I Like It

Today I rode the bus down to South Street and luncheoned at Open Harvest's deli. A girl I know from school was working there behind the counter--a girl in the same major as I, who is a free-spirited hippie type I've always thought was cool (although slightly intimidating). Seeing her reminded me of a girl I met this past weekend when I visited Indian Creek Camp to see my sister and some old friends.

I was sitting with my sister's cabin of girls around the commitment fires after Friday night's play. A girl named Kat was next to me, who also seemed like one of those free-spirited hippie types, only perhaps having yet to come into her own when it came to being "cool." She was an All Stars-wearing girl, the kind that decorates their shoes and backpacks and notebooks with doodles in mainly-black Sharpie marker. I wasn't that kid in high school. I was the nerdy, nose-in-a-book, horse-a-holic shy girl.

Kat kept turning to me and saying, "I absolutely love your hair. It is SO COOL." A few minutes would pass and she would look at me again and say "I just love your hair. It's wicked awesome." (Which was odd, because she said "wicked awesome" like a New Englander, but she had a southern accent, and we were in Tennesee.)

Stranger still, this fourteen-year-old semi-cool kid made me feel just a little bit like I had arrived. But not so much because she thought my hair was cool, although I did think it was a nice compliment. More because I think my hair is cool. I no longer need the cool kids' opinion. One nice part about growing up is feeling constantly better in your own skin. I'm not entirely there yet--after all, hippie-Open-Harvest-girl still intimidates me a bit--but it gets better all the time.

I think it has something to do with realizing that what other people think doesn't really matter. I have bigger things to think about.

Today a kid about my age got on the bus. (When I say "about my age," I mean he was probably between 18 and 25. I'm actually leaning more toward 18. Whatever. Anyway.) He was blind. He confidently made his way onto the bus--climbed up the step, fed money into the machine, found his seat. His eyes roamed blankly around the bus, and I forgot for a moment that he couldn't catch me staring out of the corner of my eye--the long white cane he carefully folded when the bus lurched into motion reminded me of that. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to know his story. I wanted to know where he was coming from, where he was going, how he became blind, and how in the world he knows when to get off the bus, or which bus is his to get on in the first place. I don't think those are things I would have wondered about as a teenager.

If I hadn't slept in so late today, I was planning to go to the Farmer's Market. I wanted to work up the nerve to buy three or four cinnamon rolls and bring them to the homeless guys who hang out on the corner outside a Novel Idea bookstore.

After I went to Open Harvest, I walked down the street to a new coffee shop that opened recently. It's called Cultiva Coffee, and it's locally owned by this guy named Jonathan. I've met him a couple of times selling his coffee at the farmer's market, and decided to check out the store. He roasts and grinds his own organic, fair-trade beans daily on the premises. And he's, from what I can tell, a one-man shop. It's the smallest, most grass-roots little joint I've ever been into--and also one of the most pleasant. And the coffee--oh is it good. It's the only coffee I can drink straight, no cream or sugar. But you could tell that Jonathan does everything--roasts and grinds the coffee, keeps the books, does the advertising, mixed my iced toddy to perfection, and scoops the UNL Dairy Store ice cream he sells in his shop. The store's open 7 a.m.-5 p.m. Tuesday-Saturday. Seems like the guy might be a bit over-worked, but he was clearly passionate about what he does: making good coffee at a fair price, both to the people who grow it and for the people who enjoy it. You can tell he loves his coffee. But I wanted to walk up to him and say, "Hey, friend, you need a hand? Can I sweep a floor for you or something? Take over that laminating of ads you're doing in between customers? Wipe down tables?" (Also, for the first time in my life, I briefly considered leaving a stranger my number. He was cute. No wedding ring. I refrained/was too chicken. And I wonder if I've finally crossed the line of giving out too much information on my blog with this little tidbit.)

My rambling, thready point, which I've made several times on this blog lately, is that growing up is good. I loved being a teenager, and I still love being with teenagers, but I love even more where I am now. I like these thought processes that didn't exist for me seven or eight or even three years ago. I like that I think about people and their stories, and that I choose to take a mode of transportation that allows my life to intersect with others whose are different than mine. I like that I can wear a strappy tank top all around town today without being self-concious. I like that I'm aware enough of my environment to recycle almost more than I throw away. I like that I like that I think my short hair is cool and cute, even if no one else does.

Good gracious, if I can only remember this feeling come February, I'll be in good shape. Remind me, will you?