She took a shower to get away. The scalding water warmed her like a blanket. She was cold, but her face was hot and red from tear stains. The water washed it away. The water silenced her head. Her heart still hurt.

His tongue sliced through her like little razor blades. He hated being nagged; she hated needing to. He was a thinker and she was a doer. She saw a problem and pounced, attacking first questioning later; he saw a problem and retreated, mulling it over till there was no choice but action.

Neither wrong, just different. Neither right, just divergent. They need to merge.

Fire and ice make steam.

“Do you all remember when you got your last cell phone?” asked the 60ish woman dressed in purple tweed. “Did you know how to use it, or place a call?”

This time she got an answer out of the 30-odd women spread out among 15 or so rows of blue-plastic, armless chairs. “No,” said the crowd.

“Yes,” said me.

My lone response went ignored.

“Right, of course you didn’t,” the woman continued. “You had to read the owners manual.”

Right there I knew I was in trouble. I’ve never read an owners manual in my life; not for a coffeemaker, a cell phone, a video game—nothing. I’ve always just figured it out. Working an appliance is not like dismantling a bomb; it ain’t that difficult.

And neither is weight loss.

“Everyone turn to your Weight Watchers owners manual, and open up to page 60,” the woman said. “These are your guides to good health. Memorize them; they will really help you out.”

The guide was simple, and in my opinion, obvious. Drink lots of water, take vitamins, and eat five servings of fruits and vegetables a day. But these women were oooing and aaahhing as if they’ve never heard of “water” before.

“Remember, we are all a flock of geese,” she said. “At these meetings we fly in a v formation to support each other.” Geese? I am definitely not a goose.

“Now who lost some weight this week?” she asked. Five or six hands shot up immediately.

“I’ve lost 1.6 pounds!” one woman exclaimed.

“I lost 3.2 pounds!” another said.

One by one, the meeting leader handed out stars to “reinforce” the “positive behavior” of those who lost weight, dubbing one 50-ish woman “lead goose” for losing the most weight of the week. Apparently we were not only owners-manual reading geese, but we were also in kindergarten.

Over the course of 45 minutes, middle-aged women shared stories of eating a bag of Hershey Kisses in one sitting, gorging themselves on Pringles, and scarfing down pints of Ben & Jerry’s. One very overweight lady practically drooled on herself during a discussion of onion rings, as the meeting leader started talking about “red light foods.”

I’m sure you’ve figured it out, but just in case, a red light food is apparently something bad for you that triggers a food binge. And these ladies had a ton of them to discuss.

“How can we enjoy our red light foods without overeating?” the meeting leader asked. She was met with silence. Had the possibility of not overeating ever occurred to these people?

“Um, buy a 100-calorie pack?” one woman replied.

This was getting ridiculous, and I was getting annoyed. Just don’t eat 15 cookies people, it’s not that difficult! I couldn’t contain my inner voice any longer: “How about not eating out of the bag, and having just one?”

“Yes! Exactly!” the leader said. “Wow, this is your first day and you already know the answer! That’s so great!” Her praise was followed by a roaring round of applause.

Goose Faith was not amused.

It became very apparent that I was in the wrong place. It was like a freaking AA meeting. These women spoke of food like it was heroin. I was the thinnest person in the room by 50 pounds and the youngest by 20 years. My reason for wanting to lose weight is pure vanity. The women at the meeting have real, very serious, issues with food. Most were bingers with no concept of self control. They spoke of “obsessively thinking about food,” and “eating until stuffed.”

I just wanted to discuss smart choices at restaurants.

I do not need a chart of a smiling stomach at different levels of fullness to understand the difference between starving and stuffed. I do not need gold stars to get motivated to exercise; I got to kickboxing three times a week.

If there was one thing I did get out of the meeting, it was that my body could be a hell of a lot worse. It might not be perfect, but it isn’t in the same stratosphere as those ladies I spent an hour with.

I don’t think I’ll be going back. There is an online option you can do that tracks what you eat, which more conducive to my needs. This goose likes flying solo anyway.

