“Some people can’t catch a break. I can’t seem to catch a struggle. I think it’s probably the worse position for the guy who can’t catch a struggle--you know when that struggle comes it’s going to be all the struggles in one.” –John Mayer

It’s been one of those kinds of weeks. Instead of celebrating the end of my second year of teaching, I’ve been having the kind of week that makes you laugh from crying. It started auspiciously enough; I was playing football with some of the neighborhood kids and some fellow teachers when I jammed my finger to a swollen level that I have never been acquainted with. I hear taped fingers are making a comeback.

Come Thursday evening, I was driving home from class at around 8:20 when I looked in the road in front of me and noticed a large tire in the way of my car. After determining that someone was in the lane next to me, I realized that I had to hit it or swerve off of the road. So I hit it and damaged the car. Which sucks. So now I’m in a rental and I have to keep checking on the status of the car and the insurance company while finishing up my two grad classes and teaching.

Then to really put the cherry on top of the ice cream, I had an allergic reaction while on a blind first date. I got a white bean soup at a local French restaurant and I, within 30 seconds, knew that there were nuts in it because my mouth was itching like mad. But instead of telling the date, I feebly answered the questions he was asking while maniacally mapping out the neighborhood for the nearest Walgreen’s location. I asked the waiter what was in the soup, and lo and behold, walnut paste. I got up, grabbed my wallet, and RAN across Central to the Walgreen’s, where I hastily bought some Benadryl and took one in the bathroom with some faucet water. The date met me outside of the store, which I thought was really nice of him, and then we continued with dinner. I only got one tiny hive on my hand—that is an OFFICIAL record for me. Combined with the wine from dinner, the Benadryl made me so sleepy and wonky that I had to go home with worry that I would fall asleep on the drive. There is a reason I took those pills in college as a sleep aid.

Last month, on a flight to San Francisco, a thought hit me like a bolt of lightening. I was simply sitting in my seat, next to a couple that were probably around my age, if not a year or two older. The gentleman carried the bags, found the right seats, and put all of the carry-on items in the overhead bin. After watching them for a few minutes, I realized that some people perhaps come in a set of two, and perhaps some people are meant to come in a set of one. At least for a while. I’m not the kind of girl to let a man do everything for them, and I need to relinquish the control sometimes.

I’ve realized something. I don’t like root beer. Never have, never will. No matter how good the bottle looks, no matter how improved the flavors are, I will probably never like root beer. When it comes down to it, I am not a root beer person. Sure, some people live for root beer, but I’m not meant to like it and I never will. People are the same way. Sometimes there will be people that are like root beer to me and it just won’t gel. I have to stop blaming myself for not liking them and just look for another soft drink.