Turn into the skid.

Friday it rained. It wasn’t light rain, drizzling rain, or soaking rain, it was hard, furious, pounding rain that makes you think the sky is angry and out for revenge.

Naturally, I was driving in this rain. My windshield wipers leave a lot to be desired on a drizzly day, so they were no match for this deluge. On the nastiest section of North Beacon Street, I couldn’t feel the ground beneath my car. It was the strangest feeling, like my car was floating. Hydroplaning, I realized, as my mind reverted back to Driver’s Ed. Nothing I did with my hands or feet made any difference. I just floated down the road, headed directly for a median strip, the pounding water against my car deafening. All I could see was the blur of a red car as it spun off the road next to me.

Random bits of information whirled around in my head. A car is one of the safest places to be hit by lightening. It’s not speeding until you go 10 miles above the speed limit. You have to change your registration within 30 days of moving. And if you’ve lost control of your car in a snowstorm, turn into the skid.

Turn into the skid.

Nevermind that I wasn’t in a snowstorm. Nevermind that I was a few feet from hitting a median strip with rails that would destroy the front of my car. Nevermind that I had no idea if there were cars beside me or in front of me or behind me. I turned into the skid. Slowly, deliberately, I turned into the rails I was about to hit. As soon as I did it, my car drifted away from the median strip, back towards the lane I wanted to be in. I felt the tires reconnect with the ground. I saw taillights in front of me. I saw the blurry neon of signs. I saw a red light from far enough away that I had time to stop without slamming on the brakes. I was fine. The rain slowed down. I found parking in front of the restaurant I was meeting people at, and sprinted across the street barefoot to avoid ruining my shoes. I ate vegan food. It was glorious.

Everything turned out okay because I took a risk. I threw logic to the wind. Something dangerous was in front of me and I turned towards it. It makes me wonder about logic versus emotion and the idea of risk. I’m great at taking risks at my job. No matter how flawless your planning is, life gets in the way. Sometimes a tangent can lead to a more valuable lesson than the one I have typed in my lesson plan binder. Sometimes a teachable moment trumps a content lesson. In fact, I think it does more often than not. I’m smart, spontaneous, flexible, creative, impulsive, and able to adapt, which is a large part of my strength as a teacher.

But what about life outside work? Do I take risks there? When I’m sliding down the road, do I ever turn into the skid, really?

The more I think about it, the more I realize I’m kind of a wuss, especially when it comes to relationships with men. You know until this year, every relationship I’ve been in has started with the guy telling me he likes me, and then me saying it back? They’re just words, I know, but my actions mirror them. I never LET myself have feelings for anyone unless I already knew they had feelings for me. I never took charge. I never got the ball rolling.

Why didn’t I? I mean, clearly I can take charge. All day long at my job, I make decisions. All day, I am in charge. All day, I move mountains to make things happen for my students because that’s my job, and I do it well. Sometimes I think that’s where the problem lies. Maybe by the time I come home to real life I’m just too exhausted. Life is the space between what you should do and what you want to do, logic and reason versus heart. I’m so good at balancing the two at work, but when it comes to my life outside my job, I’m at a loss.

Should. I hate that word. I should be asleep right now so I’m rested for tomorrow, but instead I’m writing something that has been eating away at me, crawling around in my mind for over a week. SHOULD is irrelevant. As my eyes struggle to stay open and I dread the exhaustion that will come tomorrow afternoon, I don’t regret staying up late to write this because I want to, and I need to, and I have to believe that’s more important than whether or not I SHOULD.

I met a man a few months ago who was everything I SHOULD like, but I felt nothing. You can’t choose what you feel and what you don’t feel. You can’t turn feelings on or turn them off. You can’t help it. You are completely powerless. No amount of logic or reasoning or thoughtful decisions will make a difference.

It’s been so long since I had a long-term relationship that I only vaguely remember what it’s like, and I’ve changed so much since then that it’s probably not even relevant. I was hurt and disappointed so much that I stopped trying. You know how I said “turn into the skid”? Well if we’re continuing with that metaphor, when it came to relationships, I never gave myself the chance to turn into the skid. I never got in the car. I just stayed home.

The more you are hurt, the more guarded you become. The more things go wrong, the more you expect them to go wrong. We become master detectives, seeking out evidence to prove that our conclusions are sound. Sometimes we become masters of logical fallacies… “If Guy A did this, and also broke my heart, then if Guy B also did this, inevitably, Guy B will also break my heart.” We psychoanalyze everything about the situation, listing reasons why it’s not the right time, why we’re not ready, why it wouldn’t work, and what bad things could happen as a result. We’re cautious, calculating and completely batshit terrified.

What if you had this choice?

1. You meet someone incredible, share something electrifying and life-changing, but when it ends you are shattered almost to the point of no repair.
2. You don’t meet that person, don’t experience any of it, and are not hurt in the end.

No one wants to hurt. No one wants to be let down. If you’d asked me a year ago, I would have picked option 2 easily, to avoid pain at all costs. That’s the logical answer. But now I’d choose option 1, because I realize that pain is there to teach us something. Pain is there to make us stronger, fiercer, and more resilient than before. If pain is a prerequisite for these qualities, then I’ll have to embrace it. I’ll have to turn into the skid.

So here’s to turning into the skid. Here’s to diving into a lake where you can’t see the bottom. Here’s to doing what FEELS right rather than what I should do. Here’s to taking risks. Here’s to putting the pieces of me back together when things fall apart, because they will. Here’s to my loved ones, the glue that holds me together. Here’s to the unknown, to making decisions that go against the rules.

It’s one thing to say, “It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” It’s another thing to really believe it. It’s another thing to live your life by it, to live in such a way that you regret the things you DID do rather than things you DIDN’T do.

