It was a little white lie, but it grew into a big fat one.
I had broken up with my boyfriend, and I wanted to make my debut into the rest of my life. I dressed up, parked my tush at the Teardrop Lounge, and ordered an ornate cocktail.
The bartender was cute. “What did you do today?” he asked.
The things I had done that day—eat ice cream and binge on Bad Girls Club—were distinctly impossible options for response. But this guy had no idea who I was; perhaps this was the perfect moment to become the woman I was going to be?
That woman wouldn’t have eaten ice cream for lunch.
“I went surfing,” I said with a supercool shrug. Virtually no one surfed in Oregon, including me. The woman I was going to be was just really badass.
“You surf?” he asked. “Me too. We should go sometime.”
I grew up a short drive from Santa Cruz, but never got
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