I think I want to marry your friend.

I have a secret talent: I make people get married. Yes, simply through meeting me, men and women alike determine that it is time to settle down, start a family, and paint a picket fence white.

This phenomenon is not recent either. I distinctly remember sitting in my 11th grade AP English class. Chava, a then single high school girl, and I were discussing life beyond the classroom. I casually mentioned that I hoped to be senator by age 35 and follow in the path of Hillary Clinton, minus the whole adulterous husband bit.

Chava laughed and said she hoped to be married for at least 18 years by age 35. I made my usual I Dream of Jeannie motion and stated, “Your wish is my command.” Low and behold Chava got married at 17, and indeed if marital life works out with Meir, her now husband, she will meet her aforementioned girl in fourteen years.

The winter following my first year at college, I visited Israel. I was introduced to a girl named Shira, whose most defining feature was her child bearing hips. I mean, those hips just screamed babies! I couldn’t resist the opportunity to play matchmaker, and I subsequently introduced her to Yoni, a young boy (now Harvard Law School student), on my particular Israel trip. Shira and Yoni are now married with one baby girl, Tamar.

However, this superpower is not limited to Orthodox Jewish coupling. While on the train back from the Hamptons– a trip courtesy of the lovely Lynne– I had the fortune of sitting beside a flamboyantly blonde gay. As is my way, I instantly become best friends with said gay.

He referenced his boyfriend, in the seat beside us, who he had met several years earlier on this very train. And, well, blondie was ready to take the marital plunge. He just wasn’t sure when or where to pop the question. I recommended he do it in the very place they had met– the train. He grinned and said, “I was planning on doing just that.”

Before I could says “grande skinny vanilla latte,” blondie was on his knees, referencing Martha’s Vineyard and white tuxedos. And yours truly had secured her 100th summer wedding invitation. If I agree to attend blondie’s wedding, I will be participating in three weddings in one week– a record, even for me.

The lesson of this brief interlude unrelated to my recap of commencement activities is this: if ever you find your ovaries whirling, call me. I guarantee you’ll be engaged within six months.

I leave you with a visual summary of my weekend in Amagansett:

Caught in the midst of a 1990s love song.

For those of you who remember the hits of 1998, you will undoubtedly know and love the Monica and Brandy R&B collaboration for “The Boy Is Mine.” In the opening of the song, the two have a brief but memorable exchange:

You look kinda familiar 
Yeah, you do too 
But um, I just wanted to know 
Do you know somebody named…. 
You, you know his name 
Oh yeah, definitely, I know his name 

Now if Starbucks were an attractive young male, this song would categorize my Wellesley commuter rail experience. After an excruciating painful, but ultimately successful apartment hunt in New York, my roommate and I were headed back to the Bubble for one final week of college madness.

Tired, confused, and somewhat under caffeinated, we boarded a Boston-bound bus and then a Wellesley-bound train. While on said train, a blonde who looked vaguely familiar approached me and said, “You look kind of familiar.”

And in true 1990s pop culture fashion I responded, “Yea, you do too.” She smiled and then asked, “But um, I just wanted to know–.”

Before she could complete her sentence, I exclaimed, “if I go to Starbucks?” And with a simple nod, I launched into my ode to the Wellesley Square Starbucks. As a loyal supporter of the establishment since 2007 I had seen many baristas come and go, and said blonde was definitely one of the most recent baristas to go.

Having quit her post to move across the state, she was returning to say her final goodbye to the store that began her career in the coffee business. And she admitted that she was happy to serendipitously meet me because she could now bid her favorite grande skinny vanille latte ordering customer adieu.

I must confess that she her admission make me teary-eyed. I had been able to resist the sentimentality that normally accompanies impending undergraduate graduation until that point. But the sudden realization that I was going to be leaving the baristas who’ve made my neurotransmitters fire at lightning speed for the last four years was a bit more than I could take.

I know I will begin building the barista-coffee addict relationship anew once I settle in New York. And yet, I am also fully aware that the small town New England charm that made the Wellesley baristas so agreeable will not be present in the Starbucks Soho counterpart.

