For those of you who live in the Eastern United States, are you sick of cicadas yet? They were cool when they first came out, but now they keep flying into my car, latching into my hair, and making so much noise that my family has to yell if we want to be understood outside.

You created more charts and graphs than you care to admit. You ordered books from professors in all the programs and practically read them standing beside the mailbox. You realized application fees quickly add up and required you to cease “treating yo’ self” for a long while. Now all that’s left is time.

My first reaction to growing body hair was pride. I noticed a spreading of downy hair across my lower legs, and I wanted to let it grow forever, becoming thicker and darker until I could clasp it in my hands, like Arwen’s silky smooth elven tresses in The Lord of the Rings. I stroked my legs as the hair grew more resplendent, happy to be maturing, and blissfully ignorant of the other developments that would follow in rapid succession; acne, bad posture, and worse eyesight.

If you are like me, you are a balding, fairly awesome-without-bragging-about-it dad, who must, at times, make the bathroom your friend. I don’t have to tell you that privacy is as rare as feeling energized by parenthood. I’ve literally had meals in there. Three courses. And more than once on a given day. And even so, they are on to me. They know my secrets. And they are not amused. 

People often ask me, “AK, what kinds of mermaids are out there?” (They ask me this because they know I minored in mermanthropology and have an encyclopedic knowledge of all things mermaid and mer-made.)