How to Be Interesting

So there I am, sitting in the student lounge, chocolate smeared across my cheek, an anthropology textbook cracked open on my lap; I'm down to my last pencil, and "Toothbrush" is playing for what seems to be the fifth time in thirty minutes. It's Monday morning. Somehow the din of the surrounding chatter, the smack of pool balls, and the clacking of computer keys only add to the pangs of alienation. Everyone in here must be at least six feet tall and/or wearing flawless makeup from Sephora. I, meanwhile, am small, timid, have been walking around with a conspicuous rolling bag, and apparently give a constant expression of 'I don't know what the heck I'm doing'. Perfect.

My first day of college began spotlessly-- and by spotlessly, I of course mean that I somehow managed to get into hot water before my first class. Try beating that one, folks. (And as a side note, avoid power walking in the library).

Although I'd tried everything to feel prepared for this day (the usual visualization, school supply splurge, crying in a corner, etc.) there was nothing to keep me from the writhing mass of anxiety I became the moment I walked up the staircase to History. Walked is nondescript: My bag thump, thump, thumped up every step and I barely caught myself out of a stumble at the top of the flight. I'm certain my mom would have reminded me, "Whether you think you can or you think you can't, you're right." Unfortunately, my brain was very committed to analyzing every possible negative outcome.

It's been said that I allow dreams to influence me too deeply, and this may be true. I see them, however, as subconscious references rather than omens or mandates. And almost every morning, I force Hogan into the role of psychotherapist. It eludes me as to how he's so enduringly patient."I had a dream last night", I start-- he must be considering revoking our friendship for the third time this week-- "I couldn't sing. It was really distressing."

Imagine him giving an exaggerated expression of concern accompanied by no vocal change whatsoever. That's Hogan's usual. It's endearing, trust me.

He says, "Huh, sorry. Any idea what the psychological reasoning is?"

The dream had involved evil sororities, Myers-Briggs types, and my sister stealing my singing voice. My memory of a dream is rarely vague, but the plots themselves are convoluted-- more often than not, I find the gaping holes in logic difficult to explain. In this dream my sister had stolen my talents one by one and been praised for them while I struggled to fit in. Apparently she was kind of Ursula, but worse and with less legs. There was a goat somewhere here. I was playing with a snow globe. Idk.

Hogan's gotten used to me analyzing things like this to an almost unhealthy extent-- the underlying psychological metaphors, and so on. It stems from my regrettable middle school mentality. My parents disliked Freud, therefore I vehemently obsessed over him. So it goes. Sorry, Mom.

"It's because I'm scared of entering college and not being comparatively smart, or special, at all. The only things that could give me an edge academically are Jackie's talents. Focus and organization... which I don't have. I'll just be stumbling along."

And that, dear friends, is what eats me up at night:

Hahaha, of course not. You probably wouldn't be reading this blog if you weren't looking forward to hearing about my latest dumb decision-- you all know it's coming by this point.

Anyways, there I am in the student lounge. I've spent my first two-hour break between classes color-coding the syllabus and marking all the assignments in my planner (I'd like you to acknowledge that as a feat for me), and now that it's the second break of the day, time is stretching on into what feels like fantastic gravitational singularity. I've already gone to the cafe for lunch, fed a squirrel, and speculated the possibility that I could get through this whole school year without talking to anyone. Maybe if I pretended to be deaf? More on that later.

I glance down into my bag and the corner of the Book peeks up at me. The cover is an almost obnoxious shade of mustard yellow, yet there's something transfixing about it-- perhaps compared to long passages on dendrochronology, perhaps because of all the events leading up to this-- I pull it up with two fingers and slide the textbook off of my lap. The title screams, in bold black letters, and on no uncertain terms, "This Book Will Change Your Life".

Rude.

And so, I open to the first page. 

Now, ladies and gents, a quick fun fact about me: I need things to be hard. If they aren't, I feel insulted, lose interest, and then purposefully worsen the situation until it meets my criteria of uncomfortability. Examples? Okie doke. 

