In Mourning

I’ve been struggling to find words to say all day. Even just speaking to my partner about what to eat or our plans for the evening has been a challenge. I feel truly lost for words. Today, members of the Supreme Court who were not elected by the people, chose to remove the right to bodily autonomy from half the humans in America. This decision was made despite 70% of Americans believing that the choice to have an abortion should be left to the individual.

This is the first step in a line of cases which the Supreme Court is poised to overturn which will strip even more rights away from its citizens. The main goal is not saving lives of unborn children; it is and always has been control over women, minority groups, and LGBTQIA people. The cases the court plans to re-examine including Griswold, Lawrence, and Obergefell. This means the right to access contraception and birth control could be revoked, as well as the right for gay people to get married, possibly to even be together as a couple. Freedoms will continue to be stripped from the citizens of this country, to uphold the power of a small group of white folks.

It is important to note that the reproductive rights of black and indigenous women have been under attack since this country was founded, so this is not a new occurrence for those groups. Additionally, trans men and non-binary people frequently face violence and hostility when seeking health care. The Handmaid’s Tale is often referenced by white women as a comparison of where our country is headed, but it is ignorant to cite a fictional book when oppressed communities have been stripped of reproductive rights for years. And now, there is no need to refer to a novel where a religious coup results in martial law; Roe was overturned under a democratic president, with a democratic majority in congress. It is our reality. And those democrats are as much to blame for their inaction. Joe Biden ran on a platform of reproductive rights for all, and yet today used this as an opportunity to push for re-election and ask for donations. Frankly, I’m sick of inaction, and I expect more from my elected officials.

If you are angry, good. If there is one thing in our constitution which I truly believe is still relevant, it is our right to fight for our place as equal citizens of this country. Today, the rights of everyone with a uterus have been removed. In months to come, it is highly likely that more basic human rights will be taken away by a few people in a room in DC. That’s fucked up. So go protest. Talk to the people in your life, particularly the men. Do they support you and whatever choices you make about your body? Would they be willing to drive you to another state to get you an abortion, if you needed one? If not, do not sleep with them. Do not talk to them about anything regarding your reproductive health. Do not tell them if you are pregnant. It is not worth it- anyone who does not actively support you and the decisions you want to make about your body could be a danger to you. Find a support system who is willing to take care of you, to even break the law to get you the care you need. If you are a man who wants to help the women and people with uteruses in your life, get a vasectomy. Listen to us. Do not downplay our sorrow- even if we are good at masking it, we are hurting desperately right now. Let us know you are there for us whatever we may need, whatever the future brings. And follow through on that promise. I mean this with the upmost sincerity. Is it severe? Yes. This decision and the legislation that will follow is even more severe. Do not comply. This government is not going to save you. Save yourself. Surround yourself with people who will look out for you in all circumstances.

I will end this with the closing statement from the few members of the Supreme Court who fought in defense of Roe: “With sorrow—for this Court, but more, for the many millions of American women who have today lost a fundamental constitutional protection—we dissent.”

Copenhagen, February 2019

The door to my hotel room shut and I walked instinctively towards the window. Across the street, the gates of Tivoli looked smaller than I remembered them as a child. The rides and roller coasters poking up through the barren tree branches in the park didn’t appear as intimidating as I seemed to remember them as a 5 year old.

I unpacked a little bit, then decided I should head out and get some food before it got too chilly. Outside, the sun was already starting to set, even though it was only 4:30pm, and little flakes of snow had begun to fall. I made my way towards the walking streets, gloves hands shoved into my pockets, face half buried inside my scarf. I’d been to Denmark many times with my family, but it had always been during the summer. Freezing as it was, I couldn’t help but smile recognizing streets I’d walked down as a child, and restaurants I’d taken advantage of the 16 year drinking age in, feeling like such a grown up sipping my white wine.

