Since moving to Eugene, Ethan and I have both decided on new hairstyles. I am opting for a more classical and timeless style, the permanent (though I’m not certain that they even perform this process in conventional salons anymore), while Ethan has adopted a mohawk with what I refer to as the Winchester Mystery House: sideburns to nowhere. They’re just hanging out on the sides of his face, connected to nothing, going nowhere. It looks like two slabs of bacon on either side of his head. But I’m getting a perm, so who am I to judge?

I’m not really complaining about Ethan’s hair; he looks great no matter what. I even find him attractive in nothing but a t-shirt and socks, which in the past has always been grounds for dismissal. I once broke up with a guy because I saw him put a seashell to his ear and start to dance, twice, in two different social situations. Another guy had a terrible jaw click when he ate,  and when I sat behind him I could see his jaw moving up and down with every bite, like some horrible flesh-covered roller coaster.

Not all of my annoyances with past boyfriends were petty. I had to end things with a guy when I came home from work to find him sitting in the dark on the kitchen floor cutting triangles out of my jeans. Crazy people gravitate toward me: friends and lovers with insane habits that are unexplainable. Boyfriends who, at three in the morning, can be found aggressively chopping wood for no reason at all. Potential beaus who believe burning off all of the hair on their arms and sitting in their fish tank is a reasonable gesture toward romance. Friends who eat dry macaroni noodles and purchase expensive wedges of cheese so they can photograph themselves throwing it out a window.

My experience with crazies has probably influenced my career choice. Since I spend so much time with these people, I may as well be getting paid for it. Also, it has always been a dream of mine to wear a giant gold dollar sign around my neck and fiddle with it while I ask fragile people about their feelings.

My reasons for breaking up with guys in the past are nothing compared to the lengths I have gone to impress them when I actually liked them. In my bachelorette days, somehow I always managed to make myself appear either crazy, filthy, desperate, or a combination of the three.

My shortest-lived romance was with an attractive security guard at the Sacramento Greyhound bus station. I was on my way to Redding from San Francisco when we had a layover in Sacramento. While I waited, I found a cute, younger security guard to make googly eyes at. I was fantasizing about our relationship when it was time to be inspected before reboarding the bus.

I happened to be traveling with my pet rat, Murdoch. I realized I was going to have to open my purse, where Murdoch was hiding, to show my future boyfriend the contents. I quickly stuck my arm in the purse and let Murdoch climb up my sleeve and hide while my purse was inspected. I was a bit surprised when, as he looked into my bag, instead of asking me for my phone number, the guard made a confused and disgusted face.

I glanced down and realized it was full of nothing but rat turds. It appeared to him as if I traveled with nothing but a purse full of rat turds. I curled my lips up over my teeth (something I do when I am nervous that involves breathing in to dry the moisture on the underside of my lips so they will stick to my teeth exposing the entire tooth and a bit of gum, that I vowed never to do again after making the mistake of looking in the mirror while doing it) and said in a very creepy voice, “Hellllllloooooo.”

I have stayed up all night for fear of farting in my sleep. I have taken many a shower to cover up the fact that I was pooping. To my mind, pooping is unacceptable behavior, but spontaneously jumping up at 2:00 in the afternoon screaming, “I have to go shower” while at someone’s house whom you don’t know very well, is reasonable behavior.

When at home, I would take pains to hide my dirty underwear all the way at the bottom of the hamper for fear that someone might smell them. Who the hell wants to smell dirty underwear? I am 28 years old and I am just now coming to terms with the fact that when there are dirty underwear lying around,  one’s first reaction is not to pick them up and inspect them.

It is really nice to be past all of those dating game rituals. It takes copious discipline to retrain one’s bowels. And I’m really happy in the comfort Ethan and I have reached. I forgive his occasional unfortunate wardrobe choices, and he remembers never to talk to me through the bathroom door or touch the skin behind my elbow.