Let me paint you a picture of what I thought my life would be like here in Philly. I go to work, I go to the gym, I sit in the steam room and then I take a shower, and then I get home, where I am greeted by my husband standing in his white Hanes t-shirt and his ten-year-old extra-large sweatpants that droop so low I can see his butt crack. I begin to cook. My husband is there to chop the mushrooms while I sauté the onions. When I am done sautéing onions, my husband is there to plate them while I sauté the mushrooms. We stand over the stove together, tasting my delicious vegetables, and licking them off the same wooden spoon. We moan about the taste, like it’s the last food we’ll ever eat, pretending that mushrooms are just as good as chips, just as good as chocolate. We kiss. We tell each other how happy we are, that life is just amazing outside of New York, that Philly is “quaint”. We do a little dance while the mushrooms start to sweat. Then the mushrooms are done and we stop doing our dance. Simultaneously we look at each other, realizing that we have had way too much fun, and say, “But the chicken!” At this point we both kneel down together and open the oven to find the chicken perfectly cooked. Gently, my husband removes the chicken from the oven and makes a cute remark, like, “Honey, dinner is served!” This remark would be cute because I’d be standing right there and I’d already know that dinner is served. I laugh. I tell my husband that he is a silly man. He tells me I’m a pretty girl. We light a little candle that smells like lilac and vanilla and we use our real dishes to eat dinner, where we spend one full hour debriefing on our days.
Let me paint you a picture of what my life is like here in Philly. It starts out pretty similar to our first version, the life I thought I would have, but it takes a sharp turn in the middle of the first sentence. Don’t worry, you can’t miss it. The turn is so sharp, it will feel like you’ve just seen a rhino crossing the street near school. I go to work, I go to the gym, I sit in the steam room and then I take a shower, and then I get home, where I am greeted by my bathroom which is directly across the front door. I cook myself. I chop the onions and the mushrooms myself. I sauté them myself. I dance with myself. I do not almost forget the chicken because I am completely and utterly alone, by myself. Steve walks in the door when dinner is ready, asks me how work is while responding to an email that’s just come in—“sorry, babe, gotta take this one.” It is probably Amazon, or Google, or Apple, or Microsoft, or one of the many places that are in Seattle or San Francisco, which is probably where I’ll spend my summer because this is what happens when you marry someone that gets into Wharton. And no, I do not know what the fuck I will do with myself, but let’s save that for another entry, maybe next week’s. Anyway. I tell the wall that my day went well because I have to tell someone, something. We eat for seven minutes while watching Tree, short for One Tree Hill, because Steve doesn’t even have enough time to call it what it is. Then Steve lifts himself off the couch and says, “Well, honey, I must be going.” Just kidding, Steve doesn’t talk like that. He lifts himself off the couch, pumps his fist in the air, and says, “PREP TIME, BABY!” Just kidding, Steve doesn’t talk like that either. He lifts himself off the couch and says, “Sorry, babe, I just really have to go.” Then he kisses me on the forehead. This is the way Steve talks. He is sensitive.
When Shilpi asked me to write about FRP this week, I immediately replied, “Sure! Would love to be involved.” After sending my reply, I thought to myself wait, what is FRP? Don’t laugh. This is a true fact. So I went on to text Steve, “What is FRP?” And he tells me FRP stands for Focused Recruiting Period. “Interviews are basically every day for the next week,” he says. “And all core classes are cancelled. But I still have an elective today.”
I KNEW THAT. I just didn’t know this bizarre phase of my life had a name to it.