Just a spoon full of Britney makes the guacamole go down.

I live in two polar universes– one which embraces the new and another that cherishes the old. And since the days of my college essay writing I have marketed myself on this unusual trait, the daily dichotomy I so carefully and meticulously balance (please refrain from laughter).

However, there is a price to be paid for this perpetual state of juggling. Few people can understand me truly and deeply, and so I conceal many of my thoughts from my immediate social circles. I, as one British psychology student once phrased it, “selectively share certain aspects of my life, while maintaining a aura of secrecy around others.”

Fortunately there is a select group of young women with whom I am proud to say I am completely open and honest. It is with this group of biddies (largely Wellesley ones) that I shed my cloak of privacy and reveal my deepest darkest secrets, such as my affection for Britney Spears’ 2000 classic “Stronger” and my desire to begin a penpal exchange with death row inmates.

Yes, in the company of these particularly women, I shed all inhibitions and consume three baskets of tortilla chips in one sitting. In a crowded Mexican restaurant on a rainy Saturday night, I sip my 75-calorie margarita (made of tequila and agave nectar!) and vow to someday make them my bridesmaids. And then mid-vow, spontaneously break out into Backstreet Boys’ “Everybody”– fully aware that upon completion of my solo they will still willingly be sitting at the table beside me.

And in their presence, I recommend a weekend activity– a viewing of a musical improv’s group performance aptly titled: “Willy Wonka and the House of Horrors.” I make this recommendation aware that they are likely to nod in agreement; to think my rather sordid sense of humor and entertainment is worth the $7 tickets.

This ode to my favorite Wellesley women is a longwinded way of expressing my gratitude for their friendships and for a lovely sun and rain-filled weekend in their company. I  may be single and every so often (ok, more often than not) lament that reality, but on weekends such as these– when I find myself consuming my bodyweight in guacamole and with zero judgment from my friends– I realize 22 and single isn’t such a bad look for me.


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