Why our eyes are in the front.

Exposure therapy is therapy in which a patient is exposed to that which frightens them most. I'm no licensed therapist, but it certainly makes sense to me. Once you confront your greatest fear head-on, and walk away unharmed, it no longer has any power over you.

In this spirit, I present:

Eighth Grade Kendall. Here I am, about to catch the bus to lead me into the lion's den that was Whitford Middle School. It was the first day of eighth grade, and I had picked this outfit carefully.

It consists of:

• Carefully curled bangs.
• Braces with colored bands that were some tastefully subtle combination of green and pink; purple and blue; or teal and black.
• Over-sized sweater from the Gap. Tucked in (against all reason) and belted with a braided leather belt--also Gap.
• Worst. Jeans. Ever. From the Limited Too. Worst. Ever.
• Brand-new white shoes (more than just a little orthopedic).
  
• Exceedingly fragile self-esteem.

I have tried to explain to people why I am sometimes the victim of doubt, shyness, or extreme sensitivity. The secret lies with those terrible pants, that tucked sweater, the awkward pose.

But, by showing this to the world (or, to my twelve followers, which, by the way, 12!! Now we're cooking with gas!), I am taking the sting out of such an awkward, uncomfortable past.

It used to hurt, a little, to come to Portland. I used to hit the city-limits, and morph into the anxious, uncertain, brace-face above. It seemed like a past I wanted to ignore, and couldn't avoid when I was home. Now, I think I've been looking at it all wrong.

First, she's pretty endearing, right? Isn't she someone you want to put your arm around, and explain to her about the value of plain-colored braces, the optional nature of tucking and belting, and the importance, with jeans especially, of a well-suited rise? I hope she's endearing, because in a lot of important ways, I am totally still her.

Second, Portland is home to some people who knew this thirteen year old, and still want to hang out with her: my parents, obviously, who probably ought to have stepped in with some fashion advice, but I forgive them; good friends from the old days, who also could've stepped in, but no matter; and my brothers--though, I admit it has taken a while to convince them I can, in fleeting but dazzling instances, be cool.

Third, our eyes are conveniently located in the front of our heads, which I take to mean that probably, more of my energy needs to be spent on looking forward, and not worrying overly much about the past. Even though coming home usually requires you to consider your past (ie, I've had to drive past my old high school maybe twenty-five times since I got here), loosening up on such retrospection has allowed me to have a brilliantly good time while I've been home.

Tomorrow, I'll be back in Moscow, writing from my little spider-house on the Palouse. I'm packing up my plants, my blog, and all my clean laundry, and I'm headed home. But I'll be leaving home tomorrow too.

Profoundly yours,
Kendall