BLISSFULLY UNCONCERNED / I'M GOING TO MARRY LEO

I Think I'll Ride Bikes Instead

There were bowls of candy all over my childhood house.

In any room where people gathered, you better believe my mom had a beautiful crystal bowl full of mini chocolates. As a kid, we were never told how many pieces we were allowed to have. The chocolate was always available, and as far as we knew, we had permission to eat the treats anytime we wanted.

I can remember occasionally unwrapping a mini Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and eating it. There were other candy options, like Hershey's Kisses and dark chocolate squares, but I've never been one to pick anything else when chocolate-wrapped peanut butter is an option.

For every time I ate a piece of candy, I can remember even more times when I played next to the bowl of candy and didn't even think about it. There wasn't much to think about really, since it was always there. I could have one, or more, whenever.

My mom always cooked dinner for our family. Sit-down meals with green salads and grilled meats and fresh bread. No matter what happened during the day, we always sat down together as a family. It was a time where we never answered the phone, no matter how many times it rang. "The answering machine can get it!" my mom would declare. And we'd go back to fighting over who'd be first to dip a piece of bread in the moca (a Serbian word for the juice left behind from grilled steaks). Moca was a real delicacy in our house.

Once in a while, my mom would make dessert. But when she didn't, we were always welcome to help ourselves to the ice cream sandwiches in the freezer and the candy scattered around the house. We weren't told to finish everything on our plate. We weren't told sugar was bad. We weren't told we had to earn a treat. Honestly, food was just food. I don't ever remember thinking it was a big deal or feeling conflicted at all as a kid. My mom loved to cook and she loved to share what she made with us. I loved enjoying everything she prepared.

Our house was often the place where other kids came to hang out. We would have pool parties and sleepovers because my mom loved to host. I had a few friends who would come over and, every single time, comment on the bowls of candy and easy access to sugary treats in the garage freezer.

"I can't believe you have so much fun food at your house! My mom never lets me eat sugar! She says it's addictive and will rot my teeth!"

I'd touch my teeth to make sure they weren't rotting out of my mouth. Nope, we were good. I couldn't help but wonder, Did they not brush teeth at their house? Maybe that was the problem.

They would hover around the crystal bowls, eyeing the candy. Walking toward the bowl. Then walking away. Then walking back. After a few back-and-forths, they would start eating. Not one or two pieces, but handful after handful, piece after piece. It seemed like they couldn't unwrap them quickly enough, and sometimes I worried they might accidentally eat some of the wrappers. Once finished, they would hide the empty wrappers in the sofa cushions, pleading, "Don't tell your mom I ate that many pieces, OK?"

I was so confused because they acted like my mom was going to be upset about candy. Why would she put candy out if we weren't allowed to eat it? I wondered. I tried to explain to them, "My mom doesn't care how much candy you eat," but they still didn't want her to know. So I let them shove candy wrappers in our furniture and watched them eat so much candy that, when dinner time came, they had no room in their bellies for moca.

I thought to myself, I guess when someone tells you that you can't eat candy, then you have to eat a lot of it every chance you get.

I felt sad for them because candy is yummy but eating a lot of it really fast usually means you get a tummyache. Also, because my mom's cooking was awesome and now their bellies were so full of candy that they didn't have room for her homemade meatballs or her special red sauce.

When they would head home the next day, I'd watch my mom go from room to room collecting the crumpled foils tucked deep behind the cushions while she smiled at me with that mom smile that means, I love you a lot a lot a lot.

"Want a piece, sweetheart?" she'd ask as she re-filled the candy bowls.

"Eh, not really," I said. "I think I'll ride bikes instead."

If only that relationship to Reese's Peanut Butter Cups had lasted.

Chaffing Wool Shorts

I was six. Or eight. I'm not sure exactly. I pick a different age every time I tell this story.

My sister, Christiana, recently asked if I remembered helping our mom pull weeds as kids. I didn't. Not because it happened and I have a horrific memory for chores, but because my attention to detail was so poor that my mom wouldn't let me anywhere near her garden. As if that was some kind of punishment. JOKE'S ON HER.

Anyway. I can't tell you my exact age but what I know for sure is that I was a kid. Maybe six, maybe eight, definitely not seven. I was a kid who had to wear a uniform to school. And this uniform involved shorts. Plaid, wool shorts.

After a day of running around on the playground and also probably learning some math (like I said, I can't tell you exactly what we did that day because my memory is not 100%), I came home from school.

The insides of my thighs were tingling and burning.

I went straight to my room to take off my school clothes and get into comfies. My husband, Tim, says he's never seen anyone get into pajamas when they get home more quickly than I do. He doesn't say it as a compliment, but that's how I take it. This is clearly a skill I've been mastering since childhood.

