Name. My first name is Sarah. I know what your next question is. The answer is yes. It is spelled with an H. Just kidding. No one actually gives a shit whether or not Sarah is spelled with an H. I’ve received birthday cards from my own family members where the controversial H is MIA. Because of the H though, sometimes when I go to type my name, I accidentally type “Satan” instead of “Sarah.” The R key is right next to the T. The N key is underneath the H. I never learned how to properly type. When this happens, I have a moment where I think, “What if this is the universe trying to tell me that I am Satan?” But then I realize no, it can’t be, because Satan is definitely a man. I’m sorry to the guys out there… but it just has to be you. You don’t get to be the face of God, Jesus, and Santa and then not be the face of Satan. That just wouldn’t be fair.

My last name is (l-e-h pronounced lay) Lehman. People typically say “Leemin” and pronounce it incorrectly. When I was growing up, I didn’t correct people because I didn’t want to be a bother. I also didn’t correct people because when I was in fourth grade, a boy named Jake came up to me and judgmentally asked, “Your last name is Lehman? Why? Do you lay men?” I was initially very confused, but then equally as horrified when the older kids on the bus told me what that meant. I encouraged people to pronounce it “Leemin” from that point forward.

A few years after Jake’s ill informed comment, my grandmother came to my middle school graduation. The principal pronounced my name “Sarah Leemin” when I walked across the stage. My grandmother hugged me afterward and said “I’m so proud of you, but the principal said “Leemin”! That’s not our family name!” My grandmother seemed appalled. What did she live for if not to be recognized at her fifth youngest grandchild’s middle school graduation ceremony? She said “That’s not our family name” as if we were part of a large dynasty- as if I was a Rockefeller, or a Kardashian.

I was panicked. I wanted to take my grandmother aside and tell her my secret. “I’m gonna be real frank with you here, Gram. It’s either we sacrifice the family name or Jake Anderson tells the whole school I’m sleeping around. Word will spread fast about my promiscuity because everyone in my grade just got a cell phone and kids are starting to text message and it’s so exciting to send a text that kids are just typing ‘Hi’ or ‘Sup’ and sending it off into the ether, so can you imagine how many forwards this news would get?!?!! Your call, Grandmom.”

Age. I think I gave away my age by using the name Jake. I don’t know many Jakes who are over 40 years of age in the same way I don’t know many Rhondas who are under 40 years of age. I’m 26 years old. Sometimes I feel lied to by the people who said this is supposed to be the best time of my life. I feel similarly misled by the Corona Light advertisements with twenty-somethings slowly sipping beer with reckless abandon in a remote tropical paradise.

My 20s have proven to be a confusing time. I’ve noticed that more and more people have suddenly started calling me ma’am. What is up with that? I took a bus trip last year. When the driver saw where I put my luggage, he said, “No, ma’am, the other one. Your suitcase goes in the other compartment because your stop is last, ma’am.” Uh…. what? Me? When did I transition? I’m a 26 year old girl without a savings account, not a ma’am. I’m a miss at best. In all honesty, I identify as more of a buddy. The bus driver should have said, “Excuse me little bud, no. Your bright pink suitcase made for a seven year old’s first sleepover goes in the other compartment, buddy.”

Status. The best thing that has happened in my 20s is meeting my boyfriend Justin. We have been together for about seven years and we recently bought a house. We are not married. We love each other and we will get married soon- it’s just that I’m still waiting for my perfectly timed flash mob proposal featuring Michael Buble in a white suit and every member of One Direction carrying roses in their mouths. (To those of you who are thinking, “Is One Direction even together anymore?” The answer is no. He must reunite the band in order to earn my approval.) I’m kidding, but have you seen these things? In my opinion, you shouldn’t have to try that hard to get someone to say yes.

My boyfriend plays video games sometimes. He built a virtual spaceship in one of the games. He said, “Hey, come check out my spaceship.”

“Oh… cool,” I said nonchalantly. I started to walk away, but he stopped me.

“No, wait, there’s more! Look at this… hold on… wait for it… protected cargo hatch.”

He said this like it was the most exciting and interesting thing he had ever seen or done. I sighed.

“I can’t remember the last time you were that interested in my protected cargo hatch.” But looking back, I can’t blame myself. How can a girl compete with a personalized spacecraft?

It’s funny when you’re with someone for a long time how things change. During the first few years, I put so much effort in sexually. I tried to create a special mood. I’d put music on and maybe wear something revealing. Seven years in, my sexy move is kicking the cat out of the room so we can do it without a pair of beady eyes staring at us. It’s not that I can’t do it with the cat in the room. I just feel like the cat is sitting there with his judging eyes and a harsh internal monologue about how I’ve put on a few pounds and my boyfriend is doing all the work. In all honesty, I think my cat is very nice. I’m just projecting my sex based fears onto my pet, so that’s where my head is at.

Justin and I do not have kids. I feel a certain amount of pressure from family to have kids at this age. I’m also an only child, which means I am my parents’ only hope for beautiful and precious little baby angel grandchildren. I tell my mom I don’t think I want to have kids and she says things like, “I know you say that now, but you’ll change your mind.”

I say, “No, it’s not just that I don’t want kids right now. It’s that right now, I don’t see myself ever having them.” She doesn’t give up though.

“I know you guys are gonna have kids. You wanna know how I know? Because you’re so good with the cats.”

Although I’m flattered that my mom thinks I’m capable enough to mother a child, I think that if my love for cats proves anything it’s that I prefer to have cats over children. Also does she think that having a cat is the same thing as having a child? Can I crack open a can of salmon paté and feed it to my newborn, on a small ceramic dish shaped like a fish, on the dirty kitchen floor? These are house cats she is referring to. These are not even feral cats that need controlling.

It’s conversations like this that make me reflect on how I was raised. Other parents are buying diapers for their little ones. Meanwhile, I’m shitting in a litter box in the corner. Other babies are being bathed in kitchen sinks and I’m licking myself for three arduous hours to stay clean….. it would explain a lot of things.

I don’t want to disappoint my parents though. I’ve always done everything that people expect me to do simply because I’m expected to. People call me a goody two shoes because I never want to break any rules. In high school, we voted on superlatives like most athletic, best looking, most talented, this is actually extremely fucked up why do we do this, etc. I was nominated for “Best to Bring Home to Mom and Dad.” Notice I said nominated. I didn’t win…. and now I’m realizing that might be because that little pervert Jake Anderson told the whole school that I lay men 15 years ago. My reputation clearly never recovered. (Thanks, Grandmom.)