Maybe it’s that the divorce went through and I don't feel like an immoral character from "Peyton Place." Maybe it’s the yin to the yang. Maybe it was because the kids are raised, and they are decent, moral people. Somewhere along the way, a switch flipped. What if I opened the door to her, and never went back? I knew there had to to be a bit of the wild New Orleans child inside of me, too, even if I live in a tiny town in Ohio. I grew up, after all, the daughter of a wild-child counterculture mother, who rode motorcycles and smoked pot, who moved us from South Carolina to New Orleans when I was in my teens. It was nice to fit in.Īh, but during those soccer years, I knew there was another side to me. Even if it meant forcing the edges of our square pegs into society’s round holes - conforming is what we all did. I liked sitting next to the other soccer moms and cheering on our children. I liked knowing the rules of belonging and following them. Certain aspects of conforming are absolutely appealing. People, mostly middle-aged women, come up to me on the street and say, “You’re so brave!”Įither that, or they glare at me as if to say, “You look like a middle-aged teenager.”Īctually, I am neither, I want to tell them.Īfter decades of being the consummate soccer mom, the quintessential communitarian conformist, of doing what was expected of Midwestern women “my age,” I'm ready to see what’s behind Door No. But then a couple weeks later, I did it again, myself - more this time, covering more of my head.īy the third and now fourth time, I was hooked, running purple through my whole head of hair with my fingers, so that now it’s unmistakable.
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