotness didn’t seem to be a problem. I was literally surrounded by hundreds of horny college boys just waiting to pounce on anything, hot or not, with a vagina that would consent to sex with them!
Yes, it didn’t take long for me to realize that a willing vagina was all that most horny college boys were after. I was suddenly struck with the epiphany that maybe these particular boys – eager as they were for my now-healthy body – would not necessarily romance me like a Disney prince. They spoke of hot women as if they were trophies and not-so-hot women as if they were animals (specifically, as female dogs…). The more I learned, the more the idea of doing anything physical with one of these pigs – er, I’m sorry, men – started to disgust me. My fairytale dreams of romance were shattered. I felt like I had traded one form of objectification (really really mean) for another (um, flattering-but-gross).
So this is how I finally came to realize that my unintentional “super virginity” was actually a good thing. I started to see it as something to protect, rather than something to throw away at my first chance. My body was worth too much to just give away to a horny drunk frat boy in exchange for momentary ecstasy. I decided I was going to continue to protect my heart and my virginity until I met someone who legitimately earned it by marrying me. You might wonder if this wasn’t a crazy decision, given that worthy men are so hard to come by. Didn’t the possibility of never finding my prince and dying alone with 70 cats scare me? Absolutely, I was terrified. However, the idea of being used and dumped cyclically (as so many of my female friends were) terrified me even more.
While nightmarish visions of becoming a cat lady occasionally still haunt me, I’ve been incredibly blessed to have had some awesome men in my life who have proved to me that not every guy is a pig. There are amazing men with real character out there and there is hope for finding a Mr. Right. Or if all else fails, there is always eHarmony!
So that is my explanation of why I could still win every game of “Never have I ever,” if played against middle-schoolers. The only difference now is that it’s not nearly as mortifying.
I’m not 100% sure what this blog will end up being, but my current plan is to fill it with random virginal stories and thoughts from my life that (I’m told, at least) are interesting. Or it could slowly evolve into a collection of my favorite youtube cat videos, I don’t know yet. If you’re here because you’re a super virgin looking for reassurance that you’re not the only one, I hope I prove that, yes, there are at least 2 of us in the world. Or if you’re here because you think my empty sexual resume is hilariously outdated, I hope to provide you with many more laughs. Whoever you are, thanks so much for reading my first post! xoxo