I dropped my shorts to the floor and noticed something between my thighs. I had big red welts and a few smaller, chafed spots that were bleeding.

"Ffffffffff!" I sucked air through my lips and between tightly gritted teeth as I tried to assess the damage.

"Mom!! Look at this! My thighs are bleeding. They hurt so badly!" She met me at the bottom of the stairs to take a peek.

"I'm sorry sweetie. I bet that does hurt! Let me get you something to help."

My mom grabbed a towel from the drawer and ran it under icy cold kitchen sink water. Every move my mom made was done with intention and care. As you might have guessed, she's very detail- oriented. Once she was finished soaking and chilling every fiber of the towel, she led the way to the family room.

She held the dripping cloth in one hand and fluffed the couch pillow with the other, helping me get nice and comfortable. I laid down and she positioned the cloth between my thighs.

"How does that feel?" she asked.

"So good. Thanks, mom."

It really did feel so good. Why more people don't just lay with wet towels between their thighs is a mystery to me.

The next day at school, I was ready to rock 'n' roll (Thanks, mom!). I wore a bandage full of Neosporin on each of my inner thighs. I did NOT wear those awful wool shorts.

On the playground, a bunch of friends and I started an animated game of "Cats." Unsurprisingly, this game involved us pretending to be cats. We designated a spot on the playground as the spot where we ate our imaginary food. Another spot was our imaginary litter box. The rest of the playground equipment was the "furniture" that we'd climb all over. Because that's what cats do.

As we pounced around in our very footloose and fancy-free, cat-like fashion, I noticed one of my friends was wearing her wool shorts. I was honestly worried about the wellbeing of her inner thighs.

"Those shorts rubbed the inside of my thighs and made them hurt so bad! Do they do that to you?" I asked.

She looked at me a little confused and said, "Uh, no. My thighs don't rub together. But my legs are smaller than your legs."

For the first time in my life, it occurred to me that people were different sizes. I looked at her legs. Then I looked down at mine. She was right. Her thighs were smaller than mine.

"Oh," I said. I couldn't explain why, but I felt embarrassed. "I wish my thighs were smaller like yours so they didn't have to bleed when I wear shorts."

"Yeah," she replied. "MEOW!!!" With that, we went back to being cats for the rest of recess.

It would be a long time before I ever felt comfortable wearing shorts again.

Semi Butt Itch

When I was in fifth grade, we moved to a new town.

I was very into movies (still am) and totally thought I was going to marry Leo (more on this later, don't worry). Based on what I had watched, I understood that this move could really be my moment to shine. I might discover I was secretly an awesome soccer player (I would not discover this), become a cheerleader (I did not become this), start a babysitter's club (negative here), or fall in love with my soul mate (nope). This move meant I got to go to a new school where I didn't have to wear a uniform, and we all know how well wearing a uniform went for me. It also meant that I got to go to a school where there were boys. From all the movies I had watched, I knew this meant I would probably be doing a lot of kissing.

As I prepared for my first day of school, I was nervous. I was going to ride a bus for the first time, and I thought there was a high probability I might kiss a boy on that very bus ride. I needed to pick out the perfect outfit because I would need to remember the outfit I wore when I got my first kiss on my first bus ride to my first co-ed school. Oh, the pressure.

I went with a matching khaki vest and skort. For anyone born after 1990, a skort is a pair of shorts with a flap of fabric that tricks people into believing you're wearing a skirt. It fooled nobody.

Nailed it.

My mom snapped a few obligatory first day photos of us on the driveway and then it was time for me to catch my ride. The big yellow bus pulled up (Just like in the movies!) and I boarded. I looked up and down the rows, trying to decide where to sit. Per the movies, I knew the back of the bus was where cool kids sat, but I didn't want to seem too eager. I also knew I got car sick and looking out the front window helped, but I didn't want to look too loser-ish. Five minutes in this new world and already so many choices. Suddenly, I missed my uniform.

I walked right to the middle of the bus, where there were a few empty rows, and sat down alone. Since this was before cell phones, I had nothing to look at to help me seem "busy." Instead, I stared at the seat in front of me, running my pointer finger over the very vein-like lines on the very fake-looking leather. The original Instagram.

As I made figure eights with my hand, my mind wandered and I began to dream about my first kiss. I'm not sure how long I was fantasizing about a kiss by my locker, but before I knew it a group of boys came and sat down next to me.

HOLY GUACAMOLE IT'S HAPPENING! WHICH ONE WILL I KISS?! I wondered.

These three boys looked eerily like Hanson, with their long hair, beanie hats, and baggy jeans.

WAS I REALLY GOING TO GET MY FIRST KISS FROM A GUY WHO COULD BASICALLY BE IN A BOY BAND?!

"Hi, I'm Simi."

"Huh? Cindy?" one replied.