Annie– the blonde barista at the epicenter of my teary-eyed experience– reminded me, though, that even when I left New England, I would still carry a piece of it with me. Perhaps, she proffered, I would be a bit kinder than the average New Yorker; perhaps I would smile when I see someone familiar on the street; stop to listen to the music of the traffic in the city; and even linger on the sidewalk where the neon signs are pretty.

I interrupted her before she suggested I incorporate color into my wardrobe. I may have a love for everything nautical-themed, but I was not about to become a Lilly Pulitzer model. In the words of a D-list actor in a D-list film, “I have a rep to protect.” And as a true blooded New Yorker, my wardrobe would continue to remain black.

Living a Nolita Fairytale.

When your grandmother spends $1000 on a beautiful wooden piano, you feel compelled to take a few lessons. And indeed when a ten year old version of myself suddenly found I had a new musical instrument in my possession, I enlisted the services of Hannah from “Andy’s Hall of Rock.”

As the only individual without piercings in compromising areas, Hannah seemed the quintessential externally defined version of normal. In slimming maxi dresses, she defied the Ramone-inspired dress code at Andy’s.

When, after only 10 lessons, Hannah left New York to start a life in West Virginia, I was hardly surprised. I also determined that without Hannah I could not continue to feign musical talent, and so I put my grandmother’s feelings aside and allowed the potentially melodious instrument to gather dust.

However, I soon entered my teen years and Vanessa Carlton, a singer with a gift for the piano, became my idol. Suddenly I was willing to spend ungodly amounts of time beside an aspiring punk rocker at Andy’s if it meant I, too, could live the “Nolita Fairytale”:

My mother, however, was hesitant and, like a good New Yorker, skeptical. I had a tendency to aspire to be people that for a variety of  athletic and musical limitations I could never actually become.

When I was nine, I wanted to be Tara Lipinski, the figure skater who won the 1998 Olympic gold medal. I enlisted in classes, and within days I was wearing a hockey helmet because my lack of grace necessitated its presence.

Then there was my David Beckham phase. My coach assigned me to defend the goalie, and when I failed to adequately complete that task, I was permanently reassigned to the sidelines. After one season, my soccer career came to a sedentary close.

And so instead of allowing me to re-engage in a musical rendezvous, my mother instructed me to live the lyrics rather than play them. Well, avid readers, today I made my lyrical dreams a distinct reality. Along with two lovely Wellesley women, I became a proud renter of an apartment in Nolita.

Aside from the fact that we live across the street from the BEST CUPCAKE SHOP in North America and on top of an adorable shoe boutique, we are also within walking distance of two excellent coffee shops: Cafe Habana and Gimme! Coffee. And with a name like Gimme! Coffee, I believe I may have found my soulmate– or perhaps soulbuilding?

I may be living paycheck to paycheck, but I am determined to maintain the caffeinated lifestyle I have grown accustomed to. And with a fifteen minute walk to work every morning, I am going to need all the Gimme goodness Nolita has to offer.

What we learn about ourselves… during finals.

While most college seniors are in the midst of graduation celebrations, my Wellesley biddies and I are spending our every waking hour and penny at the local Starbucks churning out final papers.

And in the midst of this writing bonanza, I have come to several realizations about myself:

1. Even Types-As can procrastinate. I used to think only Type-Bs, with little ambition and even less drive, were the only ones who spent time perusing NBC for the latest SNL shorts. I thought wrong. Over the last 72 hours I have viewed the SNL short– Jack Sparrow– at least fifty times (yes, like the rapper). Much thanks to the Gentile Giant for introducing me to the wonders of Lonely Island-Michael Bolton collaborations:

2. I am caffeine-blind. I do not privilege one form of caffeine over the other; lattes, diet cokes, and Indian chai are all acceptable and welcome forms of energy boosters. While I have my personal preferences– Starbucks, I’m talking to you– I am also diligently saving for my New York move and have had to sacrifice my twice daily routine in order to purchase a spatula for my new apartment.

3. Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” is my finals, and perhaps life anthem. And though I have little in common with an uneducated Detroit rapper– except our noticeably pasty skin color– his words speak to me. You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow; this opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo.

And with that I return to the conclusion of my final paper of my college career. In the words of the Beloved Roommate, “Get it, girl.”

The Seven Year Old Refrain.

As the first and only child, I have been subject to many parenting experiments. For example, as a three year old I watched a psychological thriller involving an abusive parent who pushes his children down the stairs. As an imaginative child, I thought said behavior was simply entertainment.

When entering my nursery class, I proceeded to inform my teachers that “Mommy pushed me down a staircase.” Within hours child services had been called and my mother was forced to explain to the principal that she had mistakenly let her pre-school aged daughter watch a film containing a scene of parental abuse.

I, in my toddler-esque ways, had misinterpreted the film and mistakenly reappropriated it to be my own personal narrative. But as my mother argued, I was all smiles and no bruises. Or, as my father says in my infamous baby videos, I was very much a “wanted child.”

Now one would imagine that after that failed cinematic attempt my parents would refrain from viewing PG-13 and R-rated films for awhile. However, at age seven I was again subject to another film well beyond my years: When Harry Met Sally (1989). An adorable little rom-com, there are inescapable sexual overtones– ones that even at age twenty-one still make me blush.

One scene, in particular though, generated quite a hullabaloo for my parents. In explaining women’s desire to sexually satisfy their partners, Sally, Meg Ryan’s character, fakes an orgasm in the middle of a bustling New York diner.

Now as a second grader I did not comprehend the reasoning for these noises, but I did remember the last sentence of the scene, uttered by a female witness to Sally’s refrain– “I’ll have what she’s having.” I, too, wanted to inspire my fellow diners to make smart foodie selections.

And so upon entering a diner resembling the one in the original film, I began to make some very odd noises. Attempting to mimic Sally, I was subject to perplexed gazes. My grandmother, witness to my antics, asked what had prompted this behavior– before demanding I cease and desist. My answer, “Nora Ephron.” (Note: Ephron wrote the screenplay for When Harry Met Sally.)

However, before I was silenced I turned to a woman at a nearby table and said, “Don’t you want to order what I want?” Her response, “Honey, of course.”

I then distinctly remember her ordering a latte. And while I was not a coffee drinker from birth (unfortunately!), I’d like to think that even at age seven I was inspiring caffeine-deprived individuals to add a few stimulants to their diet.

Now with a few stimulants in my system, it’s time to tackle my final collegiate paper. Let my neurotransmitters run free!

Defending my thesis, one dancing queen at a time.

Everyone needs a little Meryl Streep now and then. I find I call upon the Oscar award winning actress in moments of distress; for example, in the minutes leading up to my thesis defense.

Despite the fact I had spent over a year researching and writing my thesis, the prospect of academic interrogation still made me shudder. No amount of Starbucks could calm my nerves. No friendly pep talks could convince me I was about to experience anything short of an inquisition.

And so I did what any Jew with an ounce of rhythm would do: I broke out the Mamma Mia soundtrack and danced to the sweet tunes of Ms. Streep. As a child I distinctly remember Mama B breaking out the Broadway show tunes when faced with adversity. Together we would sing “I feel pretty and witty and gay. And I pity any girl who isn’t me today.” And somehow I would come to believe I was the luckiest little Starbucks fiend around.

Only today I decided to assume the identity of a dancing queen– “young and sweet, only seventeen.” Little did I think passerbys would share my appreciation for Meryl Streep or ABBA. But within seconds there was a knock on my door.

Now when one finds herself using her diet coke bottle as a microphone, belting out a 1970s Billboard 100 song, she hesitates to let anyone interrupt her groove. However, I was feeling charitable and so I shouted, “Enter, but only if you are ready to shake it like a polaroid picture.”

Of course instead of being one of my hallmates, it was the lovely cleaning lady Maureen. As a devout musical junkie herself, she asked if she could join in on the celebration. Giving her a spare coke bottle, I provided her with the means to join my spontaneous dance party.

