There was no specific reason why I was a virgin – no deep held conviction about waiting. It just never happened. There were some opportunities with a high school boyfriend but I guess we were both too timid to take it all the way. We were content to make out in his parentʼs old station wagon, dry humping and groping for hours. By day his father, the pastor at our church, used the wagon to drive our church youth group to various outings designed to keep us out of trouble. At night his son and I parked it far away and tentatively explored each other until the windows were drippy with steam. It was 1977 and I was madly in love but something kept me from letting him go all the way. We never talked about it. It was just understood that it was not going to happen.

The relationship ended when we went to different colleges so I landed on campus with my virginity in place. I was not particularly proud of it but I was not upset about it either. It was just a part of my life, like being taller than most young women my age or the fact that I had short, thin blonde hair while most of my friends had long hair that needed two full sets of electric curlers to achieve the massive volume that was the style of the day Honestly I was more upset about my lack of flowing hair than I was about still being a virgin.

Learning that most of my new college friends had long ago left their virginity behind was a bit of a shock but I was still unfazed. My new sorority sisters liked to tell stories about their first time – for many of them it was at prom and the term Senior Ball took on new meaning for me. My senior prom had been a disaster. My date was a year older than me and he came home from his first year of college to fulfill his promise to take me to the dance. He then announced that he had a girlfriend and I would need to pay for his tux and dinner since he was broke. The night ended with me drunk on tequila and root beer and if there was a make out session I have no memory of it.

I loved hearing my new friends tell stories of their first time but I was not too focused on my own lack of experience. I was too busy learning how to drink, making new friends and trying to reinvent myself. My first college boyfriend was a sweet boy from a nearby fraternity who loved to talk and never asked for more than a quick good night kiss. I thought he was respectful but learned years later that he was actually struggling as a gay man in a system that would never accept him. I should have figured it out – in group pictures you can see other couples cuddled together and he is literally straining to avoid contact – but it never would have occurred to any of us. We just thought he was shy.

I met Jake at a dorm party. I was drawn to him immediately with his perfectly shaggy hair, kind face and his height. He was 6'5“ and I loved the way he towered over me and how I fit perfectly in the crook of his arm. He was deep into a bong hit when I first saw him and I was drunk enough to be confident and flirty. We were making out by the end of the night and in the days that followed we spent all our time together. He was a basketball player and I loved everything about him. He liked my jokes and he thought I was pretty. It was all I needed. My friends liked him and he fit the role of perfect college boyfriend. He even decided to join a fraternity so we would be hanging out in the same social circles. I knew he was the one who was worthy of my affections and it was just a matter of time. There was no rush on my part and surprisingly not for him either. Or at least he did not put any pressure on me. We spent hours crammed into my single twin bed, his long frame hanging over on either edge. We made out relentlessly while we listened to Eric Claptonʼs newest album play over and over on my cheap record player but we always stopped before it went too far.

I did not have any kind of plan or reason for waiting. It was not long before we were declaring our love to each other and I was secure in the relationship. I loved being his girlfriend and the security that came from knowing I always had a date. Itʼs hard to know if I was in love with him or the whole idea of having a very appropriate college boyfriend but it didnʼt really matter.

We dated throughout our freshman year and wrote each other long sappy letters when we were separated for the summer. When we got back to school that fall we both knew it was time to move to the next level. I felt like it was the least I could do and it was clear he was having trouble stopping our make out sessions once we really got going. I realize now that I was torturing the poor guy but he stayed with me until I decided I was ready.

The problem with being a virgin for so long is that losing it becomes too big a damn deal. Where to do it? What day? What music should be playing? What about protection? I agonized over it with my friends, all of whom have given up their V cards already and were veritable experts.

"Just donʼt use a condom they're gross."

"Have a few drinks before and it wonʼt hurt as much."

"It wonʼt hurt that bad, donʼt worry about it.”

I was nervous but ready. We decided to go to a hotel that was across the state line eight miles away. It was recently built and seemed classy to our college age sensibility. He had a bit of money saved to pay for the room though by that time I am sure he would have paid any price for me to let it happen. He said he wanted it to be special for me. He was not a virgin, of course, having had a number of girlfriends in high school who were apparently far more willing to give it up than I was. I thought it was very romantic that he had been willing to wait so long for me but I also knew I was pushing him and I did not want to lose him to some girl who would be willing to give him what he needed. It was time.

