At six I lost my first watch and gave up on biking. At eight I wanted a cow and a fridge to put the cow’s food in, and also a music box. At thirteen I broke a tooth in a dream and for days tapped each tooth in my mouth with my tongue, searching for cracks. At seventeen I lived with three strangers and at twenty-one I got chicken pox exactly two weeks before graduation. I prefer beer to wine. I prefer a couch to a chaise longue. I prefer landmarks to street signs. I prefer to say perhaps rather than maybe, which perhaps makes me sound officious, although I hope this is not the case. I like to watch horse races and figure skaters. I like not being good friends with my neighbors. When in the shower, I sing. When afflicted with a pain I have no name for, I sleep it off. I cry over migraines and missed deadlines. I would rather rent for life than be responsible for a house. I would rather spend a weekend up in the mountains than in the city, but this was not always so. I look forward to plane rides, if they are less than ten hours long. On trips I prefer to stay in the hotel and read books, often about the place I am visiting. I like to sit in the lobby and take pictures of window views. I do not mind asking strangers for directions. I do not get upset when the directions turn out to be unreliable. I do not think twice about spending money on books, but I tend to hold off on buying a bag of potato chips, no matter how intriguing the flavor. Sometimes, in my office, I choose not to answer the knock at the door, despite its persistence. I pretend I am asleep, or simply not there. I find turnstiles and carousels reassuring. I think photographs of shadows are inevitably elegant. There were years when I signed my name as well as the date and place of purchase in every book I bought, and there were years I did not. There were years I recorded in my journals and there were years I did not. I enjoy sitting in a coffee shop and listening to the talk at the next table, but I am annoyed when I tell my companion a joke and find the man at the next table laughing. I cannot look at a painting without reading its title first. I feel awkward making the sign of the cross. I feel compelled to write words with my index finger on dusty surfaces. I do not smoke pot if there is no one in the room I would like to sleep with. Mannequins make me nervous, as do poorly ventilated diners. I am always a little disappointed when the person I am calling picks up the phone. I have a hard time watching movies with scenes of rape and torture in them. I would rather not have a conversation begin with “We need to talk,” although experience has taught me that what follows is not necessarily terrible news. There are two or three things in my life that I regret. I am pro-choice but am amenable to a reproductive health law that excludes abortion. I am embarrassed to belong to one of two countries in the world with no divorce law. I read the news after I read the classifieds. I despise cops and evangelists. I can live without beauty pageants, although I find myself keeping the television on long enough to see the evening gown portion. Sometimes, alone in a restaurant, I feel obliged to finish my food quickly if there are others waiting to be seated. I stay away from people who hand out flyers. I stop in front of pet shops when rabbits and birds are on display. I compare prices. I make lists. I return by the due date. I think it is better to walk in the middle of the street and get hit by a car than to walk on a dark sidewalk and get mugged. I think a cab with a rosary hanging from its rearview mirror is safer to ride in than a cab without it. I have a hard time evading small talk. I have fallen down a flight of stairs twice. I have watched a group of men smash a car with lead pipes. I have stood on top of a mountain in one country to view the mountains of another. I have had sex in ten countries across four continents. I have been kissed inappropriately by a priest. When I am bewildered I think of olive trees half my size which I must have seen on a trip long ago or merely read about. When I am unnerved I recite the phone numbers I know by heart and am relieved that I still know them. There are two or three things I have done that I must apologize for. I sleep by myself on the right side of a double bed. I sleep with the lights off, and by this I mean I sleep with the light from the lamppost outside my window. When a man is in bed with me I leave the cat outside and ignore its meowing by the door. When a man is in bed with me I say screw even when make love is a distinct possibility. There were years I spent filled with road rage and there were years I did not. There were years I wrote thank you notes and snacked on cheese and crackers and there were years I did not. I do not underestimate receptionists and security guards. I am more likely to pick up a book with a beautiful cover even if it is by an unknown author than a book with a hideous cover even if it is by an author I love. I think dictionaries are more reliable than novels. I think swimming pools are far more bearable than oceans. I forgive friends easily, but I am a ruthless critic of acquaintances. I am sometimes rendered speechless by indecision. Sometimes, on my way to work, I see myself walking across the street. I feel the urge to follow myself, but soon enough, I change my mind.