The fun did not stop there. A few first years, having completed their first finals, knocked and asked to join in jubilation. Within minutes, I had a full-fledged musically  themed dance party happening in my humble dorm room. Women of all ages rocking out to Mamma Mia in a myriad of interpretative manners.

Sadly my spontaneity came to an abrupt conclusion when I realized my defense was in less than ten minutes. Shuttling my fellow partygoers out, I promised to repeat this magic sometime in the near future. For now, I had to Swiffer and head to the Political Science Department.

And currently, an hour post defense, I can honestly say I am ready for another musical adventure. I received honors, and if that doesn’t call for a little West Side Story sing-a-long, I don’t know what does.

My flirtation with hipsterdom.

There comes a time in every Orthodox Jewish girl’s life when she just wants to break free, expose her elbows, and perhaps, if she is feeling particularly bold, flash a little ankle at male passerbys. For me, this period of time came during my senior year of high school.

However, being a born again  exception to the rule, I took my little Rumspringa to a new level of extreme. I ventured into the world of hipsterdom: Williamsburg- to see a certain dynamic duo perform in a dingy skinny-jean ridden club.

Now while you can take the Jew out the of the Orthodox ghetto, you most certainly cannot take the ghetto out of the Jew. And so instead of dressing in the appropriate hipster attire (skinny jeans and flannel), I wore a button down Gap shirt and a pleated black skirt from some Jew-only clothing establishment.

Needless to say when I arrived at said club, I was overdressed and the subject of an exhibitionist gaze. As I entered, I felt as if a thousand Ray-Ban glasses made me the subject of their attention. I, therefore, was quite relieved when the performers– Matt & Kim– took to the stage. The Ray-Bans were temporarily distracted.

Last night Matt & Kim re-entered my life, taking to the Wellesley stage and reminding me of my failed attempt at religious rebellion. Only this time– though both my ankles and elbows were still very much concealed– no one stared at me in bewilderment. No one remotely questioned my presence at a borderline hipster concert.

Dressed in a flower power dress that screamed Anthropologie housewife, I was utterly perplexed. Had I somehow managed to attain a certain Brooklyn-esque credibility despite my adherence to Orthodox principles of dress? Certainly not.

I had, however, attained a different sort of credibility or acceptance for my quirky pants-free lifestyle. My fellow Wellesley women had grown to respect me for my inescapable Jewish approach to attire. In fact, as one Wandering Asian Gnome phrased it, I was “endearing.” Praise Moses– my mother’s not the only person who thinks of me in those terms!

Here’s to the band that reminded me it’s perfectly acceptable to dress in as much (or as little) as you’d like:

Living on a mermaid and a prayer.

Every little American girl has a favorite Disney film. For  me it was The Little Mermaid. At the time, I believed my affinity towards Ariel was based on a common enemy: the snake. She battled Ursala, a monster with a head of snakes, while I contended with a 4-inch garden snake in my front yard.

At the end of the film Ariel succeeded; Ursala failed; and the little mermaid that could became a part of the land-walking masses… all in the name of love. Now at age six I was unimpressed by this sacrifice. She exchanges a life of underworld exploration for a young man who promises a happily ever after ending.

However, how can it be happily ever after when Ariel must bid adieu to her friends and family beneath the ocean floor? There is no compromising in her romance; just one man dictating the terms of his commitment.

The question, then, becomes why I still adore this film despite its overt patriarchal tendencies. And today, on my way back from Starbucks, I suddenly realized: I have a major thing for mermaids. Of all the coffee establishments in all of New York, I had to choose the one represented by a mermaid.

There is something inexplicably magical about the mermaid– half human, half fish, she struggles to balance two extraordinarily different realities. On the brink of commencement, I have been reflecting upon my Wellesley college essay, and similar to a mermaid, I wrote about my daily dichotomy: my Orthodox Jewish ghetto juxtaposed with my secular intellectual bubble.

Yes, I identify with the mermaid– metaphorically speaking. My daily dose of caffeine reinforces this identification, and perhaps, in the many strolls back to campus I take, gives me time to reflect on the implications of this comparison.