As the day grew closer I got more scared. What if I did not know what I was doing? What if it really did hurt? I was still scarred from my first blow job with my high school boyfriend when he had to tell me blowing was not a literal term and he had to show me what to do. I did not want a repeat of that experience and I worried about what could go wrong.

I dutifully went to Planned Parenthood to get the pill but with my gaggle Iʼd girlfriends with me for moral support it never occurred to me to ask the professional there any questions about what to expect or what I should do. I just knew I needed to take my little pill everyday.

The big day was a sunny and crisp fall day and I felt very grown up as I packed my overnight bag. I envisioned a long romantic night with the man I loved adoring me and my body, just like I had seen on so many TV shows my entire life. I was ready for my big scene.

He was set to pick me up at 6pm at my sorority. All of my close friends knew what we were up to and they were there to help me get ready. We decided it would be a good idea for me to have a drink before he got there to loosen me up a bit. As with most sunny days, there was a group of girls in the back alley, drinking in preparation of the night ahead. We joined in and I realized I was more nervous than I thought. Thank God for beer, easy to drink and guaranteed to give you courage. I started with one but it quickly led to more. It felt so much better to think about the night ahead after a few beers. And then a few more. At some point I thought it was a good idea to barge into the sorority and use the all house intercom system to announce to everyone that I was leaving in a few minutes to go to a hotel to lose my virginity. They thought it was hilarious though eventually someone took the microphone away so I would stop sharing the intimate details with all sixty women living there

When Jake came to pick me up I was nicely drunk. Able to stand up and mostly function but drunk enough to feel no fear about the task ahead. The drive to the hotel was a blur. I am sure Jake was hoping I was not so drunk that he would miss his opportunity but was drunk enough to still go through with it.

We checked in and the clerk was pretty clear on what was up. In a college town we were not the first couple of 19 year olds to get a room while trying to behave like grown ups. I was trying not to seem too drunk but the clerk did not seem to care one way or the other.

Jake took my little bag and we walked down the long hall to our room. We passed the bar where the popular Happy Hour was underway. My friends and I went there often because the drinking age was still 19 in Idaho then and I remember asking if we should stop for one more drink? Jake did not think that was a good idea, he wanted to get to the room and he had no interest in anything that would detract from our plan. I followed him to the room and he unlocked the door. I was in that space between drunk and sober – able to walk and form coherent thoughts but not focused enough to care.

The room was barren with a bed, round table and a chair. The bathroom was filled with the worst kind of florescent light and I looked sort of green and washed out. I thought that was disappointing given how much time I had spent on my hair and make up in preparation for our big night. I came back to the room and Jake was already undressed under the thin bedspread.

There was no music because we did not have a portable player or if we did it did not occur to us to bring it. It was quiet in the room, I could hear the hum of the air conditioning and the faint noise from the bar. The walls were bare because they were made of gray cinder blocks and there was no way to hang a picture on them I guess. Or else the management knew it was a college hotel and just did not try very hard. The cinder block walks hit me hard. They were so ugly they made me sad. The room was dark but there was still light coming in through the curtain since it was only 7pm. For a minute I wanted to bolt from the room and my drunken self might have made a dash for it but instead Jake motioned for me to join him in the bed. I was temporarily confused. Should I take off my clothes now? Did I wait and let him do that? I reached down and unzipped my jeans and shook them off my feet. I took my top off over my head and slid into bed with him.

It was over in about three minutes. It did not really hurt, it was just vaguely uncomfortable, kind of like the start of a tooth ache. I was not sure what to do when it was done but Jake seemed happy so I assumed I had done the right thing. He told me he loved me and quickly fell asleep. I huddled on my side with his arm thrown over my waist, stared at the cinder block walls and cried.

My first real boss was mean. He later went on to become a jailer at a state penitentiary, a position he was well suited for. Though I feel sorry for the inmates who had to endure his nasty glare and that little chuckle he had that made me shiver inside.