So imagine, if you will, my reaction to the following: I open to the first page, eagerly anticipating the wondrous experiences that await me, only to meet the passage, "As this is your first day, you should warm up with an easy task that will only change your life a little bit." What-- WHAT?! 

Oh, and furthermore, "Choose one of the following options". The first one was "Do one press-up". I feel like that kind of sets the tone for the rest of the list. 

I would like to state that, for the record, this list of things is half comprised of my daily activities. 

That being said, I am not, by nature, athletically inclined-- psychologically or physically. My daily exercise consists of walking to the fridge and back, to the freezer and back, and wandering aimlessly around the kitchen while I try to decide whether I'm hungry or just bored. When my sister Olivia competes in the Olympics (as she surely will) I would like you all to reflect on this irony. 

That being said, I am marginally good at two things: ice skating and yoga. I guard these jealously, because I have to be better at something, anything, even if only because they've never tried. We call it the eldest sister complex.

Anyways, that's how I ended up at the gym on Saturday.
You may be asking how a yoga class relates to this challenge to do one singular press-up, and in response, I politely ask you not to judge me.

(I enjoy yoga for the simple reason that it makes me feel sore, in a good way. Well, okay, also-- it's the least possible effort, yet people still ask, with a mixture of awe and understandable surprise, "Oh, wow, you do yoga??" I think it gives them the impression that I've also saved fifteen orphaned puppies, dabbled in Taoism, and drink green tea every morning.)

But that's not the important part. I hope you haven't forgotten that I have issues.

On the way out of the yoga studio, every Saturday morning, you'll pass by several, equally strident group exercise classes. They're all filled with muscular thirty-somethings in color-coordinated athletic wear and high-brand running shoes who are, unequivocally, better than you. So I really can't explain why I looked at the schedule, saw something called "BODYCOMBAT", and said to myself, "hm, that sounds like a reasonable idea." But I did, and I walked right into a room blasting pop rock and boasting a regime of cardioboxing.

If I could offer you one piece of advice for every year, all the gloriously pragmatic bits that I dish out but fail to follow myself, I have a pretty good idea of what I'd be saying.

Okay, but trust me, this time I have good advice. I promise. I triple pinkie promise (ish).
Now listen up; I'm only going to say this once.

Anyways, I walk in there, feeling energized from yoga, and within about five minutes, come to the very definitive conclusion that, out of everyone in the room, I would be the first to die in a zombie apocalypse. They have rooted me out as the weakest specimen, I am sure. "Uma Thurman" is playing. The instructor has us doing roundhouse kicks and curb stomps to the beat. I'm wheezing. The lady next to me could take out a full grown Kodiak bear. 

Perhaps purely out of pity for me, the instructor advises us to "visualize" a scenario for our "technique". It gives more stamina and passion to those punches (I can attest to that).

So there I am! Fighting ninjas in the upper story of a fitness club while the music is going all bahDUMbahDUMbahDUMduhDUM (etc). They're swarming me from all directions, arising from the shadows. I feint to the right and swing my fist to catch one in the jaw-- he topples, because he's not actually a good ninja (due to a tragic backstory involving polymyalgia) -- and then I snap kick him in the ribs. The next strangles me from behind, I elbow him sharply to the stomach, everyone's cheering me on, and then--

Admittedly, I zoned out. Perhaps, you could say, got carried away. 

-- I uppercut myself straight in the jaw.

Don't ask me how or why this happened. 

Don't get me wrong, I'm spiteful and stubborn. I shrugged it off. We went on to punch imaginary speed bags and I walloped myself (more lightly this time) in the nose. Then across my own hand. "You could be a future boxer right here, you have the power and the drive," the instructor offered cheerfully. My hand was starting to bleed.

I walked out of there with an ego more wounded than my sore jugular. 