I wandered all the way through the walking streets, down to the harbor. There were plenty of cute restaurants with their lights on, but they seemed a little too nice to be dining in alone. I’m not opposed to solitude. If I was, this entire weekend trip would be be a nightmare. I had just needed to leave the UK briefly to reset my visa, and knowing I’d be going somewhere alone, I picked Copenhagen as it was familiar. I thought it might be nice to revisit the places I remember vaguely from all the previous trips. But I didn’t anticipate how much more alone one feels when it’s cold. Cold is an understatement, it was fucking freezing. The snow flakes had dampened to a sleet, and the wind was whipping them hard onto my nose and cheeks (the only exposed skin I had). And though my body was begging me to just pick a damn restaurant and go inside, literally anywhere with walls and some warm food, I walked away from the harbor and back up the walking streets. It wasn’t until I was almost back at my hotel that I found the perfect dinner spot I didn’t realize I was waiting for: An almost deserted Chinese restaurant with harsh fluorescent lighting that could serve me a massive bowl of noodle soup. With a side of spring rolls. One Night In Bangkok played on the speakers, as I slurped from the oversized spoon. I’d posted a picture to my Instagram story earlier, of several of the iconic Copenhagen towers, silhouetted by the dark sky. It had a reply from my friend Ellen, who is from Denmark but lived in London. “Are you in Copenhagen?!” She asked. I replied that I was here through the weekend. “I literally fly in tomorrow, can we hang out tomorrow night?” She went back. My heart leapt. It was such a random coincidence, and it warmed me more than even the giant bowl of soup could. I think, though I do love traveling, I’ve grown to enjoy the people I can share a place with even more.

The next day I slept in, but still wanted to get out and see the city. Again, it took me ages to settle on a place to grab a bite to eat. I’d already walked to Rosenborg Castle and up to the top of the Round Tower before I found myself a veggie bagel at the cafe at the top of Illum’s shopping center.

The view from the top of the Round Tower

I made my way down to Nyhavn, past the beautiful colorful buildings to the water, where the opera house sits across the bay. All the way down to the Little Mermaid statue, then back past Amalienborg, the home of the Danish royal family. I’m not sure how many miles I’d gone, but my feet were very ready to take a break. I made my way back towards my hotel, intending on getting a bite to eat and warming up a little. But walking by the gates of Tivoli, I realized this might be my only afternoon to visit. I considered the moderately expensive entrance fee a gift to my younger self. I adored this place growing up; the rides, the beautifully decorated buildings and alleyways, the sweet little restaurants and the decadent soft serve vanilla ice cream (dipped in chocolate powder, of course). This time, draped in a thin layer of fake snow, it looked much smaller than I remembered it. It was almost deserted, with only a few people wandering through the gift shops and admiring the ornately painted structures. Here and there, elevated fire pits stood for people to warm their hands by. The park has a small population of peacocks, and they too were cuddling up by the fires. I found a mulled wine stand, so a steaming mug soon was also combatting the cold. There wasn’t much to do, other than wander around and take in the sights. There were lots of tiny lights everywhere, leftover from Christmas, and flock of sculpted swans, each with a tiny golden crown, floated on the lake. In the summer, the lanes and little parks would be filled with children screaming and playing, and the restaurants would be bustling with customers. There were only a few rides that were open now, including the fun house, which I took a wander through. It’s not quite the same experience without people to laugh with, riding down slides and running over moving tracks designed to trip you up. Nevertheless, I clambered over enough rope ladders to make it worth my while.

Several hours later, I was walking through the meat packing district, an area I’d never been in before, following the address Ellen had said to meet her at. The streets fluctuated between “sketchy” and “trendy”, sometimes a little of both. After about a 20 minute walk, I found the place. A sign outside the door said “Come in for the worst g&t some guy on Yelp has ever had!” Wandering the crowd of what seemed to be entirely locals, I found Ellen and her friend Benedicte, who I’d met one once London. It was 2 for 1 g&t’s, so we took full advantage of that (they weren’t as bad as the guy on Yelp seemed to think, just quite strong, which I’ve never seen as a negative). We tucked ourselves away in a corner and caught up, soon filling our small, wobbly table with empty glasses. Benedicte worked at a little Italian restaurant close by Tivoli, so we walked back in that direction, stopping by my hotel room to drink a bottle of wine, eat some chips, and have a little dance party.

