The Funny Thing About A Ponytail

On Sunday evening, Brett and I were preparing to go over to a friends' house for a night of NCAA basketball watching. As it was Sunday, of course I had spent most of the afternoon napping on the couch and woke up with some extreme nap hair. Since it was a static mess and I had been wearing it in a low messy bun all morning, I pulled the whole wad of hair—which desperately needs to be trimmed—into a high ponytail. 

I reapplied some concealer to cover my nap eyes and shrugged at the disheveled girl in the mirror. 

Back in the living room, I told Brett I was ready to go. He gave me a double take. 

“You look good. That is a really good ponytail.” 

I couldn’t have looked more like High School Lindsay if I had tried. The jeans, t-shirt and zip-up hoodie was classic. Many of my closest friends had never even seen me without my hair in a ponytail. I looked 16 again—and told Brett as much.

“You forget—that’s the girl I fell in love with.” 

I was recently shopping at Sears and absentmindedly picked up a bottle of Adidas Moves cologne. A smile twitched on my lips—I miss Brett wearing that rich scent. We’re seventeen and still getting to know each others' hearts. We're on a coach bus traveling after a basketball game, or in a hotel room in Kansas City with our high school choir. And he smelled so good. 

It's funny what reminds us of the time when we fell in love—ponytails or good cologne.

Extra Ordinary

She wasn't beautiful in the traditional sense. In fact, "plain" was the perfect adjective to describe nearly everything about her. Maybe "average" would do.

She was a blue-eyed blonde, but not in a sexy lifeguard kind of way. More like a trim librarian. She fit squarely in the middle of height and weight, exactly average for her age. A middle child with no distinguishing traits--no birthmarks, no exotic features, no dimples.

The only remarkable thing about Jane was just how incredibly ordinary she was. She often received comments on her appearance--not catcalls from men in passing vehicles or the offer to buy her drinks--just simple comments telling her how much she looked like a stranger's cousin, or childhood best friend, or college roommate. She received these comments so often that Jane was convinced she must have hundreds of doppelgangers spread across the world. And she continually pitied these stranger's cousins, childhood best friends, and college roommates for how ordinary their appearance--and life--must be.

Things

If spring would finally show up in Minnesota, I think we would all be a little bit happier. I am very tired of getting stuck at the end of the driveway, scraping windows, and cold. I want to wear sundresses, open-toe shoes, and highlight my hair blonde. I’m bored with my winter clothes—if I were wearing any more brown and black today, I would actually be a tree.

Some things I’m loving:

> It’s play season. The kids are still excited, and I’m a happy director.
> Good nail polish. I rarely paint my nails because I’m a picker. It never stays on for more than a few days (okay, hours) before I cave and just pick it all off. But once every few years I rediscover this great deep pink color that’s just so perfect I leave it for a full week before picking it off.
> Day light savings time. Everyone has been complaining about the “spring ahead” this weekend, but my body was so ready. I’ve been so exhausted by 8:30 or 9 p.m. every night, and pretty wide awake (for me at least) by 6 or 7 a.m. I was ready for the shift. Even with a two and a half hour nap yesterday, I slept beautifully all night.

Some things I hate:

> I have literally had a cold for the last four months. It will not go away. My poor sinuses are exhausted and constantly in pain.

> Snow/cold. I probably covered this in the opening. But for real, I’m sick of it. I just want it to be summer. With popsicles and sunburn.

> Percy Harvin. Okay, I don’t actually hate him. But I’m annoyed with how his trade went down.

Some things I’ve been thinking about:

> How life works—the difference between nature/science and coincidence and God’s will. It’s a deep thought, something I will probably unravel a bit in a later post. But it’s so abstract and all-consuming right now that it needs some more pondering.

> Confidence—do you act a certain way (confident) or do certain things because you feel confident, or do you do certain things to force yourself to feel confident when you need to act that way? For instance, Tiger Woods says he wears red and black when he’s feeling confident—so when he’s not feeling confident, does he (or could he) wear red and black to help boost confidence?

> Blessings. This weekend Brett and I had a short but deep conversation over Arby’s curly fries about how blessed we are and our desire to give back.

