Seventeen

I'm often quite surprised at my life.

This past week marked four years of my high school graduation. I remember it pretty well. I wore a black and white dress with peep-toe herringbone heels. We took almost no pictures, which I actually regret now. At that time, I wore an argyle sweater at least once a week and I thought skinny jeans were the worst thing to happen to women with hips. I listened to a lot of Mayday Parade. 

My plans four years ago included going to BYU (check), and studying something completely different than history that I refuse to admit out of embarrassment. I planned for a full four years to finish college. I secretly wanted to join the Peace Corps. I set a goal to read the Barnes & Noble list of classics, which I'm still working on and probably won't finish until the day I die.

Perhaps, the thing I remember most about 4 years ago was just how afraid I was. My parents can attest that I was a total baby as I approached college. I sobbed the night before I left (and the night before I went back after my first semester). I was a wimp.

Me at seventeen would never have moved to Virginia.

Thank heaven our life isn't determined by what we think and want at seventeen.