Ariel, however, has to make a choice. She cannot balance both worlds forever, and as one Wellesley friend phrased it, “Eventually you’ll have to decide– to expose your elbows or to keep them concealed.” Before I  make that decision, though, I think I’ll invest in a mermaid-shaped dress for Senior Gala. That will certainly make a splash!

And in case you were wondering what my graduation cake is going to look like, feast your eyes on this:

The intellectual capacity of a peanut.

I tend to seek guidance from Broadway musicals, particularly in moments of emotional duress. In the midst of final projects and New York apartment hunting, I found myself blasting Footloose highlights when few in the library would notice. My song du choice: “Heaven Help Me,” performed by a Bible Belt preacher who has banned all dancing in his small southern town.

Though I never suspected I would come to identify with a musical version of Mike Huckabee, I nonetheless have. And at 11:45 last night, I was singing, “If heaven can’t, who can?” rather loudly from a deep dark corner of the digitizing room in the library. Though none paid me any attention, I found it liberating to engage in a little preacher-inspired karaoke.

When I subsequently received my first ever ill-intentioned blog comment in my however brief blog career, I attempted to sing– a la Lucy Ricardo– “Heaven helps the man who fights his fears.” Said commenter stated that I was a fool to adore Howard Schultz, Starbucks CEO and Coffee God, because he was just another example of the capitalist caffeine agenda at play.

Now as a woman who takes her coffee extremely seriously, I was quite frustrated by the insinuation that only a person with the intellectual capacity of a peanut would endorse the mermaid-loving caffeine establishment. I subsequently responded that only an individual with the emotional capacity of a peanut could post such a comment. Then, as all bloggers lacking thick skins do, I deleted the egregious comment– sending it into the permanent depths of cyberspace.

At this point I was prepared for the midnight warning library bell to shake me of my blogger jubilation, and so I determined to blast one final song: “Time Warp.” After sitting in front of a computer for eight hours, I was ready for a jump to the left and a step to the right. And yes, I’ll admit it, even a pelvic thrust.

In the words of this lovely poster– courtesy of my favorite cinematic partner-in-crime:

This little coffee addict is ready to collect her diploma and take the city that breathed life into her by storm.

(Hoop) Rolling in the deep.

Though I resent when outsiders compare me to characters in Mona Lisa Smile–  a film loosely based on Wellesley in the Fifties, there is one sequence in the film I value and identify with: hoop rolling. Wellesley, as a college steeped in tradition, takes pride in indulging in what may otherwise be deemed absurd.

One such absurdity is rolling a wooden hoop down a small hill near Lake Waban early Saturday morning. This tradition involves spending $15 on the aforementioned hoop and then decorating it accordingly.

I, myself, determined to cover my hoop in coffee quotes– including my personal favorite: “Behind every great woman is a substantial amount of coffee.” Others opt to keep it simple, decorating their hoops in their class colors.

Regardless of the extent to which we view our hoops as pieces of art, we all engage in the same process on the second to last Saturday of the academic year. Navigating our hoops down a winding road, we clamor to be the first to cross the finish line.

The logic is simple– the winner is guaranteed to succeed “in however she defines success.” Now I should note that when the infamous hoop rolling tradition began in 1899, the winner was guaranteed something entirely different. She would be the first to get married. (If my grandmother had gone to Wellesley, she would have loved playing that game.)

However, as Second Wave feminism and post-feminism began to influence the campus, the prize shifted from first to wed to first to become CEO to first to be successful. And while I appreciate the commitment to vernacular modernization, I would have been content to play the marriage game as well.

Call me old school, but the rather vague prize was not a motivating factor to speed ahead. I lost my competitive edge, and when the Beloved Roommate fell behind, I patiently waited for her to gather her hoop before continuing the less than mad dash to the finish line. Also, the winner gets thrown into the lake– an extraordinarily contaminated body of water– certain to curtail one’s life span by a year or two:

Friends don't let friends roll hoops before caffeinating.

Pre-rolling love.

And we're off.

Inching towards the finish line.

We're all about the venn diagrams.

{photos courtesy of the Awesomest Sophomore}