Where She Was Planted

This is something that has been dancing around in my brain for quite a while, and the time seems ripe to get it all out. It’s been a long time since I have written anything for anyone else to read, so if this is a little bit rusty, I apologize.

Gonna spill that tea

Yesterday I was on Twitter, and I came across a beautiful article that was written by Matthew Gong, the son of LDS apostle Gerrit W. Gong. Matthew Gong is an openly gay man, and his words reflected the complexity of being caught between two identities. This is something that I know a lot about.

Six years ago (almost exactly) I was sitting on a couch with my best friend, and I looked at her and I knew that I loved her. Loved her – full on, butterflies in the stomach, heart pounding out of my chest love. Suddenly a whole bunch of things in my life fell into place – feelings that I had never given attention to, things that I had tried to hide for years, all came bubbling to the surface all at once. It was like I was truly seeing myself for the first time. I was overwhelmed, and I turned to her and said, “Hey… I think I’m bi.”

“Oh honey, I know.”

From that minute it was like there were two of me: Mormon Kari, and proud LGBTQ+ community member Kari. Never out of the closet, but never really in it either. I was in constant flux between two worlds that felt like they couldn’t coexist. No matter what I did if felt like no one would want both parts of me. I was constantly carving off parts of myself to fit into boxes where I didn’t belong, always leaving something behind and never feeling like a whole person. I felt lost and broken, and I felt like God was drifting farther and farther away from me. I felt like no one could love this incomplete person, even Him.

I know that I did not love myself.

Last winter I fell into a deep depression. Something inside of me snapped, and it threw my entire world from its axis. I had to take an entire month off work while they adjusted my medication and gently coaxed me back into the land of the living. My brain felt like broken glass. I barely remember anything from Thanksgiving to Christmas of 2018. I was just existing.

When I started to come back into myself, I knew that I needed to start living my life authentically or it would literally kill me. I started to spend more time reflecting. I reached out to other members of the LDS Queer community and leaned on them and learned from them (you know who you are, and I will love you forever for this). This summer I came out to my parents. It was terrifying and hard, but I knew in my heart that it was something I needed to do. I quietly stopped hiding things about myself on the internet. And now I’m coming out (officially) to all of you.

People have told me that this is going to make my life harder, and that people will see me differently. I feel like I knew that from the beginning, but I’m not scared of it anymore. I want people to look at me differently, because in all probability I am a little different from whatever version of me they were seeing. I want people to know me for everything I am, because I like myself better this way, and I really hope they do too.

Right now, I am still focusing on restoring things that I lost. I am re-learning how to talk to God. I have poured my heart out to him and felt confirmation of his love for me – ALL of me. I have realized that there are not two sides to me, but a very complex whole that is worthy of love and of loving. I am taking baby steps and trying to learn to be gentle with myself. I am trying to unlearn toxic coping mechanisms that held me prisoner within my own self-hatred for years. Not every day is a good day, but it’s always getting better.

I am a child of a God who loves me. I am bisexual. These are two things that I know and that I can’t deny. I am growing in the complex soil in which I have been planted, and I am finally thriving. I hope that when you read this you feel like you know me, and I hope you know that I love all of you. Thank you all for your love and your support. Thank you for lifting me up, even when you did not truly know the weight that was crushing me. I have been blessed so greatly, and I honestly cannot express enough gratitude.

To anyone who feels like they are hiding – I see you. I love you. There are other people out there who will love you, too. There are people with whom you will feel safe. It’s never going to be an easy road to travel, but there are people who will hold your hand when you feel like you can’t take another step. Be kind to yourself. God loves you. He made you. He knows your entire heart. Do not be afraid.

Thank you for reading.

Paying it Forward

I was on the bus this morning, and this kid got on without the correct bus fare (it was still rush hour prices, and he had the standard fare). He was going around the bus asking for change for $5, which no one seemed to have. I knew that I had enough for the fare in my wallet, so I called him over and gave it to him. He asked me if I wanted any money back, and I told him it wasn't necessary.

A little while later I felt a tap on my shoulder, and turned and saw that he had left his $1.75 on the seat next to me as a way of paying me back. It made me tear up a little bit. I didn't want to take it, but I didn't want to hurt his pride either.

So, now I have a conundrum. I don't feel like I can use this money for myself, but I'm not sure what to do with it either. I could keep it in my bag in case someone else ever needs help on the bus, or I could drop it in a donation box somewhere...

If you were me, what would you do?

