by Mia Mercado
In recounting this story about Rebound to my sister, she said, “Yeah, you called me about him a lot. Like, every night.” I don’t remember doing that, but that sounds very me. I do remember crying about Rebound on more than one occasion and saying aloud, to myself, at least once, “What the fuck am I doing?” I probably saw him one or several times too many after that. Having someone who paid attention to me, even in small bursts, was admittedly flattering (and what human person doesn’t love a little flattery), but I knew I needed to leave.
Our couple-week fling ended after I said something along the lines of, “This isn’t fun for me anymore.” (If nothing else, I learned that you should always, always use your stupidest, most rom-com-y lines on a Rebound. It will make you feel sensual and powerful like Helen Mirren.)
I don’t remember the last time we hung out, but eventually I left. He kept the vibrator.
* * *
Riley and I met at the height of the aforementioned singleness rumspringa of 2015.
We had been dating for about nine months when I quit my greeting card job. That summer was one of the most challenging times in our relationship to date. He saw me through quitting one job, starting a new job, and hitting a low professionally and personally. He wished me well when I left too early in the morning and waited up with pizza when I came home too late at night. Despite my begging, he did not go into the ad agency, dressed up as me, and quit in a memorable but respectable way so I didn’t have to. (I only love him a little bit less because of it.)
After quitting the ad job, I told him I wanted to start freelance writing full-time despite having, uh, less than a full-time load of freelance clients. (I had exactly zero.) He was realistic and encouraging and probably warier than he let on. Full-time freelance writing had been my ultimate goal, but it was happening sooner than either of us expected or than I intended. I was still testing the freelancing waters when Ad Job Me pushed us in like, “Bitch, get in the pool. We’re literally on fire.”
This is the part where I clarify that I was only financially able to jump in because of the five years I spent at my greeting card job. (That and the affordability of living in the Midwest. Come visit! Our rent is cheap, and you can get a beer for the low, low price of only ever seeing white people!) Working for that long at a Big Corporation, even one that makes greeting cards, helps create a nice, little money lifesaver to keep you afloat while you figure out the rest of your life.
After three-ish months of treading water, I was hired as a part-time writer for a women’s website. Eventually, the fountain of rejection emails for my one-off humor pieces started spitting out a few acceptances here and there. As I write this, I am making nowhere near as much money as I was at my previous jobs and—surprise!—even Dream Jobs come with boring parts and stupid parts and parts where you’re like, “This particular project feels regressive career-wise but also it is going to pay next month’s electric bill.” It’s scary and nerve-racking and also the most satisfying thing I’ve done in my entire career. I don’t remember how I celebrated the first time I got a piece accepted into a major publication, but I know that Riley was the first person I told.
* * *
On a Friday in the beginning of August 2015, while I was still editing greeting cards, Riley and I met. A mutual friend introduced us, even though I told her I wasn’t interested in something serious. Riley was having people over at his house, and my friend said I should come with. So I downed half a bottle of wine, fully ready to give zero fucks about who I met and what they thought of me. (Reader, I gave all of my fucks about what Riley thought of me.)
Riley was new but familiar in the best kind of way. The four of us—me, Riley, my friend, and her girlfriend—spent the rest of that Friday laughing and drinking and talking. We listened to bad music and made bad jokes and tried to twerk upside down on a wall just to see if we could. (We couldn’t.) Riley and I went to dinner on Saturday, just the two of us. After the first night we hung out, Riley bought me a full-size two-pack of contact solution, something that is meant to last over two months, to keep at his house. (Riley asked me to clarify that he has 20/20 vision. And if it wasn’t abundantly clear, homeboy was ready to commit ASAP.) I don’t remember when I finished the last of the second bottle, but it happened years ago. In the summer of 2018, we got married.
Work Orientation for Women
Welcome to Big Company! We’re all so excited you’re joining the team. Just to be clear, our use of “excitement” is not, in any way, a euphemism. We’ve been told not to make those anymore as we don’t want it to be construed as sexual harassment. Gotta keep up with the current cultural climate in a way that makes us seem self-aware but doesn’t force us to grow or change! Ha ha, we have fun here.
Let’s start by talking about what it means to be a part of our Big Company Family. Yes, we’re not just a group of coworkers—we’re a family. There are dads and grandpas and aggressive stepbrothers and many uncles. Have you heard of Sister Wives? It’s also kind of like that.
We chose you for a reason! So give yourselves a round of applause just for being here. We certainly have as it helped us reach a gender quota we’ve been told we aren’t allowed to have in writing.
Diversity is so important to us at Big Company. You’ll notice we like to say it at least once a meeting. Then everyone will nod and say, “Yes, so important,” without actually agreeing to anything. As you’re certainly aware, diversity can refer to gender, race, sexual orientation, religion, economic background, so many things! Our leadership represents a diverse background in recreational sports and a melting pot of J.Crew button-ups. Have you ever had white cheddar fondue? Okay, but what about with cocktail weenies? That’s the kind of melting pot we’re talking about.