Now wait, here comes my favorite part. Usually, by 6am at the latest, Jackie is doing crunches in her room, having already jogged/walked the dogs, eaten breakfast, applied makeup, gotten dressed with acute fashionable tact, posted a flawless selfie on Instagram, and read her Bible. Now, knowing that, this is actually what she said to me.

And, of course, the book was there to remind me when I got home--

Dear Diary: I'm Ten

Cody turns to me and says, "Julia, please get off Sims, we're watching a movie." To which I respond, "You bought me the DLC-- and now I have to take care of my horses, or they'll die. I'm not a monster, Cody."

He calls it an addiction, which means he's never truly seen me around non-rhyming poetry accompanied by vivid watercolor on Tumblr, which constitutes the true meaning of addiction to me.
Nonetheless, he pervasively considers Sims to be the very thing that eats up all my time and causes me to say such things as, "Yeah, my wife died today, along with the Goopy Carbona burning, which is really more unfortunate because then I had to go out for lunch but hey at least tonight I'll win the Gold Digger challenge," which he deems to be at the very least, disconcertingly bizarre.
The one thing I've learned about playing video games around Cody is that there is an exponentially positive correlation between the more I try to emulate him playing SCP Containment Beach and how increasingly disturbed he becomes.

Yesterday, I was shuffling through some notebooks of mine, and came across a journal entry, dated January 18th, 2011; it conclusively proves that this has been a long-lasting epidemic of mine, and something quite to be feared.

Mom's CBRC [local gym] goal is still in effect. I wished it wasn't. 3 hours of my Monday were spent at swimming lessons. Let me get this strait [sic]. It is not easy to do a whip snap kick. Whip snap kick is a fancy way to say, 'Oh, and by the way, want to drown?' especially if you swim 400 meters. Ring swimming, which I invented, is no easier, The only difference is that I didn't learn it, I taught it. The only thing to do in ring swimming is tie your feet and legs together. BINGO! The only downside is that my sisters call it mermaid swimming. It isn't. I am a magical creature of the deep and mermaid is too blah for who I am. Majestic.

3 hours in the pool means 'Pay for our gym membership to become an actual prune! After which, be forced to get more wet in the showers!' because that's exactly what happened. After all that swimming, all I wanted to do was play Sims. But of course not. We were going to do something better.

Rollerblading. And I didn't fall once, because I'm awesome, and so I bought myself one of those sticky hand things. No one wanted to be friends on the couples skate. I had food though and it was better. Going there includes an Extra Large Pizza and a Bottomless Rootbeer Pitcher [sic, with the capitalization]. But the entire time, all I could thing about was Sims. Glorious Sims. Sims is all I can think about now. Sims, Sims, Sims. I have a family and they eat spaghetti together and I made my dog on it so she isn't dead anymore [oh good heavens]. 

It's a drug, I tell you! And I'm an addict, along with my sister Olivia [Note: I made this part up because I was butthurt that she wanted to play it for ten minutes, thusly keeping me from Sims time, and so I concluded that she was addicted and should be on regulated usage of the computer]. So that's where I spent four more hours of my weekend. My mom called me in for dinner but my Sims family of us was having a sit down meal for once and I couldn't miss it. In this game I'm a really great cook and I have a boyfriend named Nick and that's my favorite part. I'm going to break up with him though because he isn't pretty enough for me.

 Sigh. This is a more deep-rooted issue than I realized. Younger me admitted what I could not, yesterday, that I'm interested in fantasy life because I can do the impossible-- such as cooking in a microwave without setting it on fire, sometimes, or looking good in a bathing suit, or attending social events without hiding in the corner. I guess it shows me a little more of who I want to be, in the worst way possible.
When I look at all the experiences I could be having-- such as, a sit-down dinner with my actual family-- a game just pales in comparison. Maybe Cody's been trying to tell me that he'll go on a date with me irl if I'll stop complaining about how the celebrities at a cafe in fictional Riverview didn't recognize me as a celebrity from my newly created ska band ("Look at this, I have one star! They should at least ask me for an autograph, shouldn't they?!")