Here’s to turning into the skid.

I’ll drink to that. 

Dear Nick Carter

I'm 26, and I still love you.

It began in seventh grade, which was a rough year for all involved. In my particular case, it was a pudgy, glasses and frizzy-haired nightmare. I was young, stupid, and ignorant to the ways of anti-frizz serum and eyeliner.

I did some pretty epic things that year.

• For a history project, I created a fictional Revolutionary War journal. I spent hours mixing the right combination of coffee and soy sauce to dye the paper the precise shade of aged light brown. I set off the smoke alarm three times burning the edges. Unfortunately, I spent almost no time on the actual journal entries, so my grade was not great. Thanks Mr. Circo.
• I became a Bat Mitzvah and had a super sweet party. 
• I saw the voice of the Little Mermaid sing at the New England Aquarium. She was dressed like a total slut, but she did have red hair. 
• I bought my first article of clothing with my own money: a long-sleeved Abercrombie shirt with "Abercrombie and Fitch" in bold face sans serif font on the sleeve. 
• I fell in love with Angel on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. 

Despite all those accomplishments, one thing defined my seventh grade year: I discovered the Backstreet Boys, and fell in love with you.

It was more than slightly excessive. To this day, I still know all of your middle names. I made scrapbook after scrapbook collecting all the awkward photos I found in Bop, BB and Tigerbeat magazines. I spent all my money on said magazines, and wallpapered my room with pinups. Sidenote: Last year, my mom redid my childhood bedroom and screamed at me for all the holes in the walls from thumbtacks. I knew every song by heart. I had every album. I even made my father drive me to an obscure Newbury Comics location so I could buy all the imported international albums. When you released "I Need You Tonight," I told everyone I know that it was originally, "I see Heaven in your Eyes." I rambled to anyone who would listen about how in the original recording of "Quit Playin' Games" Brian sang both verses. I made my father take me to the Kiss Concert for 3 years so I could see you. I mounted several smear campaigns against *N Sync. You played a concert at the Civic Center in Providence the night before I began high school, and my mother gave me permission because I literally would not stop until she did. If you knew my mother, you would understand how stubborn she is, and how much effort this took on my part.

Years passed. You guys aged. Your albums were still great. I was still known as "That girl who is obsessed with the Backstreet Boys." Slowly, people began to join me. Once people knew about me, they felt safe admitting their love for your music. The moment I fell for my first boyfriend was the moment he admitted that he knew all the words to "I Want it That Way" and was not ashamed. He later admitted to knowing all the words to several songs on *N Sync's "No Strings Attached" album. That didn't end well. I whipped him back into shape, don't worry.

More years passed. I no longer knew the words to every song on your albums, but I knew most of them. Eventually I turned 21, and found that every time a Backstreet Boys song was played in a bar, everyone sang at the top of their lungs. Most artists have one song that achieves that kind of beer-fueled glory. Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone" Kanye and Jamie Foxx's "Golddigger." Journey. Sweet Home Alabama. Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy. But not you. Every song of yours inspired random groups of people to do tequila shots together in the name of nostalgia. And did you know that "Larger Than Life" was a sick Amsterdam club song? Yeah.

I became a middle school writing teacher. Since I teach writing, I tell stories about my past, and as a result, all of my students (past and present) know about my obsession with you. In fact, two years ago, my 8th grade class became just as obsessed, boys and girls alike. I ended up giving away my remaining posters as prizes for a writing contest. I kept one poster though. It's so old school I love it. It's an early one, from when you had that wicked long hair... you were probably 15. I keep it over my desk at home, as a reminder of what middle school was like for me. When I want to scream at my students, quit my job, and move to the wilderness in true Thoreau style, I look at you and climb down off my panic attack ledge.

The beautiful thing about good music is that it never dies. No matter what happens to the band that created it, the songs live on and continue to make new memories. Luckily, sometime in the last couple of years you decided to go on tour with the New Kids. We've all made plenty of decisions, good and bad, but I think I speak for everyone when I say that going back on tour was the best decision you ever made. I went to your Fenway concert and OH MY GOD. I was thirteen again, screaming at the top of my lungs in the rain. I love the New Kids, too, but you all stole the show. I came into school the following Monday with no voice left, and my students totally understood.

Last night, I had an epiphany. My friend Amanda and I were driving home from a crazy night out when we had a sudden urge to listen to your music. She only had one song, Larger Than Life, so we elected to listen to it on repeat. We drove, windows down, bass turned up, screaming at the top of our lungs and then it hit me: I still love you.


Here I am, 26-years-old, still rocking out to the Backstreet Boys. This was no temporary phase. This was no middle school obsession, filed away in a box labeled, "Funny Things I Tell My Students/When I Was Your Age." The love is still there. The only person in my entire life who understood the depth of my love, the only person who never wrote it off as a fleeting obsession, was my friend Pat. He wrote in my 7th grade yearbook, "I hope Nick Carter gives you a call."


So guess what, Nick Carter? It's time for you to take Pat's advice and give me a call. I'm 26. You're 31. It's definitely time for you to fall in love with me. When I was 12, the age difference was a bit severe, but now it's totally fine. I'm pretty awesome, if I may say so myself. I can provide references if you'd like specific anecdotes supporting this. I'm attractive -- Friend me on facebook if you want to see what I look like/inappropriate status updates detailing my hatred of pants. I don't want to post my number or email on this blog entry, because it's the internet, and that's shady, but you're rich, famous and well-connected. If you don't want to go the Facebook route, I'm sure you'll find a way to get in touch with me. I live in Boston. Come fall in love with me.


Love, Leah

PS: If you go the facebook route, friend the me that's posing with dessert. The other one is my teacher account.