The restaurant was still open, so we sat at tables outside, drinking Aperol Spritzes in the freezing cold. Benedicte told us about when she’d served Mads Mikkelsen and the crown prince of Denmark in the restaurant one night. We shared stories and sipped our freezing cold but delicious drinks, laughing so hard I worried we might be disrupting the actual customers. Eventually, as the tables inside cleared, we moved in and warmed up, before setting off on another adventure. They took me to Floss, a bar with a heavily graffitied front, thick with customers and cigarette smoke. We found some decaying couches downstairs and chatted with strangers and watched people play pool. Then we braved the cold once more and endured a painfully long line to get into a nightclub, where we danced in projected lights making patterns in the floor, sang along to the music in brash, out of tune voices, and snuck out into the roped off smoking area outside when it got too hot indoors. It’s all a blur. We left around 4am, when I discovered to my delight it was only a 10 minute walk back to my hotel. Once home, I chugged 3 glasses of water, then fell asleep until noon.

I love revisiting places I went when I was younger. I’m an awfully nostalgic person, and I find an odd pleasure in the combined delight in familiarity, and a yearning for past or distant happiness. Yet the people I’ve met as I’ve gotten older, the ones who’ve shown me new sides to the places I thought I knew well, they give me things to love about the places of my childhood which I never would have thought I’d be lucky enough to find. Traveling alone can be a very rewarding and interesting experience, but in this instance, I was so grateful for the companionship, the company, and the new nostalgia to discover the next time I visit.

Proud Mary, Proud Daughter

My mom is an extraordinary woman. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized this more and more (after getting through the “ugh, mom, you’re so embarrassing!” phase). Once I got to college, any friend who had met my mom would pour praise of her onto me, telling me how cool and classy she was, how she was like a second mom to them, and how she could probably out dance us all if we brought her to the club. And they’re right. She’s incredible.

I don’t think writing can properly describe her in full. She simply must be beheld to be understood. But here’s a little list of things that one should know about her.

1. Her name is Diane Anthony Canepa. Formerly Diane Marie Canepa, then Diane Canepa Olson (many years after marrying my dad, she gave in after people kept changing her name automatically on documents and reservations), then to Diane Anthony Canepa (this wasn’t because of a split with my dad, she just wanted her original last name back. She also changed her middle name to her dad’s name).

2. She has 10 siblings who were all tap dancers. They would go on tour around the midwest, with full costumes and everything. They still do a dance at every family function (yes, Canepa weddings are absolutely insane).

3. She drinks exclusively champagne. Really dry, very bubbly is her preference, but she’ll endure a glass of prosecco if she has to.

4. She has way more game than I will ever have. We went to an Avalanche hockey charity event, and she was chatting up all the players, got a few phone numbers, and has basically invited the entire team to come skiing in Breckenridge and stay at our house. I can laugh along, but won’t even attempt small talk with any of those guys. Their asses are so intimidatingly tight, it’s impossible to not feel like a complete potato in their presence.

5. There is one specific story I tell people when they ask me to tell them about my mom. A story which I think fully embodies the kind of woman she is, the energy she creates, and why she will always be the most fun person I know. Here’s the story:

My mom and I were in Chicago visiting some family in the winter of 2015. This was the first time I was in Chicago being of legal drinking age, so naturally, we got a group together to hit up some bars. The group was: my aunt Sue, my cousin Kate, my mom’s longtime friend Kelly, my mom and I. We went to this really cool bar called …- . Yes, that is the name, though Three Dots and a Dash will also work. It’s hid away in an alley with a small neon sign marking it. Downstairs, it’s a tiki style bar which mixes drinks three times stronger than anything you’ve ever tasted. We all got a drink, my mom got a glass of champagne, and we hung out there for a few hours just talking and laughing. We got another round of drinks somewhere in there, so we were quite enjoying ourselves by the time we stumbled back out onto the street.

