A couple things happened recently that make me realize how far I’ve come since I was that incredibly sensitive, painfully self-conscious Younger Me.

1. My Elderly Relative completely lost his temper; his rage boiled up out of nowhere and he snapped pretty viciously at me. And it affected me, well, not at all. It was a surprise, more than anything — he is the nicest, most even-tempered human on the planet, usually. But his dementia, mounting frustration at himself, and annoyance at my naggyness just boiled over. Who can blame him? I’d lose my shit, too. Since I’m aware of the mitigating circumstances of the outburst, I didn’t let it affect me. But it’s still noteworthy that it didn’t — I used to crumble apart at the slightest hint of a raised voice (thanks, pop!)
2. A woman came up to me after a workout class and informed me, discreetly, that my leggings weren’t, um, as opaque as I thought — the back row could see every detail of my backside. And the embarrassment (em-bare-ass-ment) factor was about a 1 for me. Eh, what can you do? We’re all anonymous, toiling women in our crappy baggy tee shirts and sneakers. And I’m grateful she told me — now I know! The Younger Me would have burned with shame and quite possibly quit that gym out of the horror of it all.

I wish I were on more of an even keel in general (and I’d love to see the end of Weepy Frustration), but it’s nice to get occasional indicators that I act like a goddamn grownup sometimes.