For one of my classes in this, my last quarter of business school, my professor asked us to write a This I Believe essay. I wrote two because my first one was about poop (but I turned both in and got a good grade on both, proving my hypothesis that everyone loves poop and poop is hilarious). Anyway. The second one took some serious introspection and, well, here you go. Apologies for the nerdiness; I attend the business school where fun (and geeks) goes to die. Maybe the essay explains my absence? Maybe not? I don’t know. Also, if you’re getting married and can get Smilebooth, do it. I am the photo booth queen.
Regression to the Mean
Nearly two years ago, I was sitting at my best friend’s dining table, my brain fuzzy with joy. It had been the best week of my life. I was two months away from marrying my soul mate. He and I were living with our two best friends for the summer. I had found twenty dollars on the ground. I was skinny. The day before, I had learned I would be going to the #1 business school in the country. And that morning, another unexpected call, this one from New York: I was being given a book deal. A big one.
I sat at the dining table, wondering what to do with myself. Nobody was home to squeal and jump around with me. I remember looking down at my hands and feeling oddly detached from them and the rest of my body.
Suddenly, I was gripped with overwhelming panic. This was too good. Way too good. Irrationally, I began to fear I’d used up all of my good luck in life. Regression toward the mean – this week’s fortunes would have to be offset by something else, later.
How could I show my gratitude to the Dude in the sky? Maybe he would take pity on me, and give me only sort-of-bad luck to even things out. A stubbed toe, a broken wine glass, that sort of thing.
Later that evening, when I shared the news with my friends and fiancé, we clapped and cheered and jumped around the room like wild monkeys. Another stroke of luck for me: I was surrounded by people who loved me, who were genuinely happy for my serendipity.
The next few months passed in a whirlwind of happiness. I got married, I began business school, I finished the first draft of my book. I somehow managed to stay skinny. We brought home a new puppy, Baxter, and I discovered the unbridled joy and hilarity that come with owning a dog. I got a job.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, though, I kept thinking about regression toward the mean. How could I stay grateful for this unprecedented happiness?
It has been a really bad year. My parents have gone through an ugly divorce. My husband’s family – now my beloved family - experienced frightening health scares. Both of my grandfathers have been in and out of the hospital. I got a bad grade in Investments. Every time I give my dog a bath, he takes a revenge dump on the floor. I got into a wreck in an uninsured car. I gained twenty pounds. Some days I’m so overwhelmed by egocentric self-pity that I can’t force myself to get out of bed.
Now I’m counting on that regression toward the mean. I don’t actually believe some guy is sitting up there in the sky making sure nobody exceeds their allotted amount of bliss. But here’s what I do believe: life regresses to the mean. And that’s wonderful. In times of great joy, the mean anchors me to earth and keeps me humble. In times of great sorrow, the mean is my life vest, keeping me afloat. And when life just feels average, well, that’s because it is. This I believe.
kay, so normally I don’t like to post a ton of photos of me and what I wear because usually the answer to any question you might have about my outfit is “My workout clothes” or “Anthropologie.” But. You guys. Apparently I’m late to the ball here, but there’s this new-fangled thing called 
es, yes, I fell off the face of the earth again. My schedule is cray-cray right now, mostly in a good way, but it means that if I need to spend an hour and a half doing battle with a roach in my bathroom, other stuff gets pushed aside. (As the resident Texan in our condo, I am responsible for roach warfare when they crawl up the drains – Dave grew up in Canada where there are no creepy crawlies and everyone poops rainbows and sunshine.) So! All of this is a long-winded introduction to my idea for you: 
almost forgot to show you guys the picture of my VD lips in action. Yeesh. I don’t like makeup posts when I can’t show you what it looks like in the real world. Here’s me and Baxter at a VD party over the weekend. Unfortunately, it’s the only photo of me from that night, so you’ll have to trust that my lips were poppin’. Gross. I won’t use that term again in the future.
hhhh, VD jokes are never not funny to me. Anyway, just in time for your hot date tonight (with Brad Womack, if you know what’s good for you), here’s my new favorite way to get all tarted up. See, when you’re on t.v. they tell you to wear lipstick because the lights wash you out. So obviously I had to whip out every lip stain and stick I own to find the perfect shade. Hot pink. For VD. {Also, speaking of being on t.v., 
ctually, the title of this post should be “This is what my friends told me to wear.” The day before my book launch party, Aubrey, Lindsey, and Molly took me shopping so we could accessorize the blush-colored dress I got from Anthro last year. A pair of boots, necklace, belt, and navy blazer later, here I was:
ow about a break from the OMG-MY-BOOK-IS-FOR-SALE-DON’T-YOU-LOVE-MEEEE posts? Because for serious, blotchy skin and zits don’t give a crap about whether or not I have a book out. Right. So. PEOPLE. My life, it has been changed. I’ve talked before about how I don’t have the best skin in the world…and that fact has never been so apparent as it is right now, while I’m continually drying it the hell out with sub-zero winter air, then slathering it with goopy moisturizer. Recipe for disaster. Luckily, a little lady known as 
eriously, guys? You’re amazing. Thanks so much for all of your emails and nice comments about the book. I was a little nervy that people wouldn’t understand the point of 
