A Peak

Here is a peak into my past.

When I was six, I won a coloring contest for the Salt Lake Tribune. I carefully and methodically colored Simba, Nala and Mufasa all posed on Pride Rock, thinking to myself that a finer masterpiece not even Michaelangelo himself could have created. It was beautiful. I licked the envelope, carefully pressed my pudgey fingers to the white flap, applying all my weight to make sure it was doubly sealed shut. Then I worried and fretted for about a day and a half until I forgot all about the coloring contest. The only thing that brought the anxiety back into my frontal lobe was my mom, mentioning that a letter had come about it. But my anxiety was quickly turned into elation as she told me of my winning fate, and a season pass to Lagoon that would very shortly be mine.

I remember fifth grade. I missed picture day. Make-up picture day was the worst. Especially when you forgot it was make-up picture day and you wear your periwinkle turtleneck, have a smudge on your glasses, wear your necklace backwards and in attempt to look trendy, put your hair up in such a way that leaves you looking a little homeless. But the only thing worse than having to take pictures on make-up picture day is have to pick them up 3 weeks later. Suddenly you are in the limelight because everyone else in Mr. Bob's class has forgotten about theirs from two months ago and want to see yours. The homeless looking ones. But then you go to lunch, pay 30 cents for your small carton of chocolate milk and eat your homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Then you find your BFF Ashley and run out to the playground. Suddenly, your worries escape you. Life is once again, complete.

When I was 14, I went to my first stake dance. I wore my coolest looking outfit. A denim jean floor length skirt with a tan and toupee stripped three quarter length sleeved shirt with ties at the V-neck. I wobbled in and out of my three inch platform dress shoes thinking, "I look good." I flashed a smile, revealing my pearly whites being forced into place by those charming braces with orange and yellow rubber bands on each bracket carefully forming a coordinating pattern. I looked good. Thank goodness the gap in my teeth had finally closed. I painted a final coat of pink on my fingers and was ready to go, the butterflies in my stomach morphing into small pterodactyls. I walked into the dimly lit gym of my stake center ready to find love. After an hour of searching to no avail, I found comfort in my other single friends, Emily and Nicole. The despair nearly overcame me, and I vowed I would never find eternal love.  Suddenly, Ben, one of the seven highly attractive priests in our ward asked me to dance. Regretting the last handful of goldfish I had just consumed, which had most definitely given me cheddar breath, I danced blissfully in his arms, so happy that I couldn't think of how to make words come out of my mouth let alone produce intelligent ones. Each priest in our ward asked me to dance that night. It was fantastic. I later found out that one of the Mia Maids put them up to it, but I didn't care. Life had once again been good to me.

I have slightly different concerns now. I miss these days, awkwardness and all. My worries were so simple in comparison to rent, college and career. But the moral of each story is that in the end, it all works out. And guess what? It always will.