Kidnapped

This is a story of how musical theater turned me to a life of crime.

Picture this: the year is 1995. It is summer, and I am at Many Point Family Camp for the very first (and last) time. My mom and sisters are with me. Dad and Eldon are at the scout camp on the other side of the lake.

It's very Minnesota.

There were bats in the walls of our cabin, leeches in the lake, and unreliable toilets, but it was still fun in the sort of dirty, disorganized way that camp usually is. The best part of all was that we had brought our cassette tape soundtrack of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, which was my obsession at the time. We listened to it on the car ride up. I convinced everyone that we needed to listen to it every night when we went to bed. I was positive that it was the best musical of all time.

At some point during the week, I met a girl near my age (a little younger) that I really clicked with. I don't remember her name, but considering that it was the early 90s I'm about 80% positive that it was either Emily or Ashley. We'll call her Ashily.

One day, while everyone else was in the lake trying to catch a greased watermelon, Ashily and I decided that we were too cool for school, and that we needed something better to do. We thought about it, and suddenly I knew: I needed to introduce her to the magic of Joseph.

So, without telling anyone (because we were very smart), we skipped down the road to my family's cabin, where we listened to the entirety of side one of my well-loved cassette.At this point we started getting hungry, so we decided to head back to the main part of camp to see what dinner was going to be.

When we got back to the lake, the scene was very different than when we had left. The lake was clear of people, and our mothers and several camp counselors were standing in a tight circle near the water. Ashily and I, not understanding what was going on, walked up to ask about food.

That's when the lecturing started.

Our parents, of course, were very relieved that we had not drowned or been eaten by a pike or whatever else might lurk in the lakes of Northern Minnesota, but they were not happy either. When my mom asked me what on earth I had been thinking, I said, "Well, we wanted to listen to Joseph..."

That is how I became a kidnapper at the tender age of five. I didn't see Ashily much after that. I think her mother must have thought I was some sort of tiny sociopath or something. It's a little sad, thinking about how our summer camp friendship was so short-lived. We never even got to promise that we would write and then immediately forget when we got home.

But we'll always have Joseph.

Caleb

I was waiting for the train on my way to work today, and I was approached by a very bouncy young lad who introduced himself as Caleb.

He asked for my name, and after I gave it he said, "Well, Kari, I'm on my way home and I saw you and I just had to come over and let you know that God loves you so much." He said that he could see that I had God's light, and that he knew that I was "so special" to the Lord.

And guys, it made my day.

I have been approached by religious people on the street before, but I have never met another person who was so sweet and sincere in simply trying to spread God's love. He didn't try to convert me, he didn't ask me if I had been saved. He simply wanted to tell me that God loved me, and wish me a good day. It was fantastic!

I told him that that was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me, and he was delighted. He asked if we could pray together, and since my train wasn't there yet I said yes. He took my hand and said a little prayer, hoping that we could continue to feel God's love and light as we went about our day. We said Amen, said goodbye, and he was gone. I went to work with the biggest smile on my face.

What a small thing, right? But it made me feel so loved. It was an encounter that I had no idea that I needed, but that made my whole day completely turn around.

Caleb. Adorable, bright, happy Caleb. I hope that you never lose whatever qualities you posses that make you the beacon that you are. I hope that you continue to brighten days wherever you go, and that you have a fantastic life full of all the happiness that you deserve. I hope that you never let go of the light that you share so freely with people you don't even know.

More than anything, though... I hope that someday I can be just like you.

Praying

Kesha released her first song in four years today, and guys... guys. It is the best song I have ever heard from her.

Knowing her story, knowing that she is a survivor of rape and exploitation, this song is so incredibly powerful. 

It made me think of all of my own experiences. Every time that I have been touched without my consent. Every time someone assumed that what I had was theirs to take. Every time I have been called a bitch by a man I ignored, or someone said I was "frigid" because I didn't accept their harassment. Because I have no trust left. Because, as a woman, I always have to be on the defensive. Because I have seen it happen to people I love, too.

And I agree with the sentiment (indirectly expressed) here: God's love is the only thing that pulled me out of that darkness. The only thing that helps me get from day to day sometimes.

I really appreciate her bravery in sharing this. I needed to hear it today, and I really hope that it helps a lot of people find their way out of a dark place.

100 Books

Three years ago I decided that I was going to read 100 books in one year. That's about two books a week, I thought to myself, How hard can it be?

Pretty hard, as it turns out.