Not wanting to call it a night, we scrambled around on our phones until someone found a place called Bub City just around the corner. We walked in… let me paint the picture. It’s a country karaoke bar. There’s a giant American flag constructed of red, white and blue painted beer bottles behind the bar. The room is pretty full, lots of people wearing denim. It was easy to forget one was in central Chicago, and not a highway side bar somewhere in Wyoming. A live band is playing, with whom you can get up and belt out your favorite Whitesnake power ballad (thankfully for those listening, they’ll just cut your mic and sing over you if you can’t hold a tune). We found a high top table in the back, next to a table of gents all old enough to be my dad. My aunt Sue got another round of drinks (and this isn’t a place classy enough to stock champagne, so my mom is stuck with a soda). When my mom and Aunt Sue get together, they’re always a fun time, and the rest of us just try and keep up. They pulled us up whenever a good song came on, and we’d dance and sing along loudly. It drew a bit of attention from the tables surrounding us, mostly because we were the only ones dancing and visibly having a good time. After a bit, a waitress brought over another round of drinks. She informed us that the table next to us bought us another round. We turned and give a little “thank you” wave to the dad table. They came to chat with us for a bit, and me and Kate ran off to the bathroom to avoid being flirted at. By the time we came back, they’d thankfully found their seats again, so we rejoined the ladies.

The song came on slow at first. A cute young woman with a remarkable voice belted out the first few lines. “Big wheels keep on turnin’, Proud Mary keep on burnin’, and we’re rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ on a river.” We cheered as the song picked up the pace. Then suddenly, my mom climbed up on top of our table and started dancing. She knows all the moves to Proud Mary, and she was not holding anything back. Just to briefly remind you, she’d only had 2 glasses of champagne here. This is not a drunk response, this is just my mom being the greatest party queen of all time. All of us at the table responded accordingly, Kate slammed her elbow on the table to keep it steady, Sue danced and cheered from a slightly safer stance on the floor, Kelly was crying laughing, and I was filming the whole thing. A security guard came over and yelled at my mom to get down, which she did, but not before the entire bar was made aware that our table was the most lit in the whole venue. Dad table sent us a round of shots. The girl who sang came over to thank us for getting so into it. The bouncer came over again and asked us to leave. We walked back to our hotel crying with laughter.

I’ve told this story a lot. To friends, classmates, and dates. Even if you don’t know her, it’s funny as hell. But it’s not just something I share as evidence of my mom being super fun and a bit crazy. I share it because I’m proud of her. I’m so proud to be her daughter. She is a woman completely unashamed to share joy with the world. She will dance on a table because she wants to, and because she wants to make people smile. She can confidently talk to anyone, because she has no shame in who she is, and knows she is worthy of respect from everyone. And she is kind and generous, and shares her joy with the world.

I hope that one day, I can carry the legacy of all the lessons my mom has taught me. It’ll take time, and practice, and a whole lot of self love to master the lifestyle which she has turned into an art. But until I’ve got it down, I will never miss a chance to dance on a table. And neither will she.

For Emma

It was a hot summer day, and I’d been hiding in the humid basement of the London Palladium all morning. I had been wrapping gifts for press night of the Frank Sinatra tribute show, and had decided this was the coolest thing I’d gotten to do for my internship so far. Not that wrapping presents is particularly thrilling (though they were some very nice custom engraved whiskey glasses), but getting to wander around this old and beautiful theatre was absolute magic. I think it was also influenced by the fact that my friend Emma was coming to visit me that day, so I was in a very happy place. She had been doing an archeological dig in France, and decided to visit London for a week before heading back home. I had been in London for about a month, and was longing for a familiar face from home.