"No ... SIM EEEEEE. SIM EEEEEE BOAT ITCH" I said.

"Wait, your name is Semi Butt Itch?!" another replied. And they all laughed.

"Good name for you, since you're fat and ugly," the last one chimed in.

My chest felt tight and my stomach dropped to the floor as I realized today probably wasn't the day for my first kiss. I adjusted my skort, trying to pull it down over my "fat and ugly" thighs, looking out the window and doing my best to believe that, I am rubber, you are glue. What you say bounces off me and sticks to you.

A few minutes later, the boys got bored with me and laughing at each other's bad jokes. Finally, they left me alone.

I hated them for being so mean. But I hated myself even more for being so "fat and ugly." For giving them a reason to be mean to me. Even though I hated them, I really wanted them to like me.

If I had said the right thing or looked the right way, they would've been nicer. Maybe I would have gotten my first boyfriend, like in the movies, rather than a terrible nickname that would follow me around for year. No, not maybe. I was sure of it.

If I were different, they would see me differently and treat me differently.

It was all my fault.

If I felt rejected by someone, no matter how hurtful that person was acting, I wanted that person to like me. Because being rejected made me feel like I had done something wrong. Like something was wrong with me.

I didn't want to be Semi Butt Itch! I didn't want boys on the bus to think I was "fat and ugly."

If I could make them un-reject me, then I would know I was OK.

I wanted to be OK. I needed to find a way to be OK.

It's the Puppet Lady

When I was a senior in high school, I signed up for AP Psychology. On the first day of class, our teacher walked in with spiky blonde hair and quirky glasses, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I knew her.

I turned to my friend and asked, "Does she look super familiar to you?" Nope, not to her.

Maybe I've seen her walking in the hallways? I tried to reason with myself. But as the weeks rolled by, I just knew that I knew her! I couldn't place it, but I was confident that it was more than a casual hallway nod-and-smile.

Right around week four, she was telling us a story about how powerful puppet play could be in child psychology. She went on to share that she had been the child psychologist at the school for many years, and filled her office full of fun puppets to help children open up and give voice to their feelings.

THE PUPPET LADY!

I was filled with a brief moment of excitement as I connected the dots. I knew that I knew her and now I finally know from where! She was the puppet lady! When I was a kid, I loved playing puppets with the puppet lady. Every year around the holidays, I would ask my mom to take me shopping so I could buy her a fun new puppet to give her as a gift.

It took me a few moments to connect the other dots, which were that I saw a child psychologist, and wasn't just miraculously getting out of classes to go play with puppets. I almost spit water across the room from laughing. I excused myself from class to go have a proper laugh in the bathroom. My mom and I had a good laugh later that night, too. Nothing like finding out your best gal with the puppets was actually your psychiatrist all these years later.

As a kid, I had a lot of anxiety and spent a majority of my days worrying. I worried about having friends. I worried about being left out. I was scared to act or talk or look differently than the people in my class, because I thought it would make me less likeable and more rejectable.

These daily anxieties went beyond wanting to fit in. I was constantly afraid something bad was going to happen to someone I loved. This was back in the day of pagers, and I had a special code I would send to my mom's pager in case of an emergency: 411. I would text her 411 anytime I needed to get in touch with her (which was an emergency in my mind).

At the end of school, I watched the clock like a hawk. I knew the exact time my mom was supposed to pick me up from our after- hours program, and if she was even 30 seconds late, I would start paging her from the lobby phone. If she was a few minutes late, she might get five or six pages. If she was 15 minutes late, we're talking closer to 50. It's not that I thought she had forgotten about me, I was just terrified she had been hurt in some kind of horrific accident.

I have zero internal questions about why little Simi went to see the puppet lady from time to time. I also have zero questions about why grown-up Simi sees the grown-up version of the puppet lady from time to time: So that my loved ones don't have to get 50 text messages and a smoke signal when they get caught at a red light on their way home.

IN THE THICK OF IT / NOT WINNING AN OSCAR

Ross and Rachel Are Meant to Be Together

I grew up with parents who talked openly with me about God and their Christian faith. It never felt like they were forcing their beliefs on me. More like they were sharing wonderful things they'd learned. We said prayers at night, hung icons in our house, and attended church. It was something we shared and something that I believe brought us close. I can't remember a time when I wondered, "Does God really exist?" God's presence was something I understood as fact, the same way I knew any other fact.

The earth is round: fact.

Night happens after day: fact.

Ross and Rachel are meant to be together: fact.

While some things in life made perfect sense to me — like God, or Ross and Rachel ending up together — other things didn't come as easily. Like college. Well, more specifically, why everyone seemed to love going to college so much. That was something I really didn't understand.

Woof. That freshman year was a tough one for me. Kudos to colleges for offering a few free counseling sessions to each student. You know I took advantage of that!