I was fresh out of college, full of idealized aspirations. He was at the other end of his career. We worked in television news. For someone just starting out it was a great opportunity. For someone his age to still be working in a tiny newsroom in a very small market with limited resources, it spelled failure. He could have embraced it and been the big successful fish in the small pond. Instead he wore his disappointment on the sleeve of his three piece polyester suit. He had two of those suits in his rotation. He proudly explained how he got them for a great price at the local Woolworths. The pant legs were at least two inches too short, revealing his scuffed up dress shoes.

He drove an old model Barrecuda. It was orange with black stripes and very low to the ground. It was impossible to climb out of that car gracefully in a skirt when I had to ride with him to cover stories. The official news car was a Ford Fiesta. It broke down frequently, so we had to use his car to get around town. I was always scared when he was at the wheel. The only thing he seemed to really care about was his car and he loved to go as fast as he could get away with, telling me that the cops would give him a break since he was on TV

I did not know anyone in the town outside the TV station. On weekends we would all gather at someone's cheap apartment and talk about TV news and drink beer. We did not like the boss but we had to invite him. If he found out he was left out our lives would have been worse. He would always take home the beer that was left at the end of the night.

He was the news director and the anchor man. He left the newsroom each day precisely 20 minutes before he was due on air. He walked across the parking lot to a bar where he threw back two stiff vodkas. It was the best part of the day. He was gone so we were left to produce the show without him yelling at us. The alcohol actually made him more pleasant so he was easier to get along with during the broadcast. Afterwards he would ask us to go back to the bar with him to talk about the show. No one ever wanted to go.

He liked to yell. The world was against him and he was always angry. Angry that we were all inexperienced and didn't know what we were doing. Angry that management didn't appreciate him. Angry that he was stuck in a small town and his career trajectory was trending downward. Angry that our very attractive anchor woman found him beneath her and was not shy about letting him know it.

He took his anger out on all of us. No one had ever really yelled at me like that. I was fascinated and terrified at the same time. It did not take much for him to go into a rage, yelling because I did not know how to work the video camera or I was too slow writing my story. I did not fight back.

His greatest achievement the year I worked for him was obtaining permission to interview a convicted rapist who was incarcerated in the nearby state penitentiary. It was not really much of a scoop. The guy had been convicted over a year before and the story had been covered at great lengths by every news organization in the state. Plus the rapist was a true psychopath who continued to profess his innocence against all evidence to the contrary. He lived to spew venom against the cops, lawyers and judges in his case to anyone who would listen. Worse than that, he disparaged his victims. No one wanted to hear anymore from this guy.

But our boss didn't care about any of that. He wanted a big story and he loved going to the penitentiary. He loved the process and the paperwork and walking through the cell blocks past the inmates. He liked hearing the taunts as he strutted past on his way to set up for the interview. I was fascinated but mostly terrified.

The interview went as expected. The rapist exclaimed his innocence and no news was made. But my boss was exhilarated. He had a big story. Normally we drove in awkward silence but on the way back to the station he was almost gleeful. This was a coup and it would be picked up by the bigger news organizations in the state. I did not say much, I just let him ramble on.

He quickly threw together the first installment of what he told us would be a five part series. Five days of forcing a convicted rapist on viewers as he spewed hate. The boss was ecstatic, almost manic, as he laid out his plans. It was the lead story that night. He called it an exclusive. It was painful to watch.

The next day we got to work and he was screaming. His face was red and we had never seen him so angry. Someone had erased the tapes from the interview. It was gone. Nothing left to salvage. He demanded answers. How could this have happened? It had to be an accident and he wanted to know who was stupid enough to put those tapes where they could be erased. The tapes had been sitting on his desk - how had they gotten away? I had never seen anyone that furious. It was as if everything that had ever gone wrong in his life had boiled down to that moment.

"WHO ERASED MY INTERVIEW?"

There was nothing we could do. Shooting the interview again was not an option. The boss was fuming and we went on with our day, doing everything we could to stay out of his way. I was trembling inside but tried not to show it.

Putting those tapes on the erase pile was one of the bravest moves of my journalistic career.

The boss got his job at the state penitentiary a few months later.

Poetry is not my thing. I have never been drawn to it. It always seems like it's trying too hard. Forced rhymes and difficult phrasing. I prefer a good meaty story with lots of words. A chance to really flow with no limits. Sometimes I read poems and have to admit I don't really understand. Where is the back story? I want someone to fill in the missing details.