I failed that year at 82 books, and the next year at 71. Frustrated, I decided that I would try it just one more time, to see if it was possible. I was really going to push myself to see if I could get there.

And today it happened: I finished my 100th book in 2016.

So now I'm  going to write about it.

The Experience, Overall

Having done what I set out to do three years ago feels pretty great. I read a lot of really great books (and a few bad ones), and I got to re-read a lot of things that I hadn't read since I was in my early teens, which was fun. The one thing I find regrettable, though, was that I had to choose a lot of books that I knew would be fast reads, instead of some of the books that I really wanted to read. Two books a week is a LOT when you have school and work in the mix, so I needed to read books that would fill in the gaps and not be too distracting from my real life responsibilities.

The second year I attempted this I wanted to read only books that I had never read before. I would love to be able to do that again someday, but fitting all of that into a year without slipping into comfortable old favorites would be almost impossible for me to do. To read all new books seems like a worthier goal than just "read as fast as you can to say that you did it", but I am still super proud of what I have accomplished.

I have to say, though, it will be more fun reading books this December now that  don't feel like I'm in a race. The 100 book challenge is not for sissies.

The Low Points

I feel like with every bundle of good things, there have to be at least a few bad things thrown into the mix. The wormy apple, the rainy Saturday, the poisonous spider in your shipment of grapes... these books are those things.

B.C. by Johnny Hart
I actually read four B.C. books this year, since my dad has a bunch of them. I used to like looking through them when I was a kid, and I remembered them as being funny even though most of the jokes (I'm sure) sailed over my head. Now that I have read them as an adult, I can say with conviction that they are not my cup of tea. There were still a few things that made me smile, but for the most part I found the humor in them to be either boring or in poor taste. It was an attempt at reclaiming my childhood that went spectacularly awry.

"The Bazaar of Bad Dreams" by Stephen King
This one hurts a little, because I love Stephen King's short stories as a general rule, but so many of these were just too far off the mark for me. I didn't find it frightening or thrilling, or even compelling. I mean, the first story in there is about an alien car that eats people. It just felt ridiculous, and it was really hard to drag myself through.

"The Screwtape Letters" by C.S. Lewis
I was actually surprised that I had such a hard time with this one, since I remember loving it when I read it at age fourteen. Not to say that I don't like it now (it was still a good read), but I found some of the concepts in it to be at odds with how I feel about doubting and faith, et cetera. It may just be how it was presented, or how I felt at the time I was reading it, but this just didn't do it for me this time. I might have to revisit it again next year, just to see of my opinion changes again on another reading.

The High Points

These books were the icing on my big, 100 book cake. They are the books that touched me deeply, in one way or another, and I'm excited to get to talk about them now.

The Memoirs of Jennifer Worth (The Midwife, Shadows of the Workhouse, Farewell to the East End)
Any watchers of Call the Midwife on BBC or PBS will know what these stories are about at surface level, but reading these books is like immersing yourself in her life. You come away just amazed at the hardships that these women had to endure, and so appreciative of what you've been given. As someone who has watched the show, it was also interesting to see the character changes that they made, and just how many sad endings that they made "TV happy" (which surprised me, because they are not afraid to make you cry, either). I found the entire series to be fascinating and heartwarming, overall.

"Swamplandia!" by Karen Russell
This is a book that chews you up and spits you out and horrifies you in the most fascinating way. I always find Karen Russell to be incredible, because the way that she writes makes you feel every single thing that the characters are feeling. You feel all of the loss and the confusion and terror, but you also feel the joy and the whimsy of it all. It is definitely a trip. For anyone looking to read it, though, I'm going to throw up a HUGE child abuse trigger warning. It sneaks up on you and it is not pleasant, and if you have serious problems with it I suggest you stay away. This book does not really have a happy ending, but it's definitely still worthwhile and still one of my favorites of the year.

"Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore" by Robin Sloan
Anybody who likes mysteries will love this book. That said, I feel like I can't say much about it, so that I don't give anything away. I will say, however, that it totally blew my mind, and that the ending was so perfectly satisfying.

"Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe" by Benjamin Alire Sáenz
This was the last book I read in this challenge, and it was the perfect ending to a successful experiment. Sáenz is definitely a poet at heart, and this book shows that. The prose flows like water, and all of these different songs and emotions run together so well that the resolution is just about perfect. It was also one of the best love stories I have ever read. Also, it was super refreshing to read a piece of Teen Fiction that actually has depth to it. More books for young people should be like this.