Right now, it's a good time to pause and engage in real life.  I could have a boyfriend named Nick if I wanted to, but I'm sure he still wouldn't be pretty enough for me.

What it Means to be a Sister

Being a sister is quite the adventure. I say this for the many times I've almost been traumatically amputated.

Despite this, I've got a definite soft spot for the two little munchkins I'm so blessed to call my sisters. As the oldest, I basically have this certificate that permits me to mess you up if you even think about hurting one of my little angels (though blackmail is much more classy, honestly). I couldn't imagine life without these girls; they're so eccentric, supportive, energizing, slightly insane, uplifting, and made of every little thing that lights up my life.

There's Jackie, who's the responsible (*cough* bossy) middle child, and she's about as goofy and tenderhearted as they come, but when it boils down to it she's one of the toughest people I know. She doesn't take crap from anyone, especially those who pick on the underdog (especially if that underdog actually IS a dog). Jackie knows exactly what she wants in life, or rather, wants to do for others in life, and is wholly unabashed in her pursuit to serve that purpose. Then there's Olivia-- bubbly, loud, sparkling with enthusiasm, optimistic, driven, studious, and intelligent. She always puts 100% effort into her life, be it in gymnastics, school, or improv comedy performances at home, and her motto is "Don't practice until you get it right, practice until you can't get it wrong." I'm so proud of both of them. They're unique, beautiful, and spirited; and they teach me far more than I do them. I thought it would be opposite, when I became a big sister. I thought I'd be doing the instructing, and I was wrong.

Instead, I gained a motto; "Ohana means family. Family means whoop anyone who hurts 'em."

My sisters really do care for me. I remember one time I was in some bizarre emotional state and started breaking down into sobs over the fact that no one had ever brought me flowers. No sooner had my sisters heard this than they dashed out of the room and returned with an impromptu bouquet of irises and wild mustard. They may actually be angels, and now I'm on a mission to prove it :P

That's not to say there isn't dissension. Oh no, believe me, there's a lot of it. About half of my arguments with Olivia are, regrettably, very petty. The most notable of which was about eggs (long story). Another time, Jackie gave me a Christmas card, no gift accompanying it, the only inscription being a lengthy explanation of "You owe me ten dollars". Merry Christmas to you too, Jackie!

Ah, lovely memories.

They've given me a fair share of scares, too, and I'm pretty sure the vast majority of them qualify for inclusion in the "Dumb Ways to Die" song. Jackie put an arcade token in her mouth and choked on it while jumping up and down on the bed. Olivia nearly hung herself in the drapery. Then there was the time Jackie wanted to play lifeguard and Olivia, God bless her, actually experienced a not-so-fun episode of unfairly realistic drowning. her commitment to the game was fierce. Gotta love 'em.

I've always watched from a distance as they did everything together. I grew up and became a loner far too quickly. There was only room for two in playing Mommy and Baby, or Kitty and Owner. Jackie was the mothering type, and Olivia loved being (s)mothered (in affection). It just worked out like that. I was to be mature and responsible, an aptitude for which Jackie seemed by far more fitting. I often felt shut off from them, loving them but never really quite there. I was the kind of sister who would take you out for ice cream only to be shooed to another table, or call "Dance party in my room!" and have no one show up.

No, this isn't a pity party. I'm about to tell you why I finally realized this is my fault. Though I tried to be a loving sister, I was also a hot and cold sister. One minute I'd be pushing everyone out of my room for "invading my space", and the next I'd just expect them to flock back in for some quality time. You can imagine why it seemed like they favored each other. In reality, it was me shifting between two extremes of "You always get me in trouble, leave me alone!" and "Hey sweetheart, I bought you this necklace!" Yes, sometimes, I will admit, I have been deliberately mean. I have been frustrated, tired, vengeful, moody, snappy; all of the above. And because of this, my own actions, I have spent so much time on the outs.

I still do remain there, because there are memories I can't make up for so easily.

