This week I ironed my kitchen curtains. This may not seem like a big deal, but I hung the curtains last year when I moved to Montana. I noticed they needed to be pressed, but my laziness won out. I figured the wrinkles would hang out, but they didn’t.

For the past year, I’d walk in the kitchen, see the wrinkles, and think, “I really should iron those curtains. . .. Nah, the wrinkles will hang out.”

The fact that I did finally iron my curtains a year after purchasing and hanging them is a testament to my belief that gravity would serve better than a hot iron or to my sheer dislike of ironing. I think the latter is probably true.

But now my non-wrinkly kitchen curtains serve as a reminder that I have been here in Dillon for a year, and it makes me wonder, How have I changed this past year?

I’m a few pounds lighter (thanks to having had whooping cough in January) but in better shape because of the fabulous spin and pilates instructors at the YMCA.

My hair is a little longer and darker as it is no longer baked and fried daily by the blistering Texas sun.

I’m single. This time last year I was dating the now infamous Dodging Badger Blake, and today, the dating landscape looms before me looking, as someone once described my butt, like the great plains….flat and wide.

I know more people. Last year I didn’t know anyone here. This year, I can’t cruise the aisles of Safeway without running into new friends who are astonished by the amount of Smarties I buy on a weekly basis.

I am willing to drive great distances for good food. Last year a trip to Bozeman just for shopping and dinner was unthinkable (two hours for Target and Applebee’s?Bah!). Now, two hours in the car flies by as I chant, “Dave’s Sushi, Dave’s Sushi.”

I have a different outdoor wardrobe. Last year, I owned nothing by Patagonia. This year, well, let’s just say the outlet store could, in fact, be subsidized single-handedly by me.

I am more careful with the written word. This time last year I published my first column in the Tribune, and if I knew then what an uproar my use of a word for feces that rhymes with “curd” would cause, would I still have published this column?

I’ve thought about this a lot. I’ve thought about how difficult it was for me to move to a new place where I didn’t know anyone for the first high stakes job of my academic career.

At first, I didn’t make my life any easier by publishing this column. The double-stitched knots in my stomach that appeared each week as I perused the “Letters to the Editor” section looking for cries of outrage from the Dillon citizenry gently untied themselves as more and more people approached me (on the street, in the doctor’s office, at the grocery store) and told me how much they enjoyed the column.

I’m not a person who prefers the easy way out, so I believe even if I had known last year what I know now about the initial reaction to this column, I would have done it.

I think publishing this column was worth the risk of intestinal distress because writing it made me get out and experience Dillon.

So what have I learned about living in Dillon this past year?

I’ve learned that a commute within the city limits will almost always take me by Bad Ass Coffee Company, whose presence I’m sure still irritates certain Dillonites but never fails to make me chuckle as I think about all the bad publicity that most certainly drove customers TO not FROM the store.

I’ve learned that City Council meetings are never dull, especially when they involve graffiti, recall petitions, and bib overalls.

I’ve learned that the few Fridays a year Great Harvest Bread Company opens its doughy doors for charity sales are fabulous beginnings to carb-a-licious weekends.

I’ve learned that pick-up trucks in Dillon come with several options: A/C, cruise, or a dog in the back.

And most importantly, I’ve learned that in order to be a part of a town like Dillon, I must be an active member of the community.

Joining the YMCA, the Arts Council, the Dillon Book Club, and the Kicking Country Cloggers gave my social calendar a much-needed boost and also afforded me the opportunity to socialize with people not directly associated with my job.

A year later I feel as if I am no longer a newcomer to Dillon but a member of its community. Sure, I’m still an outsider, like the fruity second cousin you have to invite to the wedding, but I’m beginning to learn the family secrets.