Yesterday I wrote about becoming a punctual person like it is some kind of big deal. Like those three minutes matter more than the difference between the person I was and the person I am.
I gawk at the psychopath who used to chuck cell phones at plaster walls when her skin crawled with frustration, at the girl with the hot pink hair and undying devotion to the beats, at the desperate teenager who threw herself into the pit at crass punk shows, and at the narrow-minded jealous thing who turned a cold shoulder to the other Mormons with their petty judgments and bleached yellow hair.
Now I cry when I get bad, and set my phone down roughly on my desk. I breathe until things are okay. I wear a suit and work in an office. I swim through spare folk melodies and dance unashamed, unabashed to insurgent country songs. I know that if there is room for me in the LDS church, then there is room for everyone, even narrow-minded bottle blonde* women. I still worship the beats.
I recognize that to some people, the person I am now is unrecognizable from the person I was, but we are linked. Husband, my family, and a handful of friends know this, I think, and know that the change was less about the human capacity for change than it was about the inevitable. It was less about change than it was about growing up.
*I hope it is clear that I have no real issue with fake hair. I mean, you noticed that I said mine was pink, right?