The Monday morning I moved in, Danny drove me to campus. He brought along Lori and Adrian to help. I don’t remember why my parents didn’t go, but it was probably related to work and the fact that few days later they’d be on campus for the 1-day parent orientation. Still, they weren’t missed at the moment. The siblings were more than enough help.

Once I’d checked in and received my key, we took my stuff up to my room on the third floor of the north wing. The floor was already busy with other students and their parents moving in.

I don’t remember if Lily had already arrived at the room. The details aren’t scribbled in my old journal. I do know she was in the room before we finished moving and the siblings left. Lily was one of several students from Garfield HS in the program. She left to lunch with some other students from her high school.

The siblings stuck around a little while, but soon they had to leave. I walked them out. They hugged me and wished me luck.

When I returned to my room, all that waited for me were a few boxes ready to unpack. I sat on the bet, a bit overwhelmed and feeling lonelier than ever. And I cried.

Every summer for the past 4 years I’ve gone back to dorms about once a week to meet incoming freshmen for work. I was up there this morning, admiring how “the hill” — the residence hall area — has changed. After my meeting, I walked over to the shiny, new Bruin Café and had a drink. I pulled out the Adrian Tomine book Sean lent me and got to reading.

Except for the newness of sitting in the Bruin Café, sitting by myself at table didn’t feel strange. I wasn’t embarrassed or terrified of it as I was on my first day at UCLA. I didn’t know anyone and didn’t want to eat at a table alone. Rather than go hungry, I bought a sandwich from the convenience store on the hill and ate in my room.

I still feel alone sometimes, far from my family, but I’m more comfortable with it. I’ve become quite independent and there are times when I relish in those quiet moments.

But there are still times when I want nothing more than to be back in Hacienda Heights with the parents and siblings. Invariably, those are the times when I get bad/sad news and just need a hug.

Before the first date, I had already:

(a) promised to love him forever, and not just on his birthday;
(b) negotiated the terms of a long-term relationship and picked out at least one future child’s name;
(c) given him a Valentine’s day gift (and received one from him too);
(d) kissed him;
(d) checked the yes box when he asked, “will you marry me?”; and
(e) made it public.

Despite all this, I was nervous. So was he.

It was like the previous times we’d gotten together to watch TV, have dinner and drinks, play video games, go to a baseball game hadn’t happened. Of course not, that was all while we were just friends.

That Friday night, I spent more time than usual getting ready. I combed and blow dried my hair (when I do this, people usually think I got a haircut or something). I curled my eyelashes, applied mascara, dusted some blush on my cheeks. I applied and then took off some lipgloss. It was took dark. I wore a dress I’d bought right before I gave up shopping for Lent. I consulted with a friend to figure out which shoes went best. He picked the red peep-toe sandals with a low heal.

I picked him up at his hosts’ house nearby. (Hey, we are kinda nontraditional here.) We shared a plate of pad see ew at a cute Thai restaurant and then headed over to the El Rey Theater for the Bird and the Bee.

With drinks in hand we took our place close to the stage. As we waited, we listed off all the firsts we couldn’t wait for. First fight. First time making up from said fight. First time I cook for him. First birthday together. First holiday. First time he meets my parents. First vacation. First day in LA when it’s officially Sean’s home. And on and on. We waited a while.

The opening act, Juliette Commagere, took the stage and we quieted down. But we started up right after she finished.

“How do you like our first date so far?” I asked.

“I love it.”

We brainstormed more firsts until a very-pregnant Inara George (the bird), Greg Kurstin (the bee) and the rest of the band took the stage. We quieted down again. The Bird and the Bee played a great show. We danced and sang along.

Hey boy, won’t you take me out tonight? I’m not afraid of all the reasons why we shouldn’t even try. Hey boy won’t you make me out tonight? I get excited when I think of crawling in to your arms.

During “Fucking Boyfriend” I sang in to his ear.

“Won’t you be my fucking boyfriend?”

He turned to me, “yes.”

After the show — which included surprise guest John Oates playing along to the Bird and the Bee’s covers of Hall & Oates hits — we made our way home.

“You know what I was thinking, what would our anniversary be? When did we actually get together? The 17th? Today?”

“I think it should be today, because then I can remember something actually happening, not just sending a fax.”

Right after I confirmed my relationship to Sean, I texted my sister. “If you see something about me being engaged on FB, it’s a joke. Sorta.”

I’d explain later. The full story wouldn’t fit in a text message.

Before I’d even left the office I had a text from Vane, “you’re engaged?! Did I miss something?”

