Welcome to the mansion! Like the roses? Me too. Watch your step on the cobblestones; last summer Chris Bukowski almost fell face first into a bonfire. But don’t worry. He was drunker than you. See those candles? Romantic, huh? Don’t brush your dress against them. ABC will cut a girl for less.

First night jitters? I understand, but don’t worry too much. Just be yourself! Skip the unicorn mask, the mini horse and the limo exit with your identical twin. Going on national television with her will lead to family therapy for the next fifteen years. Also, poor Ben won’t be able to tell you apart.

Made it through the first night? Congratulations! Try and blend in now. Smile often, clap for the girls who get date cards, say one or two snide things about the mean girls or “others.” Wear a sports bra every time Ben comes into the house. Make sure you give the producers a reason to keep you on television.

Do you have any trauma? Did someone you know die? Get sick? Lose a foot? Are you a widow-mother? Divorced? Did you leave your boyfriend to be on national television?

This is your story. Stick with it. If he tries to cut you, ask to talk to him alone. Look up at him from under your fake lashes. Tell him your pain, pull at America’s heart strings. He’ll have to keep you for another week, then. I promise.

Did you get a one-on-one date? I knew you would. Quick, hurry! Shave your legs, pull on those spanking white sneakers, straighten your hair until it’s so dry it looks like tumbleweeds beside the mansion’s driveway. Make sure to pack your bikini. And a ball gown. High heels are a must. You could be going anywhere!

It’s safe to say you’ll be flying, either in a plane, a helicopter, or a hot air balloon. I hear the camera’s installed in the basket with you and can swing around and smack you in the face.

Time for the dinner date! Enjoy, just don’t touch your food. While you’re sitting there, tell him something secret. If you don’t, you’re not ready for this. He won’t give you the rose. You’ll go home.

If you’re lucky and pretty, maybe Chris Harrison will pity-bang you as you’re on the way out. Still, it’s over.

Made it to the final four? Amazing! You’re as close as you’ll ever be to being the Bachelorette. Angle for that. If you get it, you’ll post hundreds of instas of yourself in bikinis and make a living that way for the rest of your life. I hear there’s a whole “Bachelor” community in Chicago. You’ll have family now, too!

Final two? This is the homestretch. If you lose now, it’s over. You’ll be humiliated. You’ve filmed too long to have a chance at being the Bachelorette. You’re alone now. It’s done.   

Last one standing? Congratulations! Look at that ring! Hug Ben. Kiss Ben. This is your moment. In a month or two, he’ll leave you. But that will be okay. Try for “Dancing with the Stars.” Come back next season. Open a themed bar. Go for more camera time on “Bachelor in Paradise.” I think you’d like it there. I love Mexico. I’m already looking forward to seeing you there.

  I’m sick. Over break, I took NyQuil in New Orleans, Advil in Atlanta and laxatives at my cousin’s wedding in LA. In Oregon, I lay half conscious on my aunt’s day bed, surrounded by tissues and peppermint tea. The whole time, my legs ached; they’d crack each time I stepped. When I walked, it sounded like drumming. I felt like one of those snap bracelets you’d had as a kid; one minute my legs would be curled up on the couch, the next they’d snap and lock out, sending ripples of pain down through my feet and up to my groin.

I went to a pediatrician, then a rheumatologist, then a woman specializing in infectious disease. I got blood drawn three times. I also spent a lot of time pooping into a green plastic bag and scooping the stuff into eight tiny vials.  

All my tests came back negative.

“We can see you’re sick,” the doctors said. “But your blood work looks great. You definitely don’t have cancer. It’s like arthritis, but isn’t.”

“Awesome,” I said. “That’s great.”

There’s this famous parable with frogs and boiling water. In the first instance, a frog is placed in boiling water and immediately jumps out. It’s hot! In the second, the frog is placed in a pot of cool water, which is slowly brought to a boil. The transition is so gradual the frog never notices and cooks.

It’s the same with being sick.

These days, it’s normal for me to walk down the stairs to the sound of my body banging out the rhythms of a mariachi band. But this shouldn’t feel normal. I don’t want to wake up a year from now and think it’s commonplace to spend hours on the couch, starting my day with one Aleve, two Tylenol, and half a dozen supplements and vitamins. I don’t want to believe that the pain, the whining, the binge watching seasons of The Bachelor, then The Bachelorette, then the genius that is Bachelor in Paradise is normal.

I don’t want to think this might never go away.

For me, the worst part of being sick is the uncertainty. When am I going to feel better? What’s happening to my body? Am I getting better or worse?

I’ve been sick so long I can’t trust my body’s cues. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be healthy. I’ve repressed it, I had to. Because if I compared my legs now to the ones I had two months ago—my Bachelor on the treadmill versus Bachelor in bed legs— I’d jump out of the boiling water screaming.

It took me two months to realize I was sick. It’s taken another to figure out what’s wrong, and it’ll take one more to hopefully cure it.

So this month, each time I pop my Aleve and Advil and antibiotics, I’m going to close my eyes and remember going on a long run, climbing with my mom, shopping at Target without getting tired and sitting down.

And I’m going to tell myself that’s what’s normal. Not this.