In Conclusion

I love books. I am a firm believer in the power of reading and the necessity of a home library. Reading 100 books was such a cool experience for me, and I think that the best part about it was that it allowed me to focus on the act of reading in a way I never had before. I had forgotten how joyful it can be to sit down with a book and just lose yourself for an entire afternoon. I had forgotten what it felt like to have your world so expanded, and I am so grateful that I was able to do this. I feel like I have learned a lot, and I have reawakened a passion that I had been missing in my life.

This was exactly what I needed.

~~~~~

Who else had a book goal for 2016? I want to hear about it!

~~~~~

There are obviously a whole lot of books that I wasn't able to talk about here, but if you want to talk to me about any of them just let me know. I am always willing to get into book talk. The full list can be found on Goodreads.

My Buddy

One year ago today, you came into the world. I didn't know you then, but three months later you would come into my life and everything would change for the better. I knew the minute that I first held you that you were destined to be my buddy for life.

Three months old, right after we met.

Your first year of life wasn't easy! Health problems (along with the regular puppy stuff) had us going to the vet almost every month. You took being poked and prodded like a champ, but I think it gave you your weird phobia of car rides that persists to this day. Your year of tests, tests, and more tests finally came to a close in January, when you were able to get the surgery you needed to be a healthy and happy pup. I wish I could tell you that your medical journeys are over for good, but unfortunately you will probably have to have surgery again someday. I can tell you, though, that you won't have to go back to the vet for a LONG while. I hope that you are as happy about that as I am!

After your surgery, grumpy about the e-collar.

I have learned a lot of things about you over the past year, but most of it can be boiled down to one thing: you, Puppy, are super weird. This is okay, because I am weird, too.

There are a lot of things about you that I will never understand. For example, I will never know why you feel the need to walk when you poop, or why you hate bathtime but love puddles. I will never know why you like to chew on my fingers when you are sleepy, or why you feel the need to spread your food all over the floor before you eat it. I will never understand the need to incessantly bark at strangers (but we're working on that). You are a goofball, for sure, but you're my goofball.

About six months old, having fun in the grass.

I love everything about you. I love your tiny toes and your snaggletooth. I love your Yoda ears, your whiskers, and the way you chase your tail when you get really involved in playtime. I love the way that you melt into me when you are sleepy, and the way you seem to always know when I need a cuddle. I love the weird snorting noises you make when you're happy, and your "ferocious" growl when you encounter a toy that wants to fight back. I love watching you play in the snow, because you really do look like a little fox when you are in your element.

Snow nose! Eleven months old.

I really could go on forever. There is just so much about you to love.

My dear little Watson, I am so glad that you exist. You have, in your first year, taught me that true love is grand, and that it could cross oceans and back without changing. You have taught me to be patient, and to be more selfless. You have made my life better in every way, and I am so grateful to be the person entrusted with your care.

Happy Birthday, my little love. Here's to many more to come!

Uterine-somnia

For six months I have been having the same dream. Not every night, mind you, but frequent enough to be noteworthy. This has happened to me before, but never quite like this. I used to dream about lakes and rivers, my high school with glass walls, and monsters that I could never quite see. Now I'm dreaming about babies.

In my dream, women don't carry their babies on the inside anymore. The placenta is held outside the body and, as long as the mother keeps it close by, the baby will thrive. To be clear, this is not your average, nightmare-fuel placenta: it looks like a transparent, glowing red peach. Kind of like a picture of a baby in utero, but cuter in its dreamlike softness.

Like this, but with a baby inside.

I'm not pregnant in this dream (would you even call it pregnant? It's more like laying an egg). I am on a walk in the small, woodsy area behind my house, and I find one of these tiny baby orbs nestled beneath a tree. There's no one around, and I pick it up. It's warm and soft, and somehow the baby is still alive. I can feel its heartbeat like butterfly wings against my cupped palms.

Suddenly, I'm gripped by a feeling of heart-stopping panic. I know that I need to find this baby's mother. If I don't, if I can't, there will be nothing anyone can do. This baby will die in my hands. I start running around the neighborhood, knocking on every door as I feel the baby's heart growing weaker and weaker. The last door I knock on (I'm fairly desperate and crying at this point) is opened by a girl about my age. She just looks at me and says, "Oh, I was wondering where I left that" and she takes it from me and slams the door in my face.

And then I wake up.

