This is how we reveal ourselves: these tiny flashes of discomfort, the reactions we can’t hide.

Inside my chest, my lungs are wild animals, clawing at the cage.
"Oh, man," Autumn mumbles from beside me. "His smile makes me stupid."
Her words are a dim echo of my own thoughts: His smile ruins me. The feeling makes me uneasy, a dramatic lurch that tells me I need to have him or I won't be okay.

To her, not packing our lunches every day or joining the PTA is a feminist rallying cry.

Light bursts behind my closed eyes, so intensely I nearly hear the popping sound. It's my brain melting, or my world ending, or maybe we've just been hit by a meteor and this is the rapture and I'm given one last perfect moment before I'm sent to purgatory and he;s sent somewhere much, much better.
It isn't his first kiss - I know that - but it's his first real one.

There are moments in life where I wonder whether things can get worse. I'm on a plane, with my new husband, whose enthusiasm for this whole thing seems to be flagging, and it's in this deep moment of self-pity that I register–with absolute horror–that I've also just started my period.

I look down at my white jeans and stifle a sob...

You have very Grace Kelly-like tendencies about you. I hear Grace Kelly had a filthy mouth too," he added.

"You love my filthy mouth."

"True. But I like it better when its full," he said, meaningful smirk in place.

"You know, if you would shut up once in a while you'd be damn near perfect."

"But I'd be a silent panty ripper, which I think is a lot creepier than the angry-boss panty ripper.