I think my life is the same way. I don't like boundaries or meaningless rules. I don't want to fit in any particular box. I want to let the words flow and get the whole big messy story.

It takes longer than you expect for someone to die. The family made the decision following the doctor's advice. He said there was no hope left. The doc walked them through the options but there was not much left to decide. Death was going to come, it was just a matter of time. Machines were keeping him alive. Remove them and it would be over.

The family talked and pretended to consider the options but it was clear what they wanted to do. He was old and he had been sick a long time. It was taking a toll on everyone and it was time to move on. The doctor was surprised he had lasted this long and so was the family. They were tired of waiting, tired of coming to the hospital everyday, tired of trying to make her feel better while she sat losing her husband and watching the hours creep by.

Their marriage had been a failure to anyone who observed them. They fought with venom, spewing cruelties at each other or they sat in silence, not speaking to each other for days. They had come close to ending it many times. She would leave for months and they would all think OK, finally they will part ways. But then she would come back and it would start all over.

Having had a front row seat to their marital charade, it was hard for them to watch her current show of love and support. Suddenly he was a wonderful husband and they had enjoyed a beautiful life together. The stories she told the nurses and the hospital workers made the family wince. Who was she trying to kid? Was this her way of making up for years of torturing each other? Or was she just showing off for people she didn't know when she would never do the same for her family.

So it was a relief when the machines stopped pumping and they waited for the end. But it's not like in the movies. Nothing dramatic happened. The hours continued to roll on and still he lived. Having braced for the end, this new wait was even worse. It was agonizing and conflicting to want it to be over. Who wants to see their father or grandfather hurry up and die already? That's how they felt but they couldn't say it. They all had things to do and their own lives to get back to but you can't just turn off the machines and then leave. So they waited. She seemed to take the wait in stride, almost seemed to be savoring her last chance to be the center of attention. Doctors and nurses fussed over her and praised her commitment to her husband of 65 years. They had no idea how bitter and toxic they were with each other. A sick game of who can out nasty who in that little house that seemed smaller every time you would force yourself to visit.

The wait continued and became almost unbearable. They questioned the doctor and he said sometimes it just takes longer. They sat outside his room, taking turns walking in to see if he was still breathing. They consoled her as she kept up her bedside vigil, feeling sympathy for her in spite of it all.

Then suddenly it was over. His body finally gave up and he was gone. The hospital people were kind and efficient. There was no reason to stay there anymore. After waiting so long to leave they were not sure what to do next.

"I would like some pie. Anyone care to join me?"

The diner was a few blocks away and they huddled together in a round booth. They ordered pie and watched as she quietly ate her slice of cherry, enjoying each bite.

The first question I asked when my daughter was born, following the mandatory is she healthy inquiry, was about her hair.

"Does she have any? Is it thick?"

Turns out she had the kind of hair most babies have. A sort of haphazard fuzz sweetly ringing her head. Selfishly I was hoping she would be born with more. I wanted her to pop out with piles of hair with maybe a slight wave that grew thick and full. The kind of hair that would make people take notice. The kind of hair I had dreamed of my entire life.

Yes, I was living vicariously through my child before they had even cleaned the birth goo off of her. But only the hair part. I just wanted her to have what I never had.

To people who have thick hair this will seem silly. To my thin haired sisters it will make all the sense in the world. Hair is like the frame to the picture that is your face. Even more than that really because it can be seen from all sides of you. We are drawn to that thick tangle of hair. We love to see it in all colors and shapes. But mostly long. Women with thick hair know they won the genetic lottery and they rarely cut it short. They let it flow for all of us to admire and then act like its no big deal. The rest of us just like to look at it, in person or in commercials where it's blowing in the fake fan generated breezes. We all want to have that but it does not come in a can. So many products claim to help the thin haired ones but it's mostly a lie. No product can make up for what you didn't get.

Women with thick hair are in a different class. Thick hair means you can let it grow long and then casually put it up in a messy bun with pieces tumbling out. Because there is just so much hair it can't really be tamed. Thick hair always looks effortless. I'm not even sure the thick haired ones appreciate what they've got. "It takes so long to dry" or "Its so hot on my neck" are frequent complaints.