And the big news of the week: I’ve convinced Brett to come with me to donate blood on Wednesday. It will be his first time donating, and I’ll be getting my gallon pin! I’m proud of him for finally facing his irrational fear about this, but a little sad because of the extenuating circumstances that finally pushed him to do it.

Share yours!

High School

I am a blog reader. There are about 15 blogs I check daily, others I try to keep up on when I remember they exist. It interests me to know what other people find important in their lives to write about. Many just report their day's activities. While I occasionally want to do that here (mostly so I can read this in the future and remember how I spent my time), I am often interested in the things people ponder daily. The things they find interesting enough to dissect and sculpt into a blog post.

One blogger I've found recently and enjoy reading is Jen ten Haaf. I don't remember how I found her exactly, but I've begun reading because I feel a connection with her. we are similar in age and life situation. She leads a much more interesting and adventurous life than my own, and I do enjoy living vicariously through others.

Her most recently blog entry held this gem that I felt needed repeating:

"One of the things that, if you step into a high school years after you stopped attending regularly, you notice immediately is the sameness of it all. the way there are those girls, tall, thin, and beautiful, who manage to find each other and become each others' best friends. The strange way that they scout each other out in second grade is incredible...and consistent. And there's the athletes. The guys who date the tall, thin, beautiful girls and they become best friends too. Then there are the kids who will grow up to be everyone's bosses."

This is the truth I've wanted to write about recently. I spend a lot of time with high school students, as their coach, their director, and as a coach's wife. I watch their interactions with each other and with me. Most of the students were in early elementary school when I attended their high school nearly a decade ago. They remember me (or a skewed version of me, as I was a senior and they were mere second graders). I try to be a good coach and mentor, remembering how powerful those influences were to me when I was 17.

I see myself in them, and they don't realize it. they never saw me insecure about my height. Or weight. Or hair. They didn't realize that, despite what they saw at school, I was anxious, self-conscious, and full of doubt about who I was and what I was doing. I agonized over my college applications, panicked about my ACTs. Brett and I struggled through our relationship in high school, through ugly fights and tears--just like every couple in high school. They never saw that--they only see us as a happy married couple, high school sweethearts who made it work.

High school just seems like a never-ending loop. Sure there are different students, teachers, fashion, and technology. But it's really all the same. It's the same type of kids--the pretty girls, the athletes, the nerds. The moments of blinding insecurity and the moments of glory.

I try to teach my kids to enjoy high school. That while it feels so all-consuming, so important, that it's fleeting. High school contained some of the best times of my life. And many of the worst. It's hard to tell them it gets better--in ways, it does. But in many ways, it stays the same.

In many ways, life is in the same loop as high school--the pretty girls, the athletes, the nerds--they're all still at your job, many in the same roles (although the nerd is definitely your boss. Or your IT guy. Either way, he's super important, so be nice to him).

I want to teach my girls that they are beautiful. Despite the days they hate their thighs, hate their hair, hate their nose--they are beautiful. Embrace it. In seven years, they will long for their athletic, volleyball body. I try to teach the boys to respect their girlfriends, and friends who are girls. Respect their boundaries, respect their bodies, and respect themselves.

There are so many things I wish I could tell my high school self (starting with lay off the eyeliner!). But since I can't, I try to tell these precious souls who are growing up now--dealing with the best of times and worst of times, that the scary loop of high school with both end and continue forever.

An Anniversary

Two years ago today I started a new job—I was totally unqualified and still in shock that I had been hired. I wrote about my crazy interview here. Honestly, when I think about how that interview went, and knowing my now co-workers who were in there, I still can’t believe they hired me. I often wonder about the others they interviewed—did they vomit on the table? Or drop out of high school? I was that shocked when I got a phone call offering me the job only a few hours after my second interview—the one with the President of the organization, a former congressman. The one where I accidentally mentioned I didn’t vote for him when he ran for Governor—because I was only 14 at the time.