Our company’s done some soul-searching in the last couple of years. This involved HR shining flashlights into dimly lit cubicles, rifling through filing cabinets, trying to find at least one person with some semblance of a conscience, one male employee who hasn’t done a Bad Thing. We’re happy to say that we found a few!
All our current employees have undergone serious sexual-harassment training to teach them what is a prosecutable offense in our state, what will get them in trouble, and what HR will ultimately ignore. So, if you believe a coworker is acting inappropriately or you are receiving unfair treatment based on your gender, we promise you’re not! Everyone here has sat through one thirty-minute PowerPoint, thus solving the harassment thingy altogether.
Where are the women under thirty-five? Hi there! You’ll be getting a separate orientation regarding How to Deal with Older Male Coworkers Who Hit on You. There is no set time for this orientation. It will happen when you least expect it: sitting at your desk, leaving the bathroom, wearing a dress to the office for the first time. The orientation will be led by a man old enough to be your dad who will quickly try to assert himself as “cool.” He will ask you questions like “Your boyfriend must be pretty proud of you. Wait, you don’t have a boyfriend?” and “Are you really old enough to have a college degree? You look like you’re still in high school!” You will feel like this orientation never ends, and trust us, it won’t!
Women thirty-five and over, don’t worry! No one will even pretend to be interested in you! And if they do, wow! What a compliment!
Let’s get down to business—we are at work after all! We encourage you to #LeanIn! But please, make sure you’re wearing an appropriate blouse. We value breaking glass ceilings provided you do so quietly and don’t make too much of a mess. Ultimately, we want you to feel empowered to negotiate, to be assertive with your career trajectory, and to really go after it, you Girl Boss, you! Which we mean in a fun and colloquial way. There are no women at a senior level of leadership here.
College 101
Introduction to College
COURSE MATERIAL:
College map you pretend to not look at as you try and find where Room 408 in the science building is
One or more of the following: a Breakfast at Tiff
any’s poster in your dorm despite never having seen Breakfast at Tiffany’s; an acoustic guitar you only half-play; an idea of what college is based solely on movies and the internet
An excited fear of what’s next
After graduating from high school in 2008, I applied to exactly two colleges. Most of what I remember from the application process is my mom berating me to, for the love of God, finish writing my personal essays. I also distinctly remember crying in response, going to our shared family desktop computer, and writing posts on my blogger.com account that probably started SoOoOo . . . I *should* be writing my personal essay for college apps right now . . . and then writing five hundred words on why Jesse McCartney, a Disney Channel–bred pop star with swoopy blond hair, was “like . . . weirdly hot to me.”
Both universities I eventually finished applications for were small liberal arts schools in Wisconsin. One of them touted itself as the “Harvard of the Midwest.” I have many friends and a husband who also attended the Harvard of the Midwest at universities located in Wisconsin, Missouri, Michigan, Illinois, Iowa, and Minnesota. Every school can be an Ivy League school if you get even one local paper to dub it as such.
I was happy to be done with high school. But the actual act of going to college was not something I had fully considered. The idea of things has always been much more exciting to me, a person who loves to say she is going to do a thing without actually having to do the thing. To paraphrase a popular quote: I hate writing; I love having written almost as much as I love having an impending project that I can spend all of my time telling people about rather than doing the actual project itself. It is a philosophy I have unfortunately applied to all aspects of my life, from going to parties to rearranging my living space to writing this very book.
Getting accepted into college was more a relief than anything else. I was pretty sure I ticked all the boxes required to get into a small school with a decent reputation: good grades, a list of extracurriculars, a summer in high school where I panic-considered playing tennis to seem more “well-rounded” on college applications, a middle-class upbringing where college is expected and in some ways taken for granted, regular community service hours, letters of recommendation from my biology teacher who called me “kind” and my science skills “middle of the pack,” and a hurriedly written personal essay that reeked of teenage desperation.
I got accepted and was offered scholarships to both colleges, one of which I’d only applied to because my mom was like, Hmm just a thought but maybe you should apply to a school that doesn’t cost $40,000 a year? The other school I applied to cost $35,000 a year. My student loans came with so many zeros it seemed like a joke, one I definitely didn’t get until after graduation when I was like, “Oh, you want me to pay you back that?” After accepting the offer from one of the Harvards of the Midwest, I had to face my newest nightmare: actually having to go to college.
Guide to Roommates 101
COURSE MATERIAL:
Three hundred Mac Photo Booth photos of you and your randomly assigned roommate
COURSE EXPECTATIONS:
Passing this class depends solely on your ability to not do sex things in front of your roommate. Please, for the love of God, do not do sex things in front of your roommate.
I experienced a lot of firsts at Faux Harvard of the Midwest. It was where I moved into my first and only college dorm room. It was where I lived with my first and only randomly assigned roommate. It was the first time that I understood the joy of listening to Kate Nash’s indie pop anthems on repeat as I walked to class. It was the first time I learned that not even Kate Nash could make me like college. It was, as foreshadowing would have it, the first of three universities I would attend throughout my collegiate career.