On Facebook, Taz was the first of many to respond with incredulous felicitations. “You got engaged? Congratulations!!!”

Some simply offered joyful congratulations, but those who knew me were right to wonder what was going on (probably because I never mentioned breaking up with Alan on the blog or FB). Some called bullshit. And some, like César, put it nicer, “Is this for real or just for jokes?” Alfonso/HP wondered if it was a really early April Fool’s Day prank.

“What’s the official story?” I asked Sean via text.

“Maybe. Or no comment.”

Curiously, Sean wasn’t dealing with any of this. The same news elicited no response from his FB contacts.

Question: Did you get engaged for real for real?

Answer: It’s not for real until he talks to my parents, right? But there was a question. And I did say yes. Now, what I said yes to is probably something a lot less serious than a lifelong commitment.

I procrastinate on everything. Lent was no different. It was Ash Wednesday and I still had not settled on my sacrifice. Would it be sweets? Alcohol? Shopping? Men in LA?

I discussed this with Sean after returning to the office with ashes on my forehead. He suggested sweets and sent me a silly e-card. I laughed and then got curious.

“Have you ever been accused of being flaky?”

“Never in my entire life. If it was possible to be overly reliable…”

“Even by friends? Family? Or is this just relationships?”

“Friendships and relationships.”

“Wow. Where do I sign up to marry you?”

“Ha. I’ll fax over the contracts”

I gave him my work fax number. A few moments later, he returned and told me my fax line was busy.

“Is that a metaphor?”

“No, a fact.”

“Damn. Can you scan and send as pdf?”

I was curious to see these contracts. I didn’t wait long as I saw a new message in my inbox from him with the subject line “fax.” There was no message, just an attachment, “cindy.pdf.” I downloaded the document and opened it.

I closed the window immediately, worried my co-worker would see. I checked in with Sean again.

“So, no signature required?”

“Well, until I can get a contract in writing, this would be a preliminary agreement.”

I asked once again about the fine print and my commitment, but Sean brushed it off saying he only had 10 minutes to draw it up.

I waited until I got home to place a fat red check mark over the yes box. I sent it back.

He was happy with my answer.

The next day, as we talked about rings he mentioned making it public on Facebook.

“Do it.”

“You think I’m joking.”

“I know you’re not.”

“Always,” he replied with a sly smile.

She threw back her head and laughed and continued slowly dancing to “Volver, Volver.”

“The Hurt Locker… I think I saw that movie with you.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Let me check.”

“But you did, I know.”

He got up from the bed, walked toward a shelf by the door and picked up a large ziplock bag from the shelf. He walked back to me and sat in the bed.

He fished around for the orange ticket stub amongst more ticket stubs, photo booth strips, homemade cards, simple notes scrawled in the morning, and more mementos of our 18 month relationship.

“Here it is! Yup, I saw it with you.”

“I knew that already,” I said as I looked through the clear bag. I stopped and then spoke without thinking.

“So, is this the stuff you’re going to burn when I break up with you?”

“Probably not. I’ll just put it away, but it depends on the terms of the breakup.”

“Oh.”

End? You ask.

Of course. There will be an end. This isn’t the kind of story with an ever after.

Ten… nine… eight

I didn’t join in the countdown, I just steadied myself against my cousin and others in our group in anticipation for the chaos at midnight.

And it was chaotic. Balloons fell, cheers broke out, people around me hugged and kissed. I didn’t join in. No boyfriend or date by my side to hug tightly and give a sloppy drunken kiss to in celebration of a new year and decade.

Instead, I swatted the silver balloons falling around me and settling at my feet. There were a lot. They crowded the floor so I couldn’t move, not that there was much room on the crowded ballroom dance floor.

As Jesús hugged Mariana and Jenn, I stomped. I stepped on one silver balloon. It popped easily under my heel. I popped a second, then a third, a fourth and so on until the area around my feet was clear.

A tall white guy — whose silly sunglasses I had borrowed a few minutes earlier for a photo to add to the weird eye-wear files — asked, “whoa, where is all this aggression coming from?”

I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t know.

I felt out of place at the Roosevelt Hotel’s New Year’s Eve party. It was too Hollywood. My simple black dress wasn’t shiny, short or tight enough. And my heels didn’t look like a torture device. Still, I was having a good time sipping on free drinks and dancing. My original NYE plan fell through, but Jesús saved me (hah!) with a last minute opportunity.

I snapped a few photos. The tall white guy kicked another balloon my way. I stepped on it with my heel and relished the pop.

My mom didn’t watch much TV when I was growing up. In fact, I rarely saw her just sitting around doing nothing.

