HOW I'VE CHANGED . . .

A series of conversations and moments of self-observation recently have led me to the stunning conclusion: I've changed in the past few years. A lot. I don't know what stupidity inside me found this stunning; after all, what a boring, one-dimensional, essentially silly and useless ignoramus I would be if I did not change at all in the course of several years. And I'm not even talking major changes, like I now have green hair or have turned Republican or something crazy like that. Besides, sometimes the more minor, seemingly insignificant changes have more impact and mean a little more about one's character. Por ejemplo ...

THEN: I used to be a real TV hog. From the moment I left home for college (Cheech and I "weren't allowed" to watch TV that much while growing up ... I put "weren't allowed" in quotes because of course we sneaked in some quality boob-tube time when the parents weren't home), every night of the week had an assigned show or series of shows that I had to watch. We'd sit in the dorm lounge watching our shows even on weekend nights, sipping wine or brewskies as we prepared to hit the town later on. I'd put aside all my schoolwork, and even show up late to meetings so that I could watch my programs. Even in law school, those drat outlines and all-important first-year grades took second chair to "Friends," "Law & Order," "The West Wing," and a whole slew of far less compelling programming. NOW: I'm hardly ever in front of the tube. Even when I'm home sick, I'd rather be catching up on sleep, or -- gasp! I'm a nerd! -- catching up on reading, or going out to meet friends for shopping trips or coffee or socializing. I still tune in for "The West Wing." Occasionally I'll catch "Law & Order" and I'm still kind of a sucker for the home-design shows like "While You Were Out" and "Trading Spaces" and "Designers' Challenge." But overall, my amazing ability to sit for hours in front of the TV and watch raptly has faded. I'm past my prime. Give me a few more years and I'll be one of those half-Mennonites listening to public radio only. Sigh.

THEN: I used to not care that much about personal hygiene. Don't get me wrong -- I wasn't a slob. I showered every day, and I tried to make myself semi-presentable to the viewing public. But I never plucked my eyebrows; I never took time to file my fingernails; and -- don't gag -- sometimes I wouldn't even shower after working out. And, if for some reason, we didn't have hot water in the house, not bathing was okay by me -- it simply meant more hours I could lay about on the couch, watching hours of stupid television. NOW: I need to bathe. I bring this up because our water heater is on the fritz, thanks to the chumps renovating our kitchen right now. For whatever Godforsaken reason, they tinkered with our boilers and now, we have officially run out of hot water. But no more going two days in a row without bathing for me. I'm going to shower tomorrow morning if I have to hop around in the shower screaming like a crazed woman and jump out with still-kind-of-soapy hair to rub myself raw with a towel and then blow-dry my body to restore normal internal temperature to do so. Damn it. And then I'll pluck my eyebrows, even though my pores will not have been opened by the steam from the shower. Ouch.

THEN: I used to think there was nothing as peachy and kind of retro-cool as living at home with the parents after a certain age. "Hey," I'd tell myself, "I'm saving money, I'm eating well, I'm helping my parents out with household stuff, I'm seeing them grow old, I'm spending quality time with them, and my parents are cool! I like living with them!" I even had romanticized notions of the eve of my marriage, and spending my last night as a single woman in my childhood bed in my childhood home, and perhaps even jumping into bed with my parents to cry a little bit before we let each other go. NOW: nothing about my parents have changed -- they are still ultra-cool and waaaay cooler than your parents. I still eat well, I'm still saving money, I'm still helping my parents out with household stuff, I'm still seeing them grow old. I'm not spending as much quality time with them, though, because I'm always going out to live my life. And the romanticized notions ... eh, that was cheesy and too "Little House on the Prairie" anyway. I need to move out, start my own life, get out on my own two feet even if I have to eat Spam and fried eggs every night to survive. My parents are great and they've been nothing but perfection to me ... but every girl has her day.