She was coming to the theatre around 2pm, and I said I’d meet her by the front entrance at that time. I was standing outside on time, realizing that this may have not been the best meeting place. The palladium faces a walking street, and on this particular day it was swarming with people. I waited, but no sign of Emma. I kept telling myself it would be fine, but panicking is a fun hobby of mine, so I pondered if she had gone to the other entrance, if she was lost in a sea of double decker busses, or if she’d just been kidnapped by the Queen. Anyone’s guess was as good as mine. I was out of range from the palladium’s Wi-Fi, so I had to hope that somehow, she would find me (in the exact place I told her to meet me, yes I know, this story isn’t really meant to be written as a suspenseful one, but just work with me, ok?).

Then I heard someone singing. A bit odd, singing on the middle of a busy city street. Normally I’d assume someone had been to a particularly good Happy Hour and just ignore it. But Emma is a singer. Not just a person who is good at singing, but a person who will burst into song at any given time. Mention the name of your latest favorite tune, she will sing you through to the first chorus. Unabashedly, soulfully, usually in the middle of a public place. So as the lyrics to the “At Last I See The Light” rose above the crowd, I whipped around to see a mass of brown hair running towards me. We threw our arms around each other and held on tight and laughed and cried, as people wove around our very unashamed display of affection.

It’s easy to get caught up with life and lose track of people. You may not reach out to your closest friends while you’re off traveling the world because they’re not in the forefront of your mind. And that’s ok, it’s hardly a critique on your friendship, but more a compliment to your mind’s ability to focus on what’s right in front of your eyes. Also, there is a level of faith we have in our close friends, whether we acknowledge it or not, to be there for us when we return, the same as we left them. I enjoy spending time with friends in places where we didn’t get to know each other. We get to learn about a new place, and hopefully learn a bit more about each other. It’s enlightening and strange.

I saw Emma again last night. Since we graduated from our undergrad, it’s become harder to see each other often, with her living in New York, and me living between London and Colorado. I walked into her house last night and she was standing there in her wedding dress, her hair and makeup done up like a dream. She’s not getting married for a few months yet, but she wanted to try it all out. It’s moments like these that force me to realize how quickly the time has flown. Those two girls hugging in the middle of London aren’t lost, but they’ve grown and changed, and want different things now.

Time doesn’t change who we are to each other though. A support system, a shoulder to cry on, a girls night out, and a laugh for your worst joke. Even as we flesh out our careers, make new friends, and go on new adventures with new people, we know we can always depend on one another. And I can’t wait to see her walk down the aisle, and witness all of the beautiful adventures that await her after that.

We were walking along the Southbank in London that summer way back when, holding hands and talking about how much we loved this city. Some guy passed us and asked, “Are you in love?”

We both replied, without hesitation, “Yes!”

And I always will be in love with her. And I know she will too, with me. The love of a dear friend has the power to last thorough anything. It can bolster you in times of need and shine on you through your success. Lovers come and go, family is constant, but friends, true friends, are the family we choose. They are the ones who define your life, and the greatest ones will always return to your orbit. The more people I meet and the wider my contact list spreads across the globe, the more I begin to recognize the humans who would cross oceans for me. The ones who would make me burst into song at the sight of them, regardless of the odd looks it might cause.

(I love you Emma. Happy Birthday. I’m so endlessly proud of you and grateful to have you in my life.)

February 14, 2019. London.

It’s Valentine’s Day. I just spent a lovely evening with a few friends, having wine and cheese and chocolate. We had plans to go out, but they fell through in the end. The party’s over. Which is fine. But I have on this gorgeous green dress with slits up the legs and my tallest stilettos, and I sure as hell didn’t put on this outfit to call it an early evening. Instead of heading down to the tube and retreating home, I’m sitting at The Booking Office bar in the St Pancras hotel, having a nightcap.