It's a difficult thing, changing who you have been. Oftentimes it doesn't come as easily as just giving an apology. I know that in my past jealousy over parental affections, I very much damaged my relationship with Olivia. I can't forgive myself for the hurt I caused a little child who just wanted her big sister to care for her, like I should have. If I can't forgive me, how can she?

Another failure on my part was a lack of understanding for the love languages. Olivia is a strong Words of Affirmation, Jackie is first and foremost Quality Time followed by "buying a puppy". I thought that if I bought them trinkets and made some snacks that they would feel unconditionally loved, even if I got snappy or wanted my space. I didn't understand just how unloving it was to set up treats for the tea party but wander off to my room instead of dining with the stuffed animals and my little sisters. I should never have believed in the phrase, "I'm too old for this", or another even worse one, "This isn't worth my time".

Oh, believe me. When you look back on these moments you'll regret every second of not living them, realizing just how precious and worth it they were all along. Those times are always worth it-- I don't care if your quasi-boyfriend is on the phone or you're missing the beginning of your favorite TV show or whatever else you've convinced yourself takes priority; sit down and have tea with the five-year-old who is looking up at you with adoring eyes and calling you "sithy" though gaping front teeth. Those are the things truly worth remembering.

Things changed about two years back. It took me several miserable months of a head-spinning paradigm shift, but I got my act together. The big point I don't want you to miss is this: It's okay to get angry. It's not okay to hurt people because of it, especially those who love you most. The Bible says this: "In your anger, do not sin" (Eph 4:26); "A fool gives full vent to his anger, but a wise man keeps himself under control" (Prov 29:11). Buddha says, "You will not be punished for your anger, but you will be punished by your anger." Mark Twain (Yes I know, he's not the patriarch of a religion) said, "Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured."

It seems that every major spiritual and philosophical feature, these used as examples, deals at least in some part to the nature of anger. It's a struggle common to all of humanity, which is of course no surprise to anyone who's looked at the news for two minutes. Everyone's prone to some moments of giant rage. The important thing is knowing how to take deep breaths, several if you have to, and look on with love.

I'm not that kind of sister anymore who's something to be afraid of. I've built my strengths and broken down my weaknesses, an ongoing process which will be worthwhile but always open to more renovation. Now I'm the kind of sister who cooks Mac n' Cheese, brings home flowers, protects her little angels with the full-grown fury of a Mama Bear, listens to stories, carves out time to help with homework, and (hopefully) holds her tongue a little more.

That's what it means to be the oldest sister. It means having the blessing of a family that refines you into the best version of yourself that you can possibly be.

(Now if you'll excuse me, I have some Mac n' cheese to make.)

Meet the Author

Who are you?

It's a daunting question, isn't it? In a world of 7,380,436,559 individuals, exponentially increasing, it's next to impossible to feel unique or even, sometimes, valuable for who you are. That which comprises the self is abstract and volatile, and you may try to pin it like a butterfly to a cork board only to find that the wings melt through and away You fly. How inexplicably agitating it is to know the self by uncertain terms!

I could offer up any organized scheme of objective details about myself-- INFP-T, Choleric-Sanguine, Chaotic Good, Right-brained, Neurotic, Ravenclaw, Amity, Leo (more like Cancer/Pisces), IQ 174, Love Language: Quality Time/Gifts, WPI-62, APS: Feminine-- the list of measurable traits goes on to the brink of infinity, and still, none can truly grasp that indiscernible me. I find that soulful intimacy comes breath by breath, in little flickers at a time. People can be more understood by their experiences and thoughts than by any standard test, however comprehensive.

So many times I've seen people confine themselves to the restrictive limits of their Myers-Briggs type. I should come as no surprise that I did too, for a time. These tests only highlight trends, they are not meant to conform the soul of a sui generis individual.

