Yes, I was "that girl" with the boyfriend back home

The dorm room was kind of big. Alright, that’s a big lie. The whole thing was the size of my bed at home. Oh, and I only got half of the luxury suite? Peachy. I place the unused oven mitts into a box for moving. I assume when my mom went to college they didn’t have a Burger King next to her dorm, or a Five Star Pizza delivering cheesy bread around the clock…

My roommate Tina looked way too perky to spend more than five minutes talking without making some sort of reference to cheerleading. She brought a fridge, a big screen television and lots of DVDs. She’d do for a while.

I smile at the pictures of Tina and I throughout the year. We’ve taught each other a lot about life. Lessons learned: Glue stick is not a proper adhesive when mounting pictures on a dorm room wall. Throwing up in plastic bags saves helpless trash cans, but someone has to walk it outside to the dumpster the next morning (not fun!). Dorm doors slam really loud when your roommate gets washed up for her 8:30 morning class. No matter how much she dislikes her, every girl stops to watch an E news special on Britney Spears.

My first shower was also an experience. The water pressure was very borderline and shaving on a tiled wall proved difficult. My little sister sat outside the bathroom talking to me that first day, absorbing her future living conditions with horror. She breathed a sigh of relief later that day when our parents mentioned purchasing a condo by the time she would be a Gator.

I’m on my second pair of shower shoes now. It’s amazing how many things you can lose in a room so small. My computer was my window. I talked to friends around campus, the US, and the world from my desk. It was how he first said “I miss you.”

Yep, I was “that girl:” the one with the boyfriend from home. Except in my version, we broke up after two and a half years on my graduation day and I rebounded two and a half days later with another guy.

Our pictures came out so clear. The November sky was a crisp blue. The kind of blue that only the cold air can negotiate with the refracting light. Every time I look at those pictures I see “I miss you” typed across the screen of my laptop. Followed by “I still love you.” Followed by one hell of a car ride.

The parking garage was dark and cold, angry with me, the intruder at 4 a.m. As only a best friend would do, Shartz stopped mid make-out session for my call, and brought her hook up partner with us in the car so I could safely get gas and money.

She still rolls her eyes at my impulsivity, but I know she secretly wishes she had someone to do it for. “This is going to be one good story.” She smiles, and tells me to call when I get in. No changing my mind, no “don’t do this for a guy.” True love and support guide me, telling me that this is the right thing to do.

The map goes into the box next. That would have been nice as I was circling Gainesville at 5 a.m., unaware that 6th street NW was a far cry from 6th avenue NW. Somehow I found I-95. And I found Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina and finally Virginia. Fourteen hours later, exhausted, and slightly delusional, he picked me up in Richmond.

One of my friends has been in Scotland for almost a year. That’s a long time at 19. I hadn’t talked to Darren minus a few emails in six months. That’s even longer when you’re in love.

Alright, no instant fairy tale. It was awkward, there was friction and my visit did generate many arguments. But then one day, we looked at each other differently. It was as if everything went silent for that second. We just knew. It would work.

I’m almost done here; a few odds and ends of my first time away from home remain. These remnants need to be packed up and taken home.

He drove me home. From DC to Florida. Quite a first date, I know. We’ve had so many good memories since that week, each fabulous in its own way. He gives me butterflies and believes in me no matter how crazy or impulsive I am. I’m usually right about those types of things anyways.

Lights off, door locked, time for my flight to DC. Driving is overrated.