When I was 16, I had a cool punk rock boyfriend, Jim. He was a lanky ginger base player who read the kind of books that appeal to high-strung nerdy boys. He was a thoughtful boyfriend. One night, we were sitting on a lifeguard tower on Santa Monica beach gazing out at the Pacific Ocean. It must have been a winter evening because we were huddled up in warm clothes. Suddenly he got excited because he had seen a shooting star. He turned to me, inspired by the magic of the night sky, and asked me to marry him. I didn’t want to marry him. I had not seen the shooting star.