It may not surprise you to learn that I was a nerd in high school.

While my classmates were drinking beer and swimming at the abandoned quarry outside of town, I was in summer school studying solid geometry, because when it came to Euclidean theorems, two dimensions were just not enough for me.

The next summer, while my classmates were hanging out at the Frostee Freeze, I was attending a journalism institute at Indiana University. I won the top prize in copywriting, but this achievement did nothing to advance my social status, while the fact that Diane came back to school with a big hickey, courtesy of the basketball team captain, skyrocketed her to the top of the social register.

I'm not saying I was unpopular. I had friends. I was invited to a couple of slumber parties, which in those days were gigglefests that included eating popcorn, watching scary movies, and calling boys on the phone and hanging up. I was always the first one to fall asleep, ensuring that someone would put my bra in the freezer.

I had high hopes for college. As anyone who has started over in a new school knows, it is an opportunity to reinvent yourself. You can leave your reputation back in your hometown and start over with a fresh identity. In my case, I was going to be more outgoing, more social, and generally less nerdy. I might even find a boyfriend.

Alas, the college I chose was a Midwestern bastion of elitism

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where I inevitably fell in with a crowd of girls who had all been the first to fall asleep at slumber parties. We spent Saturday nights at the dorm, singing mournful folk songs, while our popular neighbors got drunk at frat parties.

I transferred to another school and in the anonymity afforded by a large university 2,000 miles from home, I set out to craft a self-image that was more romantic: a laid-back, long-haired, barefoot hippie — the quintessential '70s girl.

Here's the problem with trying to re-invent yourself at that age: You feel like everyone is watching. Every time I walked across the quad, I just knew that all eyes were on me. If I had a pimple, if my hair was frizzy, if my jeans were not faded enough, I was self-conscious. It was excruciating.

Is there anything more self-centered than a teenager? In those days, it was all about me. The rest of the world, with nothing more important to think about, was constantly judging me and finding me wanting.

So here I am in retirement, and once again I have the opportunity to reinvent myself, with the added pressure that I have only so much time left.

But here's the beauty of it: This time, there's no peer pressure. I have lost the need to conform or compete with others. I know the world won't stop turning if I get a pimple. In fact, it's like I'm invisible. I can do, be and say whatever I want — and people, if they notice at all, will write it off to eccentricity.

I no longer care what people think because I'm no longer under the delusion that people think about me. Leaving behind the insecurities of youth feels like getting out of prison.

I don't yet know exactly what my reinvented self will look like, but I do know this: There's nobody waiting to catch me napping so they can stuff my bra in the freezer.

Write to Mary at P.O. Box 7093, San Carlos, 94070.