It’s a little odd, being alone in a bar, very dressed up, particularly on Valentine’s Day. But being alone doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable. Being idle does, which is why I’m writing about this in the notes section of my phone. There is live music; a singer and a guitarist, playing some jazzy versions of pop hits. I’ve ordered a martini. It’s gin, with hints of lemon and lavender. The waiter presented me an empty glass with a twirl of lemon, then poured the liquid from a corked bottle. As a final flourish, he sprayed a lavender mist onto the surface.

I didn’t need to come to a bar at 11pm and spend £14 on a stiff drink. But if I’m my own valentine, I guess that entitles me to treat myself to something a bit fancy. Also, it’s setting in that I leave London in one week. And I won’t be able to wander through St Pancras station when I’m looking to kill an hour and see some beautiful architecture. It’s just two months until I come back to the UK. But I’m starting to realize the next time I leave, it’ll likely be for much longer.

“The world is your oyster”. That’s a good phrase to describe where I’m currently at. It’s normally a positive phrase, implying there is anywhere you can go and anything you can do with your life. But it also can mean, and currently means for me, I have nowhere that is pulling me, nothing to focus on. I’m in the unfortunate situation in which, the place where I’ve established a career and a life for myself, is not available to me as a home. I mean, it is, but I can’t legally work, there’s no visa I can get, lots of formalities and what not, basically meaning no London for Paige. Not long term, anyway.

If I think about it too hard, it makes me more melancholy than I can bear. This city gives me energy, it breathes life into my mind. I find myself smiling while walking down the street, like a character in a sappy film strolling into the end credits. I don’t know if I’ll find another place that will make me feel so elated, and I’ll be doomed to exist in a mere state of contentment wherever I next settle down. I’m probably just being melodramatic. I am alone in a bar on Valentine’s Day after all, it comes with the territory.

When I was younger, I would set goals for myself. Nothing too complicated, just a silly promise that by next Valentine’s Day, there would be someone special in my life. And February 14 came and went, year after year. I seem to greatly enjoy the anticipation for something, even after being faced with disappointment again and again. This is a trait that has plagued me often. At the slightest glimmer of attention or affection, I let the anticipation consume me. I’m not sure what I hope for. It’s not always a relationship, or love, but simply human connection, kindness, intimacy. So in the frequent occurrence that said person loses interest, ghosts me, finds someone more interesting, or just turns out to be a dick bag, it hits a lot heavier than it might for someone who keeps their guard up. But it never deters me, I go back with the same amount of hope every time. I think by now I just know that I can handle the heartache.

I am fortunate to have so many people in my life who love and support me. As the years of singlehood grow in number, so does the number of amazing humans I am lucky to call friends. London has blessed me with so many, and honestly that’s the real reason I can’t walk through this city without smiling. These streets and buildings mean more to me than just their architecture. They remind me of people I’ve walked bridges with, toasted outside of bars with, sat in parks with and stumbled into the tube with. The memories burst from every corner, like a scrapbook I can stand in the middle of.

It’s harder to face rejection from a place than from a person. Because the only one leaving is you. The place will move on, and the people in it will continue their lives, unfazed by your absence. You pack your bags and buy the plane ticket willingly, but you still press your face to the window as you rise into the sky, trying to catch one more glimpse before it disappears into the clouds.

I’ve finished my drink. People still linger at tables around me, but it’s quieted down. I should probably head out soon, so I don’t miss the last train.

I’m setting a goal for myself. For next Valentine’s Day, a year from today. I want to be somewhere that I love. Even if I don’t love it as much as London, I want to find something to love about wherever I find myself, and whoever I’m there with.

And if I find myself alone in another bar, spending too much money on a drink, at least I’ll know that wherever I am is too magical to call it an early night, even when the party’s over.

Most Unique

In my senior year of high school, we had to vote for yearbook awards. You know the ones: Most School Spirit, Class Clown, Best Eyes. I wasn’t super popular, so I wasn’t expecting to get showered with votes, but I knew I had a shot at Best Dressed.

