Some say drunk. I say mature.

Back in high school I was equal parts in awe of and terrified by the kids we called, “goth.”   I remember “Joanie,” as looking like Hot Topic personified: Manic Panicked hair, pierced septum, chains and Doc Martens.  As far as I could tell she never smiled and used the same black makeup on her eyes, lips and nails.  I imagined she either didn’t have parents or had killed them long ago and now supported herself by selling hand-rolled cigarettes.  This girl was 94 pounds of pure intimidation and she scared the crap out of me.  A couple years ago my boyfriend was working at McCormack’s (a rough-and-tumble former bar frequented by a clientele upon which I will not comment, except to say that I would hesitate to bring my mother or my parole officer there.  It was not for the faint of heart, and I miss it desperately) and I realized that one of the regulars was Joanie, looking significantly less punk.  It took me a few sightings to work up the nerve to say hello.  She didn’t remember me but that didn’t lessen her enthusiasm for our shared history.  We had a long conversation during which she smiled, laughed and hugged me with genuine affection.  By the end of the night she was introducing me to people, saying, “I grew up with this girl, and she is awesome!”  Now some observant folks may correctly point out that in McCormack’s heyday the Jameson flowed like water and that Joanie and I were probably fueled by liquid love.  Fair enough.  But I like to think of it more as maturity.  You get older and more comfortable in your own skin and a little thing like a shiny Mohawk of spiked cranial piercings isn’t quite as intimidating.  It’s easier to see the person underneath.  Although the Jameson does help quite a bit.