I’ve changed in the last three years. Here are some examples.

Behind a Slow driver:
Old-Me: Listen motherfucker, some of us have lives. Stop taunting me, or I will go road rage on you, I shit you not (pretty sure I stole part of that from “Shawshank Redemption”).
Now-Me: He could be on prescription medication. He could have been dropped on his head as a baby. He could be lost, geriatric, confused. He could be re-enacting the first driving scene in “Driving Miss Daisy.” He could be my father in a stolen car.

Dealing with Tourists:
Pre-Me: Don’t you people have lives other than to come to our little barrier island, clog up the streets and the beaches, and leave your trash all over the place? And why do your kids scream all of the time? If they’re not having fun, take them the hell home. Christ. And by the way, you all wear too much perfume and cologne, and none of you know how to dress. And your dogs are ugly.
Now-Me: I think it’s great that I live in a place so beautiful and tranquil that every registered Pennsylvania voter makes a pilgrimage here every weekend for three months. What an honor to live on such a safe, beautiful island that people visit from all over the country just to make family memories. I welcome you with open arms and heart.

Looking at old, haggard lady on the beach, with droopy breasts and flat ass jammed into a fluorescent orange string bikini, accentuating her wrinkly saggy skin:
Pre-Me: Your face looks like the saddle I sat in for a week in Iceland. That’s because there is a point where you’re no longer tan but stained. You can’t pull off that bathing suit. And oh, now that I see you closer up, I see you’re not 70, but 35. Ever hear of the deleterious effects of too much UV radiation?
Now-Me: Age is just a number. Wear what you want, life is short. If people don’t like how you look, they can just look in another direction. God, people are assholes thinking they can tell women what to wear, how to look….

Muscle Car Driver, coming alongside me at a light, revving his engine:
Pre-Me: You think you can take me and my Chevrolet Equinox, motherfucker? Bring it. Let’s fucking roll.
Now-Me: Hey asshole, have fun getting in front of me at the turn just to sit at the same light I will be sitting at down the road.

Guy sitting on the deck of a five-million-dollar beach house:
Pre-Me: If you can afford that house, why are you wearing Crocs?
Now-Me: Your frugal money sense when purchasing plastic footwear certainly has benefited you, since now you can use all the money you saved on that expensive house. Well done.

Guy in Rolls Royce convertible staring at me as I walk my dog:
Pre-Me: Yeah, nice car, cocksucker. But how big is your dick?
Now-Me: Nice car. How big is your dick?

Woman who told me to get my doggo off her grass:
Pre-Me: Your grass sucks. My dog is awesome.
Now-Me: Yes, ma’am.

I wouldn’t say I was hated. For instance, I used to have a small group of friends who I don’t think would have run me over with their cars. I like to think they might have swerved to miss me. But there were plenty of others who would have hit me, head-on, if they were sure they could get away with it. They would have done it with a smile, and as they watched my body’s final death-rattle in their rearview mirror, would have discussed where to celebrate my demise with pomegranate martinis.

This doesn’t bother me to think of now, much as it didn’t bother me to think of then. I’ve always understood people’s often-times, shall we say hostile, reaction to me. As a journalist, it came in the form of hate mail and criticism. As a teacher, student vitriol. As a mother, screams of frustration and anger in reaction to my supposed “unfairness.” Yes, I would think in all three situations. Hatred, vitriol and frustration- it meant I was doing my job.

What brought about this change could fill a book, and will be revealed slowly through my posts.

Patience, my friends.