Thin hair requires lots of effort but it's mostly in vain. Hundreds of dollars spent on products that over promise and under deliver and you're back where you started. Looking at hair in magazine ads and wondering what it would be like to have a thick pile of hair that you could casually throw over your shoulders or lift off your neck because the weight of it was making you sweat.

I think my life would have been different if I had been born with thick hair. I know it would have made things easier for me as a teen. But I wouldn't have been forced to get by on my personality without that dreadful perm that promised to make my hair thicker but actually made me look like I had joined the circus.

The older I get the less I dream of thick hair. Yet every Halloween I pick a costume that involves a wig and for one day I get to feel that thick hair teasing my shoulders as I shamelessly toss my head about. It feels so good and I am sad when the day is over and I peel off the wig to my thin little strands.

As for my daughter? Turns out her hair grew in nice and full and I got to live a thick hair life through her. She can thank me for marrying a man with the most ridiculously thick hair you have ever seen.

She made the mistake so many women make. She got caught up in planning for the day and forgot to plan for the life she was about to take on.

She knew she loved him. Enough time had passed. The next step seemed to be the right one. And whether she knew it or not society was pushing her in that direction too. So much focus on creating the perfect day and she got to be the star. It was hard to resist.

She had always been a high achiever and this was her biggest challenge yet. She dove into planning for the day with lists and timelines and assignments. It flew by in a blur and even she had to admit to being slightly obsessed. It was hard to resist with so many magazines and websites devoted to the topic. "Make Your Day Perfect!" screamed the headlines and so she made that her mission.

Sure there were signs along the way telling her to slow down and that nagging feeling that something was off somehow but she ignored it and plugged away because there were decisions to be made and things to coordinate. That was more fun than wondering why he was not as excited about the details ("what do you mean you don't care what color the flowers are?") and why he seemed sort of distant suddenly. She consoled herself with minutia and could always find a friend who would happily debate the choice between cake or cupcakes.

She shared all the details with anyone who would listen and even those who didn't care via social media. But what was missing from her status updates was the fear that this was all a charade. That she had somehow been cast as the unwilling star in a production number and she had no choice but to take the stage.

She wanted to feel the romance and the excitement of preparing for a new life. But what she started to feel was afraid. Afraid she was making a big mistake. That she did not really know him at all. That forever was one hell of a long time.

She tried to talk to him but she was clumsy about it and it ended in an argument. He thought she was upset because he was not taking an interest. She wondered how she could possibly make him understand without ruining it all.

So she continued. She consoled herself by thinking it would all be fine when it was over. When they returned to normal without this huge event looming over them. But at night when she could not sleep she would wonder. How can I make this commitment? How do I know it will last and what will happen if it doesn't?

By daylight she carried on. Plans fell into place and she was confident the day was going to be perfect.

She just wasn't sure the life would be too.

My grandmother always made me feel special and I adored her. She taught me to love books and made the best pussy willow Valentines Day card holder ever seen at my elementary school. I remember sitting in the back seat with her on family trips and cuddling close to her while she read to me. It was pure childhood happiness.

As I grew older I understood that my grandmother had a dark and secret side. She and my grandfather fought constantly and she would leave for months. She would usually find a nanny job in another state and I would wonder why those kids were getting all her attention instead of me.

We learned her darkest secret when I was a teen. A family friend accidentally revealed that my grandmother had been married as a very young woman. She had a son and for reasons no one knows she left them both and traveled across the country to start a new life.

We speculated about this endlessly, spinning tales and stories to match the little information we had. But no one was allowed to ask her about it. It was universally accepted in our family that it would kill her to learn that we knew her secret.

Still I wonder. What if we had asked?

"Hey grandma, about that other family you left behind. What's up with that?"

None of us had the nerve. So we let her take the secret to her grave. I still miss her and think about how tormented she must have been, living with that secret deep in her soul. And it amazes me to know that no one else ever made me feel as important as she did. I hope she somehow knew that.

Why do I resist this chance to express myself through words? Am I intimidated by the other writers, afraid they are better and my words won't hold up? I know I can write and write well. It has always been my dream, my fall back plan. The thing I will do when I have time.

Now the time is here but I am afraid. I am not sure what frightens me. Maybe just the chance that the thing I have always counted on won't live up to the dream.

So I fight the fear. The best way to start is to just begin. And so I will.