I do.

I have a confession to make. Not worthy of "Holy Father forgive me for I have sinned" utterances, but nonetheless, a confession.

I am a Facebook stalker. Before you judge me, I would venture to guess that you are, too. Social networking, is, after all, as ubiquitous to our generation as the "puff puff pass" of the reefer and rock and roll music were to our parents'.

Whoever deemed this delightful past time taboo ought to be kicked in the shins. Repeatedly. We all do it. Tell me you don't scour the guys' screen who never called you back, and notice that he's now conversing with some bitch ass hoe who can't even spell properly? That you don't naively navigate your elementary school pals' page who, you are shocked to find, is knocked up and raising babies prematurely? Heaven forbid you tell anyone about it--you don't want to come clean and expose the truth to the masses. But I get it, it's there, you do it, and I'm here to say, "It's OK."

Recently, much of my Facebook "stalking," nay social research, (yes, that sounds much more PC,) has revealed to me that half of the girls with whom I attended college are now engaged.
We are talking at age 22 or 23.
ENGAGED.
As in betrothed.
As in he liked it, so he put a ring on it.
A diamond ring.

Now I'm not here to get all Betty Friedan on your ass, or anything, nor am I a bra burning, armpit hair pruning feminist, but I choose to believe that a woman's 20's can prove to be her most learned years.

Since graduating from college in May, I have never been more alone, scared, BROKE, jobless, or emotional in my life. Ever.

I have also never been more self-aware, independent, determined, or proud of myself in my life. Ever.

It is with experience that we learn and grow. My experiences reflect a life of independence and self-sufficiency. I have had an incredible support system, don't get me wrong, and there have been days and weeks that I felt that I just wasn't going to make it. That maybe I should just do as so many others, and move back in with my parents. And not have to write that damned rental check every month. But I did. And "I do."

And now so many that I know, or have known, are saying their own "I do's." They went home to live. And they'll move in with their husbands. And they'll probably, (hopefully,) be quite happy. But their experience will be one starkly different from my own.

And that's OK. Neither way is right. And the beauty of it is that it doesn't have to be.

(But you'd better believe that I'll be stalking the wedding photos on Facebook.)