How I Met Your Mother: A Move-In Chronicle

By: Bridget Fekety

Hey kids. I bet you’ve been wondering how I met your mother.

Well.

It all started when, unfortunately, I met you. :/

I remember meeting your mom clear as day—because it was. It was fucking 8 am in the morning as I exited the jam-packed dormitory elevator only to enter an even more crowded hallway. For a moment I considered which might be easier: being homeless or moving into Warren Towers. 

That was when something–or rather someone–caught my watery (someone farted in the elevator) eyes.

Maybe it was the heatstroke that plagues everyone during move-in, or the delusion that Warren Towers is a hospitable living environment, but as I began to fight my way to my dormitory door, I slowly began to come upon a morbid realization:

I must have died. 

There was no way, in any living reality, I could be seeing what I was; as I went to unlock my door, a beautifully enchanting angel locked eyes with me. She handed something–a boy? (you)--next to her the container from her arms and flicked a sheath of overly highlighted hair over her shoulder in a slick, sultry motion. I didn’t know anything at that moment; nothing except that everyone else was an inferior being compared to her.

The urge to drop to my knees and worship her was strong as her harmonious voice–like the jingle of BMW keys or carb-free granola bites–sounded. I fell backwards into the wall, slumping down onto the floor and further examining this white-hot woman with awe.

Her Holiness was dripped head to toe in glittering white athleisure and–was her face glistening? A drop of shimmering sweat dripped off the tip of her nose onto the dirty warren dorm tile. 

As soon as she turned around to lift another set of boxes, I lunged over to where the drop had gloriously cascaded down onto the tile and scooped it up with a swift swipe of my finger. With zero hesitation, I snorted that shit–that absolute almond mom holy water–like crack.

I clung desperately to the notes of pilates and Gwenyth Paltrow dancing within my nostrils in an attempt to savor this religious moment before someone realized they made a mistake and sent me down to Hell. To my surprise, my spiritual awakening wasn’t interrupted by Satan, but rather someone worse–you (you little shit).

“Can you get out of my doorway,” you asked, standing (stupidly) behind one of those falling-apart-at-the-seams stanky yellow carts. 

I wanted to scream, to shout, to tell you how such an unworthy interruption was essentially committing sacrilege, but my passionate plots were foiled as she reentered the hallway.

“It’s okay, Kale,” the angel–this holy mother–sang to her son. “What can I do for you, hon”?

At this point I must’ve passed out, because the last thing I remembered was being addressed directly by Her herself. The BU Student Health services diagnosed me with either heat stroke or a severe case of scurvy, but I don’t think it was either of the sort. My memories, however, were muddled and fuzzy…perhaps they were right. My mere mortal body simply could not handle the blazing heat of being so close to such a hot mom. 

When I woke up from my temporary blackout, she was still there. (Maybe I was actually alive, just incredibly blessed)? She looked at me with that look of someone who breathes only overpriced oatmilk and jade. She smiled. 

Your mother slid her humongous sunglasses to the top of her head, reached into her purse, and placed a granola bar into the palm of my shaky hand.

“Eat, my child” she said. The granola bar was nothing more than a package and a singular almond (“NOW WITH FEWER CALORIES! CHEWY CHOCOLATE NUT BAR *contains almonds, no actual chocolate included*”). 

This, clearly, was my holy communion. I swallowed that nut as if it were holy bread, repenting reverently for all the time I spent without worshiping her grace. Afterwards, she gave me a swig of her homemade green juice she made in her juicer at home.

The green juice–the blood of the almond mom–gave me diarrhea for weeks, so severe that I had to return to the Student Health Services for dysentery. They, once again, tried telling me I was suffering from a severe case of scurvy. 

“Nay nay” I told them, proudly. “That was just my body, expelling my sins”. 

To be honest I have no clue where you were during this entire experience. Probably moving in, I guess, but I couldn’t give a shit. I didn’t need Warren Towers or move-in after that fateful day. Instead I dropped out of BU to found the first Holy Palace of Mother, right here in Boston.

Your mom–my beacon of light (and my spin cycle coach), was all I needed. And apparently keto (also according to ur mom). And that's the story of how I went from moving within the mortal, milfless plane of existence to a heightened, hot-mom heaven. 

(please help, the green juice is still making me poop).