A few weeks ago, I ran into an acquaintance I had not seen in years. We met up at a wine bar a few days after to catch up. Sara soon entered the conversation. Sara and I lived in the same freshman year dorm as did my acquaintance, but my acquaintance couldn’t distinctly remember Sara. I pulled up a photo.

“I think I remember her,” my acquaintance said. “Does she have a brother?”

“She does, but I don’t think you’d know him.” Sara is from Connecticut, her brother never went to college with us, and my acquaintance is from Virginia like me.

Believe it or not, we all live in a world that once existed without social media. We were all likely more present, less consumed with who was breaking up or getting back together or in a situationship with whom, who got a promotion, who was laid off, where other people were vacationing, and what our online “friends” we knew from elementary school ate for brunch last weekend. As a millennial, I’m very much aware of the world of social media and the appeal and sometimes unpleasant impact it’s had on our culture and the world.

We literally have the world and just about everything happening in it, at our fingertips. Have you ever taken time to let that thought marinate for a while?

Late last year, I attended a friend of a friend’s party. “Attend” is the optimal verb because I was not explicitly invited. Instead, my friend was, and she suggested I drop by. I had met the party’s hosts on several occasions, but I would never expect them to necessarily recognize me on the sidewalk nor would any sort of friendship honestly permit the behavior I’m about to describe.

Before the party, I had been at two other gatherings where I helped myself to some beverages, including 100-proof Captain Morgan. I knew my friend had another friend visiting from out of town who we’ll “Veronica.” I met Veronica earlier in the day, and while I had been told she was attractive and verified this claim via photos, in person she stunned the eye. I detected the faint possibility that she may be receptive to my courting.

This past spring, Sara and I traveled to Thailand for fun. On our sixth day, we stayed in Koh Phi Phi, an island in southern Thailand known for its pristine waters, lots of tourists, and Monkey Beach. Sara and I decided we wanted to snorkel while here, so on our last day we set out.

I used the bathroom before we left our hotel, but on our commute to snorkeling, I realized I needed to go again. I didn’t panic because I figured there would be a restroom at the pickup location. Of course, this was Thailand; American customs like public restrooms are not the norm. However, many tourist ventures catered toward typical Anglo-Saxon luxuries, so why wouldn’t there be a toilet?

After we checked in, I asked the tour leader if they had a bathroom. “No bathroom,” she replied.

In a flash, I envisioned the next six hours: a handful of basic strangers isolated on a tiny boat in the Indian Ocean, my pounding intestines and stricken body, sweating and in misery and not enjoying a singular second. I could not get on that boat without using the bathroom again; there was no hesitation in my resolution. I would rather just not go than be threatened by the future I saw.

A friend recently asked me how many exes I have. Confidently, I replied, “2.87.”

Of course, I am no King Solomon and did not halve my last “ex.” (We’ll define an ex in a second here.) Or, more likely, quarter her. Instead, exes can be defined on a weighted scale. We may assign a weight of 1 to the person who you probably should’ve and maybe did call your “girlfriend” or “boyfriend.” By that, I mean the person lasted (probably) three months or more and the duration of romance included mutual confessions of affection and possibly some public hand-holding or kissing (maybe more!! Insert winking emoji). Fiancé(e)s are given a score of a 2, and ex-spouses (or partners that lasted over half a decade) are given a 3. Naturally, the scale is sliding and up for debate in philosophical circles.

To accumulate my whopping score of 2.87 exes, I summed the skeletons of some half-dozen flings over the last decade (it’s frightening when I can speak of my life in decades). I have never had a complete ex; that is, an ex-girlfriend whose weight would be 1. My highest assigned value would be given to someone who I do conversationally call my “ex” because she is, in fact, the most significant ex of my past…but ex- what? Her score is a 0.66. We dated, yes, but we didn’t date date. She just meant a lot to me. In fact, she meant 0.66 to me of what a theoretical actual girlfriend would mean to me. (I’m half-joking.)

The reason I started dating “Carmen” was because she wanted to be featured on this blog. For better or for worse, for the last year most of my dating exploits have ended up on here. Several of my friends joke about this, Carmen knew this, and on an unusually warm evening in mid-winter on a Richmond rooftop, Carmen told me, “I want you to write about me. I want my name to be Carmen.”

The first time I heard about Carmen, my friend texted me I had to meet her new friend, I would love her. I didn’t know if she meant platonically or romantically, but I was interested either way. When we finally did meet, I felt immediately attracted, but Carmen was also so not my type. Physically, she was—tall, athletic blonde with Cate Blanchett’s profile. Yet, her resume read in stark contrast to mine: Mississippi transplant, sorority princess, Homes & Garden cover girl fresh out of a two-year engagement with another one right before that, all before the age of 30.

Last Christmas, I tried to gift my parents some new hobbies. For my father, I got him a bonsai tree kit and a rocket launcher kit (like for children). For my mother, I started a blog for her. I’m fairly confident I went 0 for 3 on those gifts, especially the bonsai, as it was DOA.

All this is to say gifting someone a new hobby — while it can seem like a fun idea — is risky. My sister took that risk and gifted me a kombucha brewing kit this past Christmas. I was both excited, as kombucha is expensive and I love it, but also nervous because my cooking skills are not fantastic.

After a few weeks of hesitantly waiting for the ‘perfect’ time to begin brewing, I wiped down my entire kitchen in vinegar (since all my research told me soap is bad for brewing), and followed my recipe to the T (but also tea because I’m brewing kombucha, get it!?).

For several days, I had been considering changing my profile picture on Facebook. As most millennials can attest, this decision is not made in a vacuum. I liked my current picture, but I’d had it up since February, so I was fast approaching outdated territory. I’m always afraid I’ll become one of those people who has had the same profile photo since 2015. I need to update my photo so people can stay abreast of my face’s sun damage and any changes to my hairline.

The new photo I had in my mind seemed more seasonal – I donned a tank top and aviators – but it was also a selfie. But not an obvious selfie. I wondered who would know (well, now everyone does). I also wanted to remind *certain people* that I was living my best life, which is admittedly ironic if I am worried about those certain persons getting the message. But this is 2019, and these are the facts.