My mother collects my conformities like tokens.
She puts them in her purse to tell her friends about later.
Things like how I finally got a real boyfriend,
or that I bought a pair of dress pants from a real store.
I used to wish she cared more about my non-conformities,
could take pride in my ability to shop
like the queen of second hand
and be independent.
But now I am just happy we are getting along.