I met Colleen on the Loyola College stage in 2001, and I wasn’t impressed. It wasn’t her, specifically, that didn’t impress me, it was the whole shebang. She had one big scene in which she shoved so many chocolates into her mouth I thought for sure she’d choke. It was funny, but overall the show was an uninteresting, melodramatic mess.

We were formally introduced three months later during a spring semester Acting 1 class. I remember sitting in a circle on these plastic school chairs, thinking she had a monstrous amount of curly blonde hair and wore way too much pale-blue eye shadow. She had a gold, three-stoned ring on her wedding hand made with some sort of purplish stone and I knew she had a boyfriend. I also knew, from observation, she had an interesting taste in clothes, frequently pairing a rainbow-colored sweater with a neon-green and pink t-shirt.

Little did I know that this free spirit would become my roommate for two years and subsequently one of my best friends. Seven years from our first introduction, she has morphed from a cheese-wiz eating, cigarette smoking, study-a-holic to a Coach-buying, shorthaired, lawyer. Where the hell did the last four years go?

I realized today that in two months, I’ll be 26. Twenty-fucking-six. That number seems so old to me, so ominous. It’s like I’ve been in a coma from college graduation until now. Birthdays, ski trips, alumni events, they all run together to a point where I can’t tell one from the other. It’s like I took a nap and Colleen was a student living off Ramen and I wake up and she’s eating sushi and playing tennis.

My God. How long have I been asleep?

It was an adolescent rite of passage; you moved out of the house—perhaps to college or your first apartment—and you brought Mom’s backup silverware with you. She begrudgingly passed along a few mismatched butter knifes, some bent spoons, and salad forks, then instructed you “not to lose them.” Somehow in the revolving seven-year door of roommates, boyfriends, dorms, apartments, and houses, I didn’t lose them. Not a one. In fact, two and a half years after buying a home and moving in with my boyfriend, they were a dinnertime staple.

After having to run the dishwasher every other day because my random cutlery only served one, Jay and I broke down and splurged on a $12 set from Wal-Mart. They were made of sturdy plastic, left small flecks of gray paint in our food, and had a bad habit of breaking while in use. Great buy, really.

My house is chalk full of crappy shit like this because there are certain purchases I equate with marriage; a bedroom set, fine china, ever day cutlery, a good silverware. Not sure why. Maybe they invoke some sort of feeling of permanence. My parents have used the same bedroom set, china, cutlery, and silverware for more than 35 years. Meanwhile, Jason and I are still using the bedroom set my dad had when he was a kid—missing drawer knobs and all—and our bed lacks a frame. None of these things make life less comfortable, but the hand-me-downs are symbolic of us still having our foot in the adolescent door.

If there was one thing I was most looking forward to getting for our wedding, it was matching cutlery. I was sick of our motley set-up and wanted something worthy of dinner guests. Dorky and domestic? Highly.

This Christmas, Jason and I unwrapped two boxes of Oneida flatwear. They weren’t plastic and painted gray. They weren’t bent, dull, or tarnished.

And they matched.

Door, closing.

It’s a well-known fact that I am a social butterfly. I love people, conversations, happy hours, alcohol, and bar food. I am an emotional sponge; my mood depending on the moods of those surrounding me. I can be brought up or brought down easily; if my house is a mess, so is my mind.

Well folks, Christmas exploded at my house and I have yet to put it away. I haven’t vacuumed in a month; the dishwasher is clean and dishes are piling up in the sink; and for lack of a more potent turn of phrase, there is shit everywhere.

It’s not just because I’m a terrible housekeeper (no matter how true that is) it’s because since Dec. 20, I have been running around all of Maryland, D.C., and Virginia like the Energizer Bunny on crack.

Thursday, Dec. 20 I got my ass up at 5:30 AM per usual to make it to work by 8..ish. Twelve hours after awaking, I arrive home again, only to change clothes and leave to run errands. I had to drive a half hour to the mall to pick something up for my mom, do last-minute Christmas shopping, and return home to make some dip for my brother’s Christmas party the next day.

