Perhaps I should start assembling my dowery of contemporay literary fiction and furniture I salvaged from 8th Avenue.

So, I pulled out the ol' High School Yearbook. Now, before you think I'm one of those Nostalgia Queens or people who (correctly) assume that high school will always be the best four years of their life, I'm really no such thing. But I was out with some people Saturday night who were reminiscing about their high school days, so I figured, why not pull out the Skipper's Log 1999? Yeah, you heard right. North Kingstown High School: home of the Skippers. Anyway, I learned one important lesson from this little stroll down memory lane. I should go back to curly hair. Not "perm" curly, but, you know, "wavy" curly. Anyone out there remember me with curly hair? Cute, right?

Wait, there was another point I was going to make. Oh yeah, so I'm reading all the notes classmates wrote in the pages of my yearbook. And some of the messages are really heart-breakingly sweet, really beautiful and gracious compliments from people I can't even remember now. I wish I remembered this resource as a morale booster six months ago when I was broke, couldn't get a job to save my life and this city had almost broken me down.

So, there's a note in the back of my book with a post script that reads "PS The marriage offer is still on and valid." Okay, possibly not that unusual for a high school yearbook inscription, but the thing is, I'm looking at this guy's name and I have no idea who it is. After meditating on it for five minutes I am able to remember the guy but not the marriage proposal. I'm sure it was one of those "If I'm not married when I'm 40 and you're not married when you're 40...", but what if, in my youthful stupidity, I thought 25 was old? What if I'm sitting in my apartment in Brooklyn sometime next January when the buzzer goes, and leaning into the intercom I hear, "Woman, it's time." JF, if you're out there and you remember this, perhaps you could refresh me on the details.

Meanwhile, back in reality or something like it, my life is coming dangerously close to resembling When Harry Met Sally. If only I could figure out if I'm playing Harry or Sally ...