I was born in a small town, probably die in that same small town...

Ok, neither of those things is true. But it's difficult to find song lyrics that represent 'I was born in an economically challenged neighbourhood in one of America's largest cities, but later moved to a succession of small towns and communities...'

Anyway, Baltimore has a number of nicknames. Charm City is only one of them. The other is Smalltimore. So named because, apparently, you can't throw a rock in that town without hitting someone you went to high school with. Everywhere you go, you run into somebody you know or somebody who knows somebody you know or vice versa. Forget six degrees of separation, in Baltimore there are only two.

I'm learning every day that the same is true of Wellington, which I've now nicknamed Smallington. Yesterday, I was finishing up my first week in my fancy new job in the Beehive and heading to some fancy meeting with fancy press people. So I walk into a Very Important Person's office and what to my wondering eyes did appear but a ghost from a life long past and better left forgotten. There before me sat the pseudo-stepmother of the boy who abandoned me with a note. Oh, yes, internet - one of the cast of characters from everybody's favourite Greek tragedy did show up into my life again.

I have to say, both parties were taken aback, although she probably moreso than me. I've never actually seen her flustered. And it became clear to me that this woman had been given a biased version of events that likely involved me being batshit nuts. Which is both unfair and untrue, but also completely unavoidable.

Since the meeting involved three other people not privy to past events, we both sat there awkwardly deciding whether to acknowledge the fact that we knew each other. Ultimately, I broke the ice, making a few pointed comments to let her know that, yes, I recognised her and no, I was not going to flee or hide or feel anything resembling shame. I think she was most surprised by this - the completely normal response of a completely normal person.

And I know it shouldn't, but man that pisses me off. The one and only remaining thing that bothers me about the Douchebag Incident of Aught Eight is that these people continue to labour under the misapprehension that I am weak and/or crazy. Of course, there's nothing to be done about it. I've learned two things through this whole experience that have almost made the whole thing worth it.

One, you cannot be responsible for anyone else's bad behaviour.

Two, no one can make you feel inferior without your permission.

In the end, I tucked my crazy hair behind one ear, walked back to my fancy new office, and decided that neither she nor he nor any other member of that damaged brood has my permission. Not anymore.