This month marks the fifth year for my husband, Jason, and me as a couple. It's been a crazy half a decade filled with travel, excitement, a marriage and an ever-deepening commitment to each other. Last week, in light of this milestone, I realized something very important. I miss dating. Don't panic. I love my husband. Plus, he makes the best margarita this side of the border and I'm not just going to walk away from something like that.
Last week I was sick. I had the kind of cough that makes people scoot their chairs a few inches away and look at you with a mix of pity and disgust — like I was a poor Victorian woman dying of consumption. My husband, Jason, claims the only time I'm ever truly honest about how I'm feeling is when I'm sick. If I'm healthy and he asks me a question, I'll usually respond with a good Midwesterner, "Fine." "How was your day?" "Fine." "Is your steak undercooked?" "It's fine." "Are you angry at me?" "I'm fine."
Last month I wrote my first script for a television show. I had a week to complete it, and I spent the first two days staring at a blank screen, frozen in terror. Most of the scripts I'd written up to now were tucked away safely in a file on my computer. Or, at best, read by Studio Executives who called my agents and said, "We loved it, but can it be more murder-y?"
I've always had an active imagination. As a kid, I believed in all the classics: mermaids, fairies, unicorns, elves. I was even convinced trees could talk. Raised on a small farm outside of a small town, my imagination knew no limits. It was free to unfurl through the wheat fields and shelterbelts, happily leading me on epic adventures of my own creation. One summer, at the height of my imaginings, my cousin, Grant, and I decided to plant a rock garden. (These are the kind of things we did for fun back in rural North Dakota, before cable television or poop emojis.)
Last week I got a tattoo. Wait, Grandma, don't stop reading! I'm still your sweet granddaughter — the same girl you once hugged and whispered in her ear, "I love you just as much as all my other grandchildren." Special words spoken by a true (always fair) Midwest grandma. I hope you'll still love me a fair amount. If not, I'll have to start divulging secrets about my cousins, and I know you don't want to hear that one of them lived with their husband before they got married. Wait. That was also me.
I've always loved the Fourth of July. Growing up in my small town, the Fourth meant three-legged races, watching the parade on Main Street and covering my ears during fireworks. Eating corn on the cob in my flag shirt with butter dripping down my face, I remember feeling so grateful I lived in that exact part of the country that celebrated in that exact way. It was the only America I knew — with rolling wheat fields, pink-sky sunsets, lots of hotdish and wide-open spaces.
Last month I was hacked by the Russians. OK, it wasn't "the" Russians but rather one Russian. He hacked into my Facebook account, changed my password, assumed my identity, and promptly deleted all of my friends. It was my very own Election 2016. When I tried to log in and report the hack, a message popped up telling me there was no account associated with my email. Panicked, I asked my husband, Jason, to bring up his page. He did and we discovered that every photo I'd ever been tagged in had been erased of my name.
Last week was the first week of my new job as a television writer. It was also my nine-year anniversary in Los Angeles. In other words, I've been working toward a job like this for almost a decade. I should have been giddy. I had the beginnings of my dream — I was holding it right in the palm of my hand.
Hi Katie. It's me, Jessica. I'm the woman whose article about infertility you responded to in a letter entitled, "A strong faith is all you need to live a full life." Thank you for your letter. I'm grateful to have an open dialogue about such an important issue. I was also so sorry to have read about your miscarriages — a heartbreak no one can begin to understand until you live through it. Thank you for bravely sharing that part of your story.
Last week I froze my eggs. The ones in my body, not the ones in my kitchen. I always considered freezing your eggs something women did so they wouldn't feel pressured by their biological clock while they were advancing their careers or vacationing in Mazatlan. It seemed breezy and smart and modern. But "breezy" isn't exactly how I'd describe it. There were pills, blood draws, ultrasounds and hormones. (Oh, were there hormones.)