THEN: I hated learning. I always did reasonably well in school -- enough to move up to the next educational level or land a great job (praises only to God!) -- but I had no appreciation for the things I was learning or the fabulous teachers who were busting their butts to teach me. I went to school because I had to. And when school was over for the day or the year, or the moment I got my diploma, I shut down. No reading anything but books I wanted to read, no sitting in classrooms, no listening to lectures, no self-edification until the next time it was forced upon me. NOW: I am a big nerd. I devour non-fiction books, like biographies or social/demographic studies. I scour magazines and newspapers for local book readings or panel discussions or lectures on interesting topics. Heck, I read the newspaper ... no, I read four! I sign up for cooking classes and meekly do as the chef instructors lead me to do, even though I know how to julienne carrots already! I subscribe to Consumer Reports and heavily research every slightly-more-than-minor to major purchase I am about to make. I read the fine print. And the biggest change of all: I miss school. I miss learning, and being tested, and studying, and waking up in the morning realizing that I have used my brain and that I know something I did not know the morning before. It sounds so trite and insignificant, but in hindsight, that realization truly made me feel useful and capable. I need to recapture that, become a career student if necessary, or enter a PhD program, lest my brain atrophy and I return to my TV-glutton days ...

THEN: I used to love love love home accessories and decorations. All my dorm rooms and post-college apartments were simply cluttered with votive candles, picture frames, knick-knacks and tchotchkes ... and other random stuff. For some bizarre reason, I felt incomplete without every single one of my friends' faces grinning back at me from the confines of a picture frame; I needed dozens of tiny candles flickering around me to feel at-home; I needed to display all the little souvenirs and mini-gifts that meant anything to me, no matter how much dust they collected and how annoying it was to remove said dust. NOW: my tastes have simply changed, and it all needs to go away. All of it. The tiny votives are out; big pillar candles -- just one or two, thanks -- are in. The gazillion individual photo frames have got to go; the gallery frames have got to come in. The knick-knacks and tchotchkes need to be safely ensconced in a memory box or a display case; no more micro-scale dusting for me. When I set up my own home, I want everything out of sight, everything in a cabinet or bookcase or in a box, everything the same monotone color. I'm going to swing to the far end of the spectrum and go minimalist, minimalist, minimalist. And in case I don't live up to this proclamation, I'm going to recruit Soybean, my aspiring and all-knowing interior designer friend, to hold me to it.

THEN: I was really, overly idealistic. For the longest time, I thought that I could single-handedly change the world ... seriously. I thought I could be the President of the United States. I thought I could be the first Korean-American female astronaut to be shot up into space and be a stellar role model for Asian-American girls across the country. For several years, I wanted to be a defense attorney, helping to keep the wrongly-accused out of prison. I thought I could lead a team to Africa -- the whole continent, that is -- and eliminate hunger throughout the land. I thought I could sneak into North Korea, chat with Kim Jong-Il and convince him to give freedom and opportunity to his people and my family there. NOW: it's not that I don't want to do any of those things anymore. Of course, in my la-la-land musings, I think how cool it would be to be any of the above. But I'm also realizing ... none of those things are my calling. Ain't no way in hell I'd want to be President of this country -- too much pressure and noise, and too little leeway to actually do anything useful. The space program is shut down for now, and I'd have to learn physics and math (a true impossibility for me) to be shot up into space, so being an astronaut is out. I now think I could work more passionately for the public good as a prosecutor, so the whole defense thing probably wouldn't work out ... conflict of interest and all that. Going to Africa and solving their problems seems a selfish and lofty goal when there are so many more things that need to be done here. And Kim Jong-Il ... well, ain't no way of getting through to THAT lunatic, so I'm not even going to waste my time. No ... I won't do any of those, and I'm still refining what my calling is. I know that I still have somewhat idealistic goals: I want to be a good wife and mother and have a passionate marriage; I want to be active and loving and devoted in the lives of my family and friends; I want to do good work in the public service that makes my superiors, colleagues, underlings, mentees and others in my industry proud; I want to make small but consistent and constant moves to better the lives of strangers around me, whether through donating money or time, building a house, caring for children, being nice to them on the phone when they call chambers looking for help, letting their cars in front of me during gridlock traffic. But now, the goals are more realistic, more achievable. As with anything, it's baby steps, I'm just taking baby steps ...