Ignore my obvious discomfort with having this guy's arm around me (he was a good friend of mine that year, but now I have no idea what his name is) and take note of the thrift shop threads, mash of necklaces and handsewn purse that were my staples in my late teens/early twenties. I hated the idea of a new, unscuffed pair of shoes or jeans that were unfaded. I always wore an olive green cardigan. When one of them wore out, I'd go find another.

Yesterday, preparing for my much unwanted stint as a juror at Gresham Circuit Court, I realized I no longer own any funky clothes. I thought if I dressed a little weird they would be less likely to put me on the jury, but there was nothing I could do. Those days are gone. My last thrift store dress was tossed out last year. And yet, despite my entirely respectable outfit I sat in the court room and told two lawyers, a judge and all my fellow jurors that I have an inherent distrust of the police. That girl with the shaved head and moth-eaten sweater would have been proud.