I may be your mostly friendly INFP, but there are other things you could know about me that would mean far more than my result on a test (even the revered Myers-Briggs). So, rather than explaining various facets of my personality in attempts to describe enough for you to "know" me, I'm going to skim over some of my quirks. It'll be fun! My main reasoning is this: Our actions much more define us than our categorized perceptions of the self, however eerily accurate they may be.

1. I start every morning with kundalini yoga and love to go on little walks (especially during damp weather, particularly involving the acquisition of chai tea at the local bakery). The feel of cold, crisp fall air is the sweetest in my lungs. I often forget or forsake breakfast, unless said breakfast involves raspberries, crepes, or strawberry milk.
2. Back in seventh grade or so, I began to pride myself, rather obnoxiously, on not liking Twilight because of the sparkly vampires and blatant lack of plot. Unfortunately, this whole hipster image was shattered when I discovered the web-series Carmilla and distressed my whole family with such obsession over it. As it turns out, my aversion to Twilight is because of the blatant lack of character development, inaccuracy to lore, and the horrendous writing style that is wholly reminiscent of a sixth-grade fanfiction. I say I hate romance in all forms but still read things like Fruits Basket and A Little Something Different.
3. My bucket list includes riding an ostrich.
4. Thai food makes me horribly nauseous, but I eat it anyways. This probably says a big something about my appetite, as do these two other things-- I've seriously considered a career in Culinary Arts, particularly as a pastry chef (but am now pursing Naturopathy) AND about once every few weeks I get a new craving and fixate on it until it's fulfilled. One particular recurrent craving has earned me the infamous title "Cinnamon Roll Princess". Also, I get hangry a lot; poor Cody.
5. I usually leave parties early and either fall asleep or get sick every time I go over to a friend's house. My best friends tend to be those with whom I feel no social pressure-- the casual, quiet hangout is my ideal. Still, I love theme dances and elegant dinner galas. Usually my social usefulness is as the "constantly in the kitchen hostess"; food, decorations, tending the bonfire, and hiding out in the room with the pets. 

And, as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.

Ship Updates!

¡Hola, mi escalvos leales y devotos! (Oops, did I say that out loud?)
This is a bit of a personal rambling, so it may bunny trail all over the place before getting to anywhere of substance. Or, in a less likely manner, it may stick rigidly to some backbone of some organized structure. So let me begin, then, with the meat topic of this: I'm dating my best guy friend, someone very dear and close to me that has stayed by my side through the thick and thin of life for many lovely months. He's charming, compassionate, and most undoubtedly an ENFJ. Ooh, and he loves pasta!
So, you may be asking, how did this happen? I have become the object of my own scorn; where I had professed that long-lasting and self-defeating affections were for the futile of intellect and lacking in any competent self-sufficiency, I am becoming a martyr of my own heart's intentions. Alas, poor heart. And how did he amass the gumption to ask the intimidating me to be his girlfriend, even after I nearly gave him a concussion?! (But that's another story)

Well. Let's just say that it all stated back at the movie party where we first met. Now, please keep in mind that it was a sweltering hot, dry county fair day. It was absolutely torrid outside; like the air was screaming for moisture though the rickety shrieks of creaking carnival coasters and the crunching of the coarse grass beneath trampling footsteps. Honestly, everything about me looked like trash. So I walk in there, late, it's a stuffed full party I would never have ventured into unaccompanied willingly; and I'm all timid holding my box of doughnut holes. We call this, "doughnut diplomacy". It's used to buy friends.

I didn't really set out wanting to talk to anyone.... I just sat down with my soda and my pizza and surveyed the room.

That, of course, was when I met him. There were, also involved, a few scenes from water balloon fights...

And after the movie, when I broke down into sobbing hysterics (Do your Notebook references fail you now, Cody?)

But by the end of that night, I began to feel suspiciously fluttery and elated.

So what was I to do, knowing that I was absolutely, positively DOOMED to start liking him sooner or later?!

...