I had been a fashion fiend since I could pick out my own clothes, putting together crazy outfits to wear even on the most mundane days. Holidays? You can bet your ass I was showing up to school in some themed getup, all pink for Valentine’s Day or head to toe candy cane stripes for the last day of school before Christmas break. I was the girl wearing heels to school for no specific occasion other than it was a Tuesday. And I lived in a ski town, so this would be a Tuesday with 3 fresh inches of snow.

At school, I was chatting with some of my friends about the awards, if they knew who they were voting for, etc. Someone asked me,

“Is there one that you want to win?” I shrugged and lightly suggested that the Best Dressed one might be nice. One of my friends made an awkward face.

“Sarah’s trying to win that one. She’s telling people to vote for her.”

Shit. I hadn’t anticipated someone making a campaign out of this thing. I asked Sarah about it later:

“So you’re going for Best Dressed for the yearbook thing?”

She looked at me with her puppy dog eyes, knowing full well my collection of kooky pattered tights was superior to hers.

“Yeah, I just really want it! But I was gonna vote for you for Most Unique, that’s so perfect for you!”

“……”

Aight. Unique is a tough word. Because, yes, it does mean you’re kooky and interesting, and not similar to everyone else. But this is also high school, an organization that is basically run on conformity. And unique can be a positive thing, but it can also mean you stick out like a sore thumb, are weird, and are essentially the one left over puzzle piece of the bunch.

I was a bit odd and unusual, to be fair. I had been raised vegetarian, atheist, and without cable television, a trifecta which got me into several heated debates with classmates, especially in my younger years. It was never me who started them either.

A kid came up to me in fourth grade, to confront me about my disgraceful way of living after finding out I was a vegetarian. He lumbered up on the playground, shaggy brown hair seated like a mop upon his head, eyes full of contempt and self righteousness. His mom was the kind of woman who would most likely sue me over slander if I were to include his name, so let’s just call him G-Man.

“If you don’t eat meat, you won’t go to heaven.”

First of all, I was pretty sure that this prepubescent lump didn’t hold heaven’s gate keys, so this statement was a bit confusing.

“Huh?”

“You can’t be a vegetarian, because God gave you teeth to eat meat with, so if you don’t eat meat, you’re going to hell.”

“I don’t believe in heaven or hell.”

“…. what?”

“I don’t believe in God.”

I watched as G-Man’s carefully crafted argument crumbled before his eyes. I don’t think he anticipated that response. He sputtered a bit, before changing tactics.

“Then you can’t celebrate Christmas!”

“Well, I do.”

“But you can’t! Christmas is about God so you can’t celebrate Christmas!”

“I put up a Christmas tree, I do presents, I still celebrate Christmas.”

“But you can’t!”

At this point there really wasn’t any reason for me to keep fighting, G-Man seemed beyond perplexed, and I had nothing to earn here, seeing little value in the respect of someone who probably hadn’t even read Harry Potter. So I walked away.

I suppose “Unique” is a few steps above the teeth-misusing, Christmas fugitive that G-Man had me out to be. So high school me counted my blessings when the awards came out, and I made the cut.

The girl and boy winners in each category had to come in and have our pictures taken for the yearbook. Sarah proudly posed as the Best Dressed girl in the 2012 senior class, wearing a white and red floral dress, a hip denim jacket, and a giant pair of sunglasses. She could have been an extra in High School Musical. I rode up wearing a pair of black patent leather oxford heels, a rainbow patterned bandage skirt, a white tee shirt with a funky Polaroid picture on it (this is pre-Taylor Swift’s Polaroid obsession, I’m very innovative), and a fascinator. Yep, a fucking fascinator. With a little mesh veil that came over my eyes. I won the award alongside a boy who I had known since elementary school. I should add, he never once gave me shit about being vegetarian. Though I guess he has a peanut allergy, so I’m sure he was sympathetic to dietary restrictions. And he brought a light saber to the photo shoot. Yeah, fuck it, I’ll take Most Unique any day.