In September 2008, I moved into my dorm for the beginning of first trimester. (Yes, this school chose to divide its years into trimesters instead of semesters, which explains why it also had the audacity to charge $40,000 a year for tuition.) There, I met Hannah, my randomly assigned roommate and the first (and perhaps only) friend I made in college.
After filling out a roommate profile, answering questions like “Would you describe yourself as messy?” (Is my mom looking, because then “ugh fine I guess yeah”) and “Would you prefer a roommate who doesn’t drink alcohol?” (Is my mom looking, because then “for sure no def not”), Hannah and I were assigned to each other. Who knows whether Admissions really sifts through hundreds of roommate profiles, playing OkCupid in order to find each student a perfect roommate match. However, that does sound like my exact brand of boring dream job right after naming racehorses and nail polish colors. All I know is that Hannah was the jackpot of this randomly assigned roommate lottery.
We both came from relatively conservative, pretty Christian upbringings. We were both slowly but surely realizing that our parents’ beliefs didn’t need to be our own. We both had younger sisters who we were obsessed with in a mostly normal, healthy way. We did not feel cool enough to make friends with the East Coast girls on our floor. We shared a secret love of the Jonas Brothers and a less-than-secret hate for the university we were both attending. We were a heavenly match made in college hell.
Partying at Parties 102
COURSE MATERIAL:
A preconceived notion that college parties include red cups, teens going WOO!, and flips from rooftops into pools
COURSE EXPECTATIONS:
Learning the difference between how Miller Lite smells and bad weed tastes
In my first (and only) trimester at Midwestern Harvard, I did have moments that felt like the “real college experience” I’d expected to have. One of my first weekends at school, I went to a party for a fraternity somehow related to horticulture or ecology or maybe it was all a ruse to grow pot in the greenhouse. I don’t remember what I wore, but I do remember feeling underdressed in comparison to the Cool Girls from my dorm. I must have missed the part of the welcome packet that said slinky black dresses were a prerequisite.
The party, the first college frat party I’d ever attended, was held at a shitty house with a shitty basement. Just like the movies! My shoes stuck to the poorly kept hardwood floors, and none of the upperclassmen would make eye contact with me, despite my desperate efforts to eye-fuck anyone within my periphery. I made my way down to the basement where “music” was playing and people were “dancing.” It was all flashing lights, thumping bass, and white people flailing their arms. Someone could have been banging their face on the lid of a trashcan and it would have sounded, looked, and smelled the same.
While still trying to get even one guy to look at me, I accidentally made eye contact with a stranger’s butthole: a young man, likely intoxicated and definitely getting financial support from his parents, had taken off all his clothes (save for his socks but including his shoes) and continued dancing as if everyone were watching. I was surprised. I was aghast. I was disappointed that my view only included his butt and occasionally the back of his balls, scientifically, the worst part of the genitals. This was not how I’d expected my first encounter with an entirely nude male to go.
Eventually, the group I’d come with left the party. Not even the naked guy looked back at me.
Teachers Are Just People 201
COURSE MATERIAL:
A strong desire to be liked by any and all authority figures
GRADE BREAKDOWN:
Your grade will be dependent on your ability to form opinions based on—get this—your own ideas
In mid-December of 2008, I moved back home after deciding to transfer from Corn-Fed Harvard. (If nothing else, my freshman year of college should be legally recognized for its brevity.) After barely three months at that school, I felt like I was (a) too dumb to attend even a fake Harvard and (b) accruing too much student debt to just feel so, so dumb. In hindsight, my grades were fine, but, for the first time in my academic career, I realized I had no idea how to study and hated feeling like I didn’t understand a concept immediately. Based on my previous tw
elve years of schooling, I thought being a good student only entailed showing up to class, turning in assignments on time, and giving opinions that were just the teacher’s regurgitated ideas couched with “thus” and “furthermore.” I, someone who based a large part of her personality on the number of AP classes she took, didn’t fully understand that you go . . . to school . . . to learn.
It took me a while to understand that I was allowed to form my own opinions, to realize the things I thought didn’t need to be validated by a teacher or parent to be “good.” It was something I still didn’t fully understand as I finished out my freshman year commuting to and from a community college thirty minutes away from my parents’ house. It was there, though, that I started to realize that maybe class instructors didn’t know everything.
At the community college, I took Philosophy 101 because it was a general education requirement and it felt comfortably familiar to listen to older white men telling me how to think about the world. The professor was sweaty and Southern and liked to sit on his desk and EMPHASIZE words RANDOMLY. He spent one class talking about how he was “pro-life,” polling the class on their thoughts on abortion. It was less a dialogue about the moral and philosophical quandaries related to abortion and more a chance for him to yell loudly from the edge of his desk. In another class, he talked about how ideas of beauty were cultural and that he, personally, did not find Pamela Anderson attractive. (Pamela Anderson could not be reached for comment.) He said that he, instead, found “people like Mia and Caroline attractive.” He gestured to me and Caroline, my classmate who sat two seats down. I did not employ Socratic questioning, asking him to “explain further” or question “why the fuck he thought that was an okay thing to say.”