I was (and am still) immensely grateful that they hired me—for whatever they saw in me. It meant I could stop commuting 30 minutes each way. Old Highway 14, horrible two-lane interstate with cornfields on either side, allowed snow to whip across unhindered, creating a virtual blizzard every day, even when it wasn’t snowing. I hated that drive. I wasn’t too fond of working for a bi-weekly newspaper, covering mundane events of a small town where I didn’t even live. I was constantly out of ideas for stories. Most of the ones suggested to me were just local reprints of something published by our sister newspaper—the paper from the town where I did live.

I swore it would be my last time working in the newspaper world (although I’m pretty sure I said that after my previous newspaper job), but I was grateful for it at the time. That newspaper had taken me on as a temporary reporter, ending my seven-month unemployment—I hadn’t had a full-time job since graduating college. We were dipping into our savings, spending more than we were earning just to make our monthly payments. We lived in a basement cave and ate a whole lot of mac and cheese.

Those were good months, our first few of marriage, but I was grateful to be working. And even more grateful when I landed my current job—something I could actually begin to call a career.

It’s been a rocky two years. Like every job, there were days when I began to hate it, convinced I could never be happy here. But there are many more days when I feel productive, creative, and like I’m really contributing to the greater good. I do believe in my foundation’s mission. I want to see communities grow and thrive, businesses successful, and children prepared to learn. It’s good to know that I have a reason to get up every day—that I would be missed if I didn’t work here.

Write Every Day

Write every day. 

That's what every professor said. What every writing book says. What authors say. 

I try, but sometimes I'm empty. 

Many of my college friends seem to skirt around this by blogging something they wrote during their Northwestern days. A poem they sketched for a daily assignment, or a longer, edited, personal piece.

I still hate 90% of what I wrote during college. I didn't like it then and it hasn't been improved. I felt like I never had enough time or enough drafts to clean up a piece to where I truly loved it—loved every single word choice, was committed to every metaphor, and trusted its aesthetic. 

College is long behind me now, and theoretically at least, everything I write now is endless. There are no deadlines; I don't have to commit to a piece being "finished." And that's a problem of its own. I have no one forcing me to rush up four flights of stairs to turn in my personal essay as Hougen's packing her bag for the night. No one is expecting my work. 

This blog houses most of the creative work I do—which is admittedly, not very much.

Maybe someday—this week even?—as I force myself to write every day, I'll add something creative.

One of these days

There are days that I wake up late, stunned and scrambled. I can't find matching socks. I don't own a single shirt that matches any of my pants. I'm darting between bathroom and bedroom, forgetting one thing in each room on every trip. I brush my eye with the mascara wand. My elbow meets the doorway with a painful thud. There is only one pair of shoes in my entire closet that will work with my outfit and I can only find the left one. I spit toothpaste on my scarf. My sleeve is dipped in milk. My cell phone is missing, and I leave my wedding ring on the bathroom counter, so my ring finger feels scandously naked all day.

And then there are days like yesterday. I get up with Brett and eat a grapefruit on the couch while watching M.A. Rosco and the entire Fox 9 crew make fools of morning television. I shower and dress in an outfit I picked out last week. My makeup goes on smoothly, and my hair combs straight. My shoes, phone, and elbow all cooperate. I pack a healthy lunch (with mid-morning snack included) and gather my things for the day. I make it to work 15 minutes early, despite the snow. Our technology coordinator emails me in the morning that my new 24" monitor has arrived and he's ready to hook it up. My desk is (mostly) organized, my postcards are off to the printer, and my meeting with my boss goes well. She compliments my scarf.

I have an important client meeting tomorrow in Mankato. Let's hope for a good day. 

March

It is March 1. The sun is just barely peeking out of the gauzy, gray sky, though it is trying desperately. I cannot wait for spring. As much as I love fall, it is spring that I long for. The fall season is beautiful—in its colors, smells, and soft orange glow—but spring is new. It is refreshing. It is what I dream about on those painfully long and dark Minnesota nights. In mid-February, when the only possible way to describe the day, the weather, the mood, is gray. 

March 1 promises spring is coming. There may be a few more snow storms to weather, a few more weeks of leggings and scarfs, but the gradual trend will be towards warmth and new life. 

I'm not sure about everyone else, but I'm ready for the tree in my front yard to look like this again very soon: