I, Anne, take you, Peter, to be my husband,
to have and to hold from this day forward,
for better or for worse,
for richer, for poorer,
in sickness and in health,
to love and to cherish;
from this day forward until death do us part.

This - or something like it - is what my mom said to my dad twenty years ago today. TWENTY YEARS. That is an awfully long time and I had no idea that they’d been married this long until my dad happened to say during dinner tonight, you know, the least you could do is congratulate us, and I was all like, wedding anniversary, right? Because now that he mentioned it, I remembered. And then he got all testy and emphasized, twentieth wedding anniversary.

Yeah so, what’s that?, my brother mumbled dismissively, aluminum foil?

Anyway, I went through some old photo albums to find a nice wedding picture to post when I remembered that my mom and dad never did the whole white wedding at a church thing. I also couldn’t find a very good picture of both of them together. One reason for this is that my mom actually used to be into photography, she took classes at college and knows how to develop pictures in a darkroom and all (not that that’s of any use nowadays). But part of the reason may also be that, from the start, they’ve been her and him and not them.

However, my mom used to beautiful. Beau-ti-ful. Photogenic. Mysterious.

Also, maybe, whistling. And did I mention beautiful?

My dad, in the meantime, was really just a regular guy. Traveling in an orange VW bus across France, camping, listening to rock and raggae, watching birds. Or, possibly, spying on French hookers.

My mom also had a VW - but it was more a Beetle than a bus. I’m also not sure where she was traveling here. But I’m sure there are no hookers around - after all, my dad took this picture and so, apparently, wasn’t distracted at all.

My mom was also really beautiful, in case I hadn’t mentioned, and happened to be modeling like this from time to time.

My dad, au contraire, was basically a regular Beatle from the 60s.

And well, as of today, they’ve been married for exactly twenty years. I guess, CONGRATS are in order. Raise your glasses.

Sometimes I wish my mom and I had a better relationship. In many ways our relationship, I imagine, is what many other daughters would wish for because we always make each other laugh and generally joke about the same things.

Lately, though, I have realized that we don’t really have any kind of relationship at all. Making each other laugh is hardly a special connection. Teachers make me laugh, my grandma makes me laugh, Jon Stewart makes me laugh. Humor is a great thing, incredibly important to me and the key to happiness in life but I have come to understand that it can’t be the basis of a mother-daughter relationship.

This past couple of weeks I have been hanging around the house, happy to be done with finals, in a transitional phase between high school and getting ready for univesity. I literally haven’t left the house and haven’t talk to friends. Instead I watched Gilmore Girls over and over again with my brother.

This, my zooming weight gain, and the fact that I lied to my mom about going to the doctor about a week ago have made things a little weird between us.

I can’t say that I ever felt that unconditional love from my parents as I imagine parents would feel for their kids and as I believe I’d feel about my kids. Maybe they’re just not that good at expressing it but maybe they just don’t feel it. And with everything going on these past weeks and months I think that maybe I can’t even blame them, maybe I have disappointed them with my below average GPA, my imperfect looks, my sloppy attitude, my love for books and movies and rain.

It does surprise me, however, that they show so openly that they don’t like the things I do, the way I look and how I live my life. Tonight my mom asked me to sit with her and she started talking about my weight issue, at first extremely vaguely - by the end she mentioned getting help from outside which translates directly into fat camp.

Now, I know that my weight is an issue. To me, however, it is not a problem. Of course it can be irritating to find a prom dress in the right size and look good in it when you’re a little overweight. I do sometimes look into the mirror and hate what I see. Usually, it doesn’t bother me, though, and I also just don’t want to go through what would be necessary in order to loose all the weight. I don’t think the effort would match the final outcome.

I know that I need to do something, take tiny steps here and there, whenever I feel like it and the timing seems right. I’ve known this for a long time and I have taken tiny steps since then. Steps, that my mom doesn’t seem to notice.

Which is why it hurts that she talks to me the way she did tonight. As if I didn’t have a clue that carrying extra weight around is unhealthy. As if I didn’t care about anything at all.

But what hurt the most is that she said that she would make herself clearer and directly tell me that she wants to see me do something about it right now because she doesn’t like the way I look and, often as a result, act. But, she said, she couldn’t because, obviously, she couldn’t talk to me the way she could talk to a friend. That hurt. And I’m not sure why it hurt so bad because I don’t want her to be my best friend. Basically, what she said is, that she thinks I’m too fat and if I’d only loose weight I’d look prettier and have more fun in the world and be happier - but she couldn’t because she’s obliged to be nice to me because she’s my mother.

That, of course, opened a whole new chapter - at least I thought so. Happiness, to me, has nothing to do with my weight. As soon as I got to Kentucky my life was more fun, more active, full of love and joy and, effectively, I lost weight. I was happier then, sure, but I didn’t force myself through a weight loss plan and then, one day, I was happy because I had reached the magical goal of twenty pounds. It doesn’t work that way.

Of course, I didn’t want to tell my mom that I’m not happy with my life here. Or that I lost all that weight in Kentucky because my host parents there did show me that unconditional love from day one which made my happy and stronger. I can’t yell at her and say that if she thought I had a problem, maybe she should take care of hers first - after all I’m not the smoker in the family. I didn’t say that her problem was just as bad, or actually much worse than mine or that my dad is very obviously addicted to his nightly bottle of red wine, and shouldn’t that be discussed also?

Because this was about me and the fact that I didn’t turn out the way she evidently wants me to be: skinny, bubbly, athletic, talkative, uber-intelligent.

This bothers me. It makes me so angry that I felt great those last couple of weeks because I was doing what I love doing, because I am successfully graduating this June, because I am fully admissable to the university of my choice and ready to get started, because I have a small bunch of amazing, loyal friends, because I have a whole second life in Kentucky which is something she would never have been able to jump into, because I know who I am and what I want.

But then, a call from my friend N today who rambled on about all the alcohol she’s been drinking since we’re out of school and how she has yet to find the perfect shoes for her stunning prom dress as well as this extremely insensible attack by my mother, have thrown me off track again.

What if it is not okay to be myself, after all? What if reading books and traveling the world and actually wanting to learn at university is still uncool, after all? What if, what people really mean to say is, SURE YOU CAN BE YOURSELF IF ONLY YOU MATCH OUR AGENDA.

I hate this - so - much. It is obvious that my self-esteem is rather low… and I probably do want to do something about my weight in the near future. But I can’t believe that my mom actually sits down and tells me to my face that it’d be wise to loose as much weight as possible before university because with these looks I sure as hell won’t make any new friends.

Is that what mothers are supposed to do? I wonder if she ever thought about the fact that I fell into circles of depressions after Kentucky. Coming back here has been hell and it’s not like she (or my dad) had been there to catch me from falling. It’s not like I wanted them to because our relationship has always sucked - especially compared to the relationship between my host parents and me. But still. Shouldn’t she try to at least pretend that she loves me no matter what? Shouldn’t she say, good job on graduating from high school? Shouldn’t she say, I’d love to, when I ask her to watch some TV with my in my room and go over a project I helped her with for her work instead of sighing and telling me she’d rather watch Who wants to be a millionaire? downstairs?

Shouldn’t she say, your hair looks beautiful today, instead of, consider fat camp? Shouldn’t she tell me, at least once in a blue moon, that she’s proud of me instead of frowning over the fact that I’m reading Jane Eyre and not some crappy Janet Evanovich novel? Shouldn’t she be truly honest instead of telling me that she’ll say it in a roundabout way since I’m not her friend? Shouldn’t she say, I love you, instead of, I hope you’ll think about it? Isn’t that what mothers do?

I am hurt. And she doesn’t even notice.

In present tense because it is just that important.

I wake up this morning at around 6 as my brother jumps under the shower and my mom starts fixing herself some breakfast. I hear raindrops tapping against my windows and through the blinds I see the gloomy morning light.

I turn around in bed, lie on my back, my stomach, my side. I still have three more hours until I have to get up. This bed is comfy but has it always been this hot in here? The smaller one of my windows is open, I hear a few late birds twitter.

Milo Ventimiglia is so handsome in a tux, remember hematocryal and prey-predator-relations, I want to start reading Wuthering Heights. I’ll go buy a dress tomorrow. I check my cell phone, only two hours and 47 minutes. My hair smells pretty, ecologically oriented corporate policy, Milo is so handsome.

My mind just cannot rest. I feel surprisingly calm, though - a pre-P.E.-humiliation kind of calmness. But my mind, it’s going crazy behind these closed eyes.

My cell phone alarm goes off at nine sharp. My heart begins to pound, starting up a countdown. I walk to the bathroom, I get ready, I look at myself in the mirror. I’m sleepy and nervous beyond healthy. My heart is still pounding.

I go downstairs and eat some breakfast. I have the Biology book before me and try to focus on it. My breakfast is Coke and cinnamon toast. I figure if that doesn’t wake me up, then what will? I sigh, I read through my notes again. Half way through I grab the newspaper and read today’s world news. It’s so much more interesting than all this Biology nonsense - what surprise! Not.

It’s 9.45, the exam starts at 10.30. It takes me less than five minutes to walk over to school. My mind still races - from Jane Eyre to Gilmore Girls, from my loved-ones in Kentucky to my grandma who I’ll finally visit after this whole thing is over. But on the outside I’m still calm. As far as I know.

I brush my teeth, I brush my hair, I put on my shoes. It’s still raining outside which I take as a good sign. I love rain. It’s a little after ten, I’m supposed to be at school more than punctual so I put on my coat and grab my keys.

My head is filled with so much information that getting through the exam seems impossible at this point. But I feel proud because at least I’m not crying or shaking or going absolutely berserk. As I walk out into the rain, I want to smile but my heart is pounding crazily in my chest and I just want to get this over with. As usual, my head automatically figures out how long it’ll take until I’m back home and safe and done with it all. About 90 minutes, it calculates. I’ll be home by 11.30 at the latest.

I swallow hart as I enter the school building where I haven’t been for over five weeks now. It feels normal but I’m not sure where to go, so I wander around aimlessly for a little while until I find Mrs. H who’s always in charge of everything and anything official. She tells me to wait outside of room 326. Which is all the way up on the third floor.

When I get there I’m out of breath, my heart is almost skipping beats and I’m sweating. I’m too nervous to calm down and relax, the sweating won’t stop and I feel uneasy. Mr. FH, chairman of the Biology examination board, finally finds me and takes me into room 326 where my Biology teacher and the secretary who takes the minutes of my exam are waiting for me.

The latter is Mr. M - super-stud and brand new P.E. and Biology teacher. He smiles gorgeously and speaks some encouraging words that I can’t even hear. I get more nervous than I already am. My teacher hands me my exam questions and the materials needed to answer them. I am then sent into the next room where I have half an hour to prepare my ten minute talk. My hands are trembeling.

The preparation goes well. It takes me about three minutes to understand the first question but from there it goes better and quicker. My heart is still pounding, though, and my mind decides to show me rotational, brutally short flashes of Milo and Mr. M.; I can’t concentrate although I am desperately trying to.

I don’t have a watch and I don’t want to ask the teacher surveilling me. I am unsure what time it is, how much I have left to prepare. I hear voices in room 326 next door of another student being tested.

And then, 30 minutes are over: the moment is here. The door opens and Mr. FH comes in. As chairman, all he has to do is lead me around and watch the examination closely to ensure that my teacher asks appropriate questions. I walk into room 326 for the second time today. Super-stud Mr. M smiles at me, I smile back. He’s so dreamy. My teacher asks me to please sit and start my ten minute presentation. So that’s what I do.

Even though he is not supposed to, my teacher interrupts me before my ten minutes are over. I am shaken and unsettled at first but realize soon that it gives the exam a more casual atmosphere. I finish answering the prepared questions; definitely not perfect but good enough.

My teacher now starts asking me about other topics. Especially in the whole field of genetics I fail miserably, I don’t remember one single thing. Both the chairmain and the Super-Stud to my right don’t even flinch, my teacher keeps smiling encouragingly. They’re pretty awesome, I notice. But I still don’t know the answers.

After a total of 20 minutes, it’s over. I exhale dramatically, Super-Stud smirks, my teacher sighs. That was it, he says. He offers me a glass of water and cookies. I decline and smile weakly. So that was that, I think. I realize that I probably didn’t fail. And I never will have to bother even spending one thought on Biology. As these thoughts sink in, I slowly start to relax.

Say hi to your brother from me, says Mr. FH who used to be my brother’s home room teacher a really long time ago. I’m surprised he remembers and make some smalltalk. These guys are so nice. Even if genetics sucked, they made the exam as easy and comfortable as possible. I feel grateful and enthusiastically wave goodbye. Which makes Super-Stud smirk some more.

I feel embarassed and stumble out the door. I did it, I want to yell. As I am walking down the stairs I am digging through my bag to find my cell phone. I dial my mom’s number. She’s at work but I have to tell somebody.

I walk back home through the cool rain as I tell my mom all about the exam and we’re both happy that it’s finally over. After all, I used her as my personal studying coach during the past couple of weeks. I am relieved and I feel as if everything is possible now. I can stay up tonight as long as I want to, plus the night after that and the night after that and the night after that. I can read what I want, watch TV series whenever I please - I don’t have to worry anymore. (Except about my History exam, but I won’t know whether I passed or not before May 26.)

This feels so good. All this sudden freedom is almost a little unsettling. So I call my dad as well, his voice mail answers, I hang up, he calls back half an hour later, he congratulates me.

I start my Vaio, open Wordpress in Firefox, I look for the perfect soundtrack to this unique feeling. I end up listening to Ashlee Simpson’s first album, Lala and Surrender are great to dance around in wild circles. I start writing this entry. I can’t wait for my brother to get home from school.

It’s 12.30 and he’s not home yet, I stop typing and get my coat and my Biology book. I’d been told that students could go receive their oral exam grades after noon.

I walk back to school through the rain, rush through the entrance doors; business runs as usual, no one is around. My heart beats in my ears and in the tip of my right pinky. You didn’t fail, is all I really want to hear. I head to the library and return my Biology book, the lady in charge scans it, it’s officially not mine anymore, goodbye forever. I go to the main office and find Mrs. H, the one in charge of everything, standing right there. Ah Katharina, she exclaims and pulls me back out in the hall. I’m afraid it’s a D, she says next without hesitation. It throws me back a little, my enthusiasm is breaking. But I nod in agreement because, really, I didn’t expect anything else. She smiles and says that it won’t affect my GPA all that much.

I walk back home, through the rain again and I don’t feel quite as super-woman-y anymore. I try calling my mom again but the line is busy. The exam is finally over and I got a D. Which is perfectly fine. But two hours after the actual exam I am not as overjoyed anymore.

Either way, it’s a milestone, a mission accomplished.