It is the most infuriating dream I have ever had, and somehow more of a nightmare than the time when I was four and I dreamed that Cookie Monster came out of my closet and ate my foot (so graphic). It's not terrifying in any way, but it is exhausting and stressful and maddening and I have no idea why.

I don't think about babies much in my waking hours, so the only thing I can think to pin this on would be a subconscious fear or anxiety of some kind, (though what that might be, I couldn't say). In the dream dictionary I found on Google, it says that if you find a baby in a dream, it means you've unlocked some kind of hidden potential. If that is the case, it would be nice of the baby would just tell me what I'm supposed to figure out so I can stop having this dream. The dream dictionary says nothing about crushing panic and terrible people, but I figure that not everything needs to have a meaning. I'm kind of hoping that writing about it will help work it out of my system, and maybe unlock whatever potential (or just... whatever) is hiding in my head. At the very least, I'm hoping it will give me at least one week with a full seven nights of unbroken rest.

If there are any dream-benders out there who can shed a little more light on this one, do please enlighten me. Until then, I guess I'll just be the tired girl in the corner.

The Fourth Day

Now that our spring concert is over and we are truly in the Easter season, our focus in the Chorale has once again turned to Rob Gardner's gorgeous oratorio, Lamb of God. Always the highlight of our spring season, the piece focuses on the last days of Christ's ministry on Earth.

Tickets will be available HERE starting on Monday, March 24 (it's free - just sayin')

This year I've been trying to let myself get lost in the doctrine as well as the music. In addition to making notes on dynamics and rhythms, I've been writing personal notes to myself in the score as we sing: "Who am I representing, here? What is my character feeling? What am I feeling?" Doing this has helped me connect to the piece emotionally, and today in rehearsal it struck me in a very personal way.

We were practicing I Am the Resurrection, and we had the opportunity to talk about Lazarus and "the fourth day". In Jewish cultural tradition, it was believed that the soul hovered near the body for three days after death, but after that time had passed there was no hope for the deceased to ever live again. When Christ came to Mary and Martha, Lazarus had already reached his fourth day. There were few who believed that he could rise again.

He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.

Lazarus rose. Those who had lost hope were absolved - their prayers had been answered. Their trial was waiting: they needed to have hope until the fourth day.

As we talked about this, our director asked us if we could think of any time where we were made to wait until the fourth day. I wrote it down in my score, and immediately knew what I would say if I could bring myself to say it out loud. My "fourth day" was the day I let myself become converted to Christ.

It had been two years since I had been to church. I was bitter and sad - there were so many things about the church that I didn't understand, and so many ways I felt I had been abandoned by God. I was tired of fighting, and I was sick. Very sick. My lungs, which have fought against me for my whole life, were full of fluid; my throat so raw that I couldn't move or swallow without sharp pain. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't even cry. I thought that I was going to die, and I had never felt more alone in my whole life. Suddenly, I wanted a priesthood blessing more than anything else in the world. I called my long-suffering home teachers, and they agreed to come over as soon as possible (privately, I think they probably high-fived each other right after I called).

As I had my priesthood blessing, I was hit full-force by the power of God's love for me. I was immediately aware of the spirit in the room, and of the truth of all the things I knew. The gospel was true, I would get well, and my life would now be full of light. In spite of my struggles, I could, and would be whole again.

He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.

I may have not been as close to physical death as I believed myself to be (and certainly not as dead as Lazarus), but I was hovering on the edge of a spiritual death that I don't think I could have ever come back from. The tiny sliver of faith I showed when I asked for a blessing that night - the faint hope and belief that God would help me - saved my life that night. I had been in a tomb made of my stubbornness and hurt, and Christ brought me back into the light.

There is always hope for us. Christ is our champion of second chances. He died so that we could live again! He lived and loved so that we could learn how to live our lives in the best way that we can.

This Easter season, as we go through the season of Lent (or sing beautiful music) to remember the ministry of Jesus Christ, I hope we can all think about our fourth day. I hope that we will think about those dark times in our lives, and come to know that Christ will always be there to lead us into the light.

. . . but he that shall endure unto the end, the same shall be saved. (Mark 13:13)

Empty Rooms

You'll probably notice, if you bother checking up on this blog, that I haven't made a post in almost a year. It's not that I'm short on ideas or material (I have notebooks full of things I could write about), it's that sometimes life throws you some very personal curveballs, and those things tend to be the hardest to write about.