Friday, Dec. 21, I took Jay to work at 8 AM, went to a doctors appointment at 9 AM, and at 10:30 AM met my best friend at my house to go to a wedding hair trial I had scheduled from 11:30 AM to 2 PM. I grabbed lunch, picked Jay up from work, and Metroed down to D.C. to meet friends for dinner at Georgia Browns at 6 PM, and then arrived at my brother’s party around 8:30.

Keeping up with me? Then try this.

Saturday, Dec. 22, Jay and I drove down to my parent’s house to help them get ready for Christmas. Somehow, their house was more of a catastrophe than mine was, which really takes work. My parents are typically behind at Christmas anyway, but this year was particularly bad due to a malfunctioning water heater, well water, and ovens. It wasn’t all their fault. Jason and I wrapped and wrapped and wrapped, did some decorating in the basement, cleaned up the kitchen and dining room, wrapped some more, then decorated the Christmas tree. We were there from 1 to 11 PM, and we were working the entire time. We were exhausted. The next day, we drove to Jay’s sister’s house in Virginia to watch the Browns game. They lost.

Then came Christmas Eve. Jason and I got up, wrapped some stuff, cleaned out the car, got the million bags together that we needed, and drove to his parent’s house in Point of Rocks, M.D., that afternoon. We then drove to D.C., which was about an hour and a half, to see the Christmas trees at the mall. I had never been, and was looking forward to it. It was cold, crowded, and the trees all kinda looked the same to tell you the truth. But the pretzels sold at the vendor stands were damn good. We went back to Point of Rocks, grabbed some pizza, played some Wii, and then a group of Wine Monsters somehow drank 6 bottles over the course of the night. Merry Christmas!

Jason had a sinus infection so I woke up at 4 in the morning by freight train snoring, as I had been every other day that week. I usually lay there and try to ignore it unsuccessfully, but in anticipation of the crazy day I had ahead of me, I needed to sleep.

I got up, grabbed the pillow, and headed downstairs to the couch. It’s a new house, so I don’t know if it’s still settling, built on an Indian burial ground, or what, but there were some freaky ass noises all around me. Sleeping wasn’t going to happen. Then I remembered, A Christmas Story is playing on TBS for 24 hours straight! Score! By the time the movie was over, it was 6 AM, and Jason’s dad and grandma were up. I got some coffee, rustled the troops, grabbed a shower, ate breakfast, and had Christmas. Jay and I left Point of Rocks by 11:30 that morning, and drove the 2 hours to La Plata, where my parents live.

Whew. It was 1:30 in the afternoon on Christmas Day, and I was wiped out. We had Christmas with my parents, drove to my grandma’s house around 5, had dinner around 7, unwrapped gifts around 8, and Jason and I finally headed home around 9, only to get up the next day and go to work.

No rest for the weary.

Finally, on Wed. Dec. 26, we had a minibreak. I was supposed to see a movie with friends in D.C., but I remembered that I needed to make two fruit cakes, and with my torturous schedule, Wednesday was the only night possible. I went to kickboxing, couldn’t find the fruit cake recipe, gave up, and went to bed. Thursday the 27 I met up with some high school buddies at Matchbox and Café PeePee Citron, which was a blast, but exhausting no the less.

It’s is now Friday Dec. 27 and I’m leaving work at 1:30 to drive to my parents house in La Plata for their annual Christmas party after Christmas. Tomorrow, Jason’s parents are having a housewarming party, and if I don’t pass out from exhaustion, we’re going to that. Sunday we drive to Long Island for New Years, and don’t come back to Maryland until Tuesday.

Did you get exhausted just reading that? Cause I sure as hell got exhausted doing it.

I don’t even feel like myself. I’m pissy, and cranky, and really need some Jason time one-on-one. I feel like I haven’t spoken to the kid in a week. He’s been sick, which doesn’t help things, and all of our interactions have been in family or social situations. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family and friends, and we are very lucky to have such great people around to spend time with. I really do enjoy it abut my fucking God, this schedule is killing me. True to form, we won’t receive said break until Jan. 19—the first day off work we have NOTHING TO DO. I’m putting my phone off the hook, turning my cell off, and hiding in the house all weekend.

Don’t call me.