“No real work is done when you’re sitting,” she’d remind me as I’d take a seat while folding laundry.

Still, she did turn on the TV for background noise when she ironed. Most of the times it was the afternoon newscast. That was practical. She could get an update on rush hour traffic and know when to expect my dad and get the weather forecast.

In listening to these newscasts, I mistook the anchors’ “Southern California” for “sunny California.” This made much more sense to a kid growing up in the drought years as Tony! Toni! Tone! sang “It Never Rains (In Southern California)”.

I write all this to give you an idea of why I’d complain after four straight days of rain during dinner with my advisor and fellow grad students.

While my fellow advisees — tired of sloshing around campus, traffic and taking the bus in the rain — felt my pain, my advisor did not.

“You need to leave California, Cindy.”

She had just returned from a work trip to Michigan and surely some rain and lows in the 40s were little to complain about.

I pouted.

“I know you don’t want to, but you’re going to need to, especially when you start looking for a job. There are no jobs here,” she said matter-of-factly to the other PhDs in training.

I nodded, not because I felt like I had to agree with my advisor (and boss), but because she was right. I’ve been in LA all my life. Even when I had the chance to leave for school five years ago, I opted to stay at my familiar campus because it presented the best opportunities. I’m glad I stayed too. Unfortunately, by the time I get around to graduating, higher education in California will likely still be suffering and other states will offer better opportunities. I’m not unwilling to relocate. I’m just not enthusiastic about it.

I like my mild, sunny winters. I don’t want to deal with cold, rain and more than five days without sunshine.

Now you see why I’m in no rush to finish the PhD?

Still, I ran up the hill, to the park, past the park to the golf course and then turned. As I ran on the sidewalk, I tripped slightly but caught my balance. I remember feeling lucky. It was close, and a fall would be bad. Actually, I was surprised that in half a year of running, I hadn’t tripped over my own feet given my recurring bouts of Cindyitis.

I must have jinxed myself. Three steps later, I tripped as I stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street. Once again, I caught my balance, but only temporarily. A second later, I was on the asphalt. My right elbow took the brunt of the impact.

A driver passing by slowed down.

He rolled down his window.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I replied as I stared at my scraped and dirty palms. Each one had small cuts already. I wanted to ask if he had a first aid kit in his car, but figured I was the only person accident prone enough to carry a kit.

“I think I’m just scraped up, but I’m okay.”

“Good,” he said and drove off.

I stepped to the sidewalk and inspected my injuries more closely in better light. I cleaned off my palms a little with a tissue in my pocket and then took off my windbreaker to see the damage to my aching elbow. It was scraped up and already swollen, but not bleeding.

“That’s going to be a bad bruise,” I said to myself, but felt thankful I’d chosen to wear the windbreaker even though it wasn’t too cold.

As I put my jacket back on, I felt like crying. My elbow hurt. I regretted not asking the driver for a ride. I was still about two miles from home.

But I didn’t cry. I walked a few steps, started my iPod again and then continued running — though more carefully — to Ely Guerra’s Júrame. It wasn’t as good as “Sana, sana colita de rana,” but it did the trick.

I changed and put on some black flats, the closest I had to dancing shoes. Jenny and I took the train a few stops where we met up with G and her friend J.

Half an hour, a few trains and two blocks later, we were at our destination. G, who had brought along a special pair of dance shoes, gave her ID to the bouncer. He nodded, gave it back to her and she went through the door. J, the token guy in the group, did the same thing.

Once J and G had entered, I stepped up and handed the bouncer my recently renewed driver’s license. I turned my head and looked down the street, but turned when I heard the bouncer.

“That’s not you. I’m not letting you in,” he said matter-of-factly.

“What? That’s me.”

The first two stopped and turned around, curious about the commotion.

“No, that’s her,” he said and pointed and Jenny.

Jenny held up her own driver’s license and protested, “No, this is me.”

The bouncer shook his head.

I tried arguing. It’s a new picture, only a year old (by the way, I actually like my photo). That’s me in that picture, I repeated in hopes that if I just stated the truth he would believe me. I offered to be quizzed on the information on the card. I could easily recite my address, birth date, height, weight, eye color, and driver’s license number. I didn’t mention what I was thinking: come on, I haven’t lost that much weight that a stranger does not believe September 2009 me is not August 2008 me.

It didn’t work. The bouncer gave me back my card and once again told me I was not getting in.

Jenny, J, G and I huddled outside the club, trying to figure out plan b. A few minutes later, we hailed a cab and were off to try and salvage the night.