On August 2, 2013, the Mathias clan lost our beloved Matriarch: my paternal grandmother. I don't think anyone is ever prepared for that kind of loss, even though you know it's coming. In the six months that have followed, I have witnessed what it means to come unglued. Other changes, like the recent relocation of my grandfather into an assisted living facility, have reinforced my conclusion that we have all lost an anchor and haven't quite figured out how to stop drifting, yet.

I went into their home the other day, to vacuum and do some more cleaning now that the furniture has been moved out, and I was overblown by how awful it felt to see those rooms empty. The walls there are still radiating with more than 40 years of love, but there is no one there to feel it. I sat in the middle of the bedroom floor and let it soak into my bones. I had a lot of time to reflect on my life and my choices for the future. I could choose to wallow in my grief, or to use it as a motivator to become the kind of person that my grandmother was. I could use my hard times to become a vessel of love.

It's been six months, now. For me, it's time to create an anchor of my own, and become my best self. I am so grateful for the example I was blessed with, and for the 23 years I was able to spend with my grandmother on this earth.

Spring is coming. It's time to begin again.

The Pool Bag

It was the most beautiful bag my young eyes had ever seen. It was the latest thing from Xhileration at Target -- a green and yellow transparent plastic patchwork masterpiece. It was very 90s mod; all Austin Powers, Eurotrash, and oh so very Spice Girls. Naturally, I needed to have it.

All the best life decisions are based on these ladies.

Luckily, I had a "good" reason for needing such a bag. Ashley's pool party was coming up, and ALL the other girls in my Brownie troop were going to be there. If I didn't have a beach tote like they all had, I knew I would just die. I was already having enough trouble fitting in after our last outing -- horseback riding -- when all of the other girls teased me mercilessly for not having real riding boots (that incident made me so ashamed that I almost didn't go on the trip -- luckily my mom intervened).

This time was going to be different. This was Ashley's party, and she had invited me. Now, I grew up in the 90s, so there was a whole pack of Ashleys in my class, but this was THE Ashley. Petite, blonde, and popular -- she was the queen bee of my Brownie troop, and the girl that everyone else wanted to be. There was no way I was going to screw this up.

This wasn't just a popular party. No, this was a BOY/GIRL party, and I was reeling with excitement. The only boys I had ever had at parties were my cousins, so this was a huge deal. In my head, I showed up to the party looking svelte and beautiful, somewhere between an Olson twin and Cher from Clueless. I would sparkle, laugh, and have a good time, and he would see me. He would see me and want to hold the HECK out of my hand. It didn't matter that I was just a dumpy third grader with no social skills whatsoever: this party was going to change everything (and it was ALL because of my shiny new pool bag).

The day finally arrived, and I triple checked to make sure everything was perfect. My new bag was packed with my towel, sunscreen, and a copy of the latest American Girl magazine; all carefully and artfully placed, visible through the shiny, green vinyl. I had butterfly clips in my braid -- the kind with the wings that really moved-- and they matched the blue butterflies on my swimsuit (thank you, mom, for these concessions to my adolescent vanity). I felt like a totally unstoppable babe. I probably looked more like this:

I learned two valuable lessons at that party. 1) If an invitation seems unusual, it's because her mom made her invite you, and 2) Never, EVER wear the same butterfly clips as the most popular girl in school. No one even looked at my super trendy bag. I was immediately accused of copying the birthday girl, and spent most of the party trying not to cry in the kitchen, surrounded by a bunch of waspy moms who were drinking white wine and talking about sending their girls to cheer camp.

I'd love to say that this was the day I learned that appearance and trendy trappings have no effect on how people see you or how you see yourself, but this is not the case. I spent years after this doing the same goofy things, trying to get the attention of the same types of people. Even when I went through my gothy phase, it was because I had people I was desperate to impress.

I didn't learn this lesson until years later, when I was jumping into another pool (fully clothed) with a group of people that I had never had to try to impress. Years after the shiny green pool bag had been sacrificed for bigger and better things, I was resting on the still-warm pavement with my friends, watching the sunset and feeling more comfortable than I ever had before. There was no purchase necessary for this happiness -- no frills needed to make it a perfect day.

Growing up is never as perfect as we all seem to think it should be. No one ever learns a lesson the first time they make a mistake, and there are no dramatic transformations that immediately make us who we want to become. However, we are given one bit of peace in this whole mess: in spite of all of our mistakes and our eternal human fumblings and awkward moments, there are still perfect days to be had.

And I learned that all, indirectly (and slowly), from that glorious, shiny, cooler-than-cool pool bag. May it still be awesome, wherever it is.