Promise of a New Year

2019!

This year I will wrap up another decade of my life. Fifty certainly seems old on paper. But my middle-aged dreams and goals feel as fresh as the dreams of my twenty-year-old self. I traveled back to my junior year in college to compare my thoughts. The similarities are uncanny.

1990 Stef: Celebrate 21 with a bang. In Iowa City! A party! Bar crawl! College pals! 21 42 pitchers of beer. (Laura turning 21 too. Yay!).
2019 Stef: Celebrate 50. Maybe.

1990 Stef: Figure out a summer job.
2019 Stef: Figure out a summer job... for Cole.

1990 Stef: Find a cute bikini AND wear as much as possible at the beach.
2019 Stef: Find a swimsuit that doesn't look ridiculous. Wear only on vacation in a location far, far away from here.

1990: Find true love.
2019: Celebrate 25 years of true love.

1990 Stef: Get tan as quickly as possible. Begin in May no matter how chilly.
2019 Stef: Avoid skin cancer. Wear pants.

1990 Stef: Lose five pounds.
2019 Stef: Lose five pounds.

1990 Stef: Scrounge up some money for beer and cookies.
2019 Stef: Limit beer. Limit cookies. Scrounge up some money for Spanx.

1990 Stef: Keep the rock star dream alive.
2019 Stef: Sing loud in car.

1990 Stef: Figure out a prestigious career! Add a major? 
2019 Stef: Get out of my basement office once in a while.

1990 Stef: Be the best person you can be! Study! Exercise! Eat healthy!
2019 Stef: Be a good person. Make a difference in others' lives.

I have always loved the hope that comes with a New Year. While my observations are somewhat facetious and somewhat sincere, there's one thing that never has changed – my desire to become a better person.

My 2019 resolutions are simple, but great: to love with all of my heart and find joy every day. I'm sure I would not have professed anything like that as a twenty-year-old. My 1990 New Year's Resolution was probably something like "Get a new hairstyle! Bigger bangs!" And that's okay. My compass has changed. Thank God. But there's a big part of me that hasn't changed: my hopeful spirit, still burning bright as ever. 

Wishing you all have a wonderful and peaceful 2019!

1990: Fun and Friends.

2019: Fun and Family.

#pigtails

I’m not sure when it began, but something tells me it has to do with Pippi Longstocking. Or Cindy Brady. But for as long as I can remember, I’ve had a penchant for pigtails. Now that my hair has grown out again, I’m asking myself…well? Gonna do it?

The option of pigtailing my daughter’s hair was stunted early in my motherhood. Her tender scalp and vociferous objections made brushing nearly impossible. Anything beyond a gentle finger comb was received with a scolding from a very articulate 3-year-old. Obviously, this was disappointing. I mean, all of those years of practicing on my Crissy doll were basically a waste of time.

Periodically, my now college-age girl, will let me play with her hair–as long as she has no plans of going out or seeing anyone worthwhile, which I don't understand because the pigtails are simply smashing on her. Hardly any difference in the cute factor when comparing her toddler days and now.

I did that hair.

I did that hair.

Yet, the jury is still out how the pigtails projects on a middle-ager. At one time, I know I rocked it:

One of my more photogenic moments.

But what about now?

Once when I was in college, my mother had taken me shopping and I was on a mission to purchase a pair of Keds tennis shoes. As we sorted through style options, Mom excitedly pulled out a pair of red ones. Red ones? I specifically remember telling my mother I was much too old for such ostentatiousness. And I was at the age when you can get away with ostentatious! Twenty-years old? I should’ve been wearing those red tennis shoes with a bikini. Sure, I've always leaned on the conservative side, but I think back to that story (and many others) and realize how early insecurities are formed. And it obviously wasn't coming from my mother who was pushing the red shoes.

Thus, the debate of my pigtailed-self continues. Should I or shouldn’t I? Maybe I should fast-forward forty years when I’m 87. I’ll think back to that day when I was 47, and I’ll say, “Of course you should’ve done the damn pigtails! You were only a kid then!”

Okay. Maybe. At least, around the house for a start.

Pippi, eat your heart out.

Eating Licorice

While an abundance of issues are worthy of a blog post (the power of giving, the fiscal cliff, watching Lincoln and Twilight in the same week), today I stumbled on to a topic that hasn't received nearly enough commentary: chewing licorice.

When we are kids, we can eat candy without thinking too much about decorum. We gobble it down, and chunks of bright, hardened sugar circle our lips, then residue tends to journey towards our ears. A few lucky pieces will make it into our hair until Mom finds it in a brush and must scissor it out. But it's all kind of funny. Heck, it's cute! With a bit of a finger wag, and a repressed smile, we are told, "Chew with your mouth closed."

Then we grow a little older. If you're a girl, and you turn into a teenager, eating candy can be seen as something sensual. Eating licorice is not only acceptable, but it might even be encouraged by some twisted, or not so twisted male. One temptress might twirl the licorice, play with it in her mouth, or use it as a straw for soda before deciding to actually nibble at it. Ahh, isn't that...sweet? Whether you think it's sweet, sexy, or unremarkable, it's probably not gross.

Then, you turn forty.

Today I spent the day at a Creighton basketball game with a fifth-grade girl I mentor for the Teammates Program. As we began to snack on our concessions, a small horror overtook me as I began to chew on my licorice. As the candy began its descent into my throat, I remembered how I've been known to choke on the red stuff. And since I wasn't around the familiar territory of family, I slowed my mastication way down so that the candy was practically water before I swallowed. Obviously, the joy of candy has lost its luster. So, under the pretense of benevolence, I gave out most of the damn Twizzlers. Truthfully, I just didn't want puke on anyone.

While the Blue Jays were beating Akron, I had an epiphany. Older ladies (defined as over forty) shouldn't eat candy in public. It's not becoming. Okay, okay. Maybe that's a little harsh. I don't want to discriminate. Older men (also defined as over forty) should follow the same rule. I've witnessed my husband inhale Milk Duds a time or two. And for any of you that think I'm particularly intolerant, think about the health repercussions. Not making a fool of oneself eating candy, in public, might reduce the overall sugar consumption and perhaps prevent type II diabetes.

So, next time I'm at the movie, I will consider my plan. Then I'll most likely remember, with glee, the darkness in the theater. And tell my husband to go ahead with the large pack of Milk Duds and medium popcorn to share. We geezers will choke our snacks down together. Not so sure I'll be delaying the diabetes.