Alright! I was finally getting to somewhere with that one >:3 Although, throwing that fake snow on him probably helped. Maybe. Ish. We'd been friends for a little while, but nevertheless, I was shocked when he agreed to come. And.... we swing danced. Unfortunately, as he'll tell me, I was too busy critiquing his footwork to notice him falling for me.

I had dragged along another guy friend, of what-- six years now? -- So it wouldn't be a date. They did a coin toss to see who would have to slow dance with me, which I brazenly manipulated by the way, and the lot fell on him. It should be noted that I am not above saying, "You tossed it wrong, that wasn't fair" several times until the desired result came about. Heck, if you know you're going to like someone eventually, you better but in the mega efforts early on to make sure it'll be requited. Life is a journey inscribed with little lessons of "know thyself", and the lesser known, albeit wildly important, "know thy type".

But come the slow dance itself, I made a fatal error. I looked up.

Flash forward a few weeks.

Flash forward to Halloween. We went dressed as Alpha and Omega angelic assassins; he was day and I was night. He also smashed pumpkin pie in my face, partly in retaliation for the whipped cream (Alright, I confess. I totally started it). It was pretty fun :D We also both had swords... So he wins, hands down, for creative costume ideas.
Flash forward to November.

Annnnnnnd December......

January.....

February....

March.... I go over to his house pretty often. We cook together, watch movies, play video games. One time, we both got food poisoning from some chicken that he neglected to pan-sear before putting in the oven. I'll keep teasing him about that, but at least we got to stay in and watch Interstellar.

And April. By this time, we're talking every day, confiding in each other with all those weird quirks and somewhat concerning childhood stories, our hopes, fears, trials... supporting through every up and down that comes our way. He's endured, by this point, seven accidental groin shots and a near concussion. I don't know how that boy manages.

Some time about a week ago, he came over to my house to visit my little sisters (who absolutely adore him) and meet some of my extended family. We watched a movie, he gotten bitten by my sassy conure, I made popcorn without burning it for the first time-- that last one may have had something to do with everyone chanting and cheering me on. Stressful. 

And he asks my dad for a private talk....

There he is, everybody. My Dad, the comedian. (He's probably been waiting to use that one since I was four)

Cody decided to take about a week, a little more, for spiritual meditation on the subject.... And then, finally, as I'm at the edge of my seat, queries me as to if it would be okay to ask me to be his girlfriend on his birthday. Just so I don't feel pressured. D'aww... Well....

Come that day, I'm so jittery that I can hardly move. He's so anxious that he stutters as he asks me, stumbling over every word, the one question we've been thinking on for a while now. 

No one should ever give me prep time. It gives me a little too much creative room.

Given the way we met, a card trick, I decided to play a little spin on his favorite card-- the two of hearts. Of the many, many magical spectacles in existence, there is a certain one that goes a little something like this: The spectator observes an overturned card atop the deck.... Let's say, for example, the eight of clubs. Once the card is turned over to face the same direction as the rest of the deck, the magician rubs the deck under his palm. Withdrawing it, he turns the top card again-- Viola! Jack of diamonds! This second card was underneath the eight of clubs; during the rubbing, the top two cards are switched.
This simple card trick was the back of my plot. I rigged my deck to contain TWO two of hearts cards... the first was blank, normal. The second, which would later be switched to the top, had a little something extra written on it.

He asks haltingly, "W-will you be my girlfriend?" I smile and pull out a deck of cards.

The sad fact of the matter is, my hands are just too small and cold to even begin to perform actually slight-of-hands, even something as simple as a card switch maneuver. Therefore, I had to settle for something of a little less grandeur-- "misdirection"**

And that, is the story of how I became the luckiest girl in the world. I'm blessed with an amazing, empathetic, strong, godly best friend..... Oh, alright. And boyfriend.

Oh yes, shippers. It did "finally" happen x3

**Technically, though, he says he knew exactly what trick I was going to pull and knew I couldn't accomplish it unless he turned aside to give me time for a manual switch. That's a complete and utter lie and you know it, Cody. You're just jealous of my amazing ideas xP