You're not seriously wearing those patent -leather, white shoes in April, are you?

There were a few steadfast rules I swore by in middle school: If you wear a shirt, you cannot wear it again for at least two weeks. You never ever mix black with brown or black with navy. And, most importantly, white can be worn only from Memorial Day to Labor day and not even for a minute outside of this time frame.

Even in eighth grade, when I got my first pair of white pants from Express for my birthday, on September 5, just one day after Labor Day, I held out until the spring. I looked at those pants hanging in my closet, the perfectly cuffed bottoms (cute, I know), the large belt loops, in case you wanted to wear an extra-thick belt (cute, again. Really, I know). I thought about how I would wear a black belt and black shirt and black shoes, or maybe a navy shirt and tan belt and (I hate to say it) but Birkenstocks with those pants. This was one year when Memorial Day would be a highly celebrated holiday.

Who knew, just a few years later, I would sometimes wear winter white? And, better yet, I own two purses with black and brown on them.

140 years ago, Memorial Day began, known as Decoration Day. It was started in Waterloo, NY, in order to honor those that fought in the Civil War.

It's amazing that, as someone who has quite a past with celebrating Memorial Day, I didn't even know where the roots of it began.

I always knew that Memorial Day wasn't observed around the nation solely for those afraid to wear white in the winter...

However, a small part of me really thought, for quite some time, that Memorial Day was observed in order to rest after a long long day at the Indianapolis 500. I may be living in Atlanta this summer, but I really am a Hoosier. It seems logical, really. You spend all day in the sun, enjoying the standard IndyCar festivities...you would be tired from such an event.

This year, I'll try to do it all on Memorial Day. I will wear white. I will think of those who have fought (and are fighting) in wars.

And on the Sunday before, I will even cheer for Marco Andretti. I will wave my black and white checkered flag and maybe even eat a bratwurst. Then, of course, on Memorial Day, I will rest.

There is something to be said for Baby Einstein...

I think my sister's baby is actually a genius. Am I allowed to say that? Is it bragging even if she is not my baby?

Well, I might even be willing to brag about this- it's that impressive. You might want to brag about her, too, after you read this story. You can even pretend she is your sister's baby if it makes the storytelling better.

You see, Lily is just over one year old and she is ready to potty train. Impressive, right? The other night, at bedtime, Courtney (my sister) called me to explain that when Lily knew she had to go number two, she asked to go on the toilet.

That's pretty amazing for a baby that just turned one.

Courtney has also taught her sign language, all of her body parts, the sound nearly any animal makes and downward facing dog (Courtney really is into yoga). Most babies her age are just learning to talk and Lily is practically competing in oratory contests.

I will take a moment to admit one of Lily's weaker areas (this might make up for my bragging). She did have a hard time growing teeth. It took them a while to start. They're coming in now, though. Sometimes slow and steady wins the race, you know? We're not sharks; she has to be careful with those baby teeth!

I'm going home for Memorial Day and I expect big things from Lily. She and Courtney are picking me up from the airport and I won't be shocked if Lily is sipping Starbucks and driving.

Unfortunately, the idea of Lily-the-prodigy driving at age one might be a far-off dream in Indianapolis if people really start to pursue this idea of raising the driving age.

I wouldn't have wanted my mom and dad driving me to high school senior year (and don't even act like the bus is a real option, here). And I certainly wouldn't have wanted my mom and dad to have to drive me to college for the first two years.

I can see how 18 might be an option (though I remain steadfast in the 16 boat). However, 21 is a little far-fetched. We'll have to see if this really escalates into a debate, as predicted. All I know is that if it does turn into a real debate, I want Miss Lily the orator on my side.

Hey, It's OK...to have a flash of self pity if no one says "God bless you" when you sneeze.

One afternoon, Sara, one of my best friends in the world, called me. As soon as I answered, she said, "Have you read this month's 'Hey It's OK'?" I told her that I unfortunately, had not had the chance to read the "Hey It's OK" section of this month's Glamour.

"OK, well you need to read it right now," she told me, with urgency. Seeing as we both read Glamour like it's the law, she knew I'd have the new copy nearby. "It's your perfect one," she continued.

I opened it and began to read…

"Hey It's OK…

If you are not a cat person…or a dog person.
If you are completely honest about how someone's butt looks in their jeans.
If you haven't done yoga for months, but you still tell people you're 'really into yoga'…"

As it continued, I realized that it really was my perfect "Hey It's OK" and I got to thinking about the yoga thing.

I truly did go through a period, for about a year, where I was really into yoga. And, if I had the time and money, I would still like to do it regularly. So, if you think about it, I really am really into yoga, I just lack the necessary resources.

Or maybe, I am kind of a poser.

Isn't it funny, how easy it is to believe something about ourselves that we want to believe? When I tell people that I am into yoga, in my head, I think I sound pretty awesome. I can't wait for the day when someone says, "I remember you did yoga about three years ago, are you still into it?" And I will smile and say, "Oh ya, I am really into yoga." Then that moment will come when they say, "Great! Me too! Let's go to the really-advanced professional-level-awesome-at-yoga-class!"

Similarly, and also shockingly addressed in the same "Hey It's OK," is the issue of animals.

When you tell someone that you're just not really an animal person, you're instantly judged. It's kind of like telling someone you don't like kids. Who doesn't like kids? Who doesn't like puppies? Luckily, I adore kids. However, animals are not really my thing.

It's like yoga, because I tried to pretend I liked animals for a long time. I'd act like I wanted to pretend like we were cats instead of people when I was little. But, in my head I was thinking, why would you want to be a cat instead of a person? They can't even talk.

At some point, I realized that I didn't like touching them, or playing with them, or cleaning up after them. Slowly, I began to be able to say it: "I'm just not really an animal person."

To this day, I am judged. I see the look on someone's face when I admit the truth. First, it's confusion. The point where they ask themselves, "Who doesn't like animals?" And then, when they realize, me- that's who, they judge me. Generally people don't try to hide their judgment. But I guess I wouldn't hide it that well if someone told me they don't like babies. Besides, I handle the stress of being judged through weekly yoga classes.

Is Barbie's classic dream home really the White House?

“To me, our relationship makes perfect sense. You want me to propose to you, I propose to you. You say no, I say fine, I never wanna see you again. You drive me nuts telling me you want me to propose again, I do, you turn me down. Next thing I know I'm in a court of law where I've got to propose to you or go to jail. It's the classic American love story.” Cheers

The classic American love story. There is so much wrapped up in those five words. Is it when Cinderella meets Prince Charming? Is it when Barbie meets Ken? Is it when Harry meets Sally? Is it when Carrie meets Big or Aiden or Big or Petrovsky or Big?

Does it even exist?

Cinderella was rescued. Barbie found her dream house. Sally proved she was more than just a friend. Carrie realized that no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t get over Big.

The only thing classic about those four stories is that a pretty girl met a boy (well Carrie met multiple…).

Maybe the only necessary element of a classic love story is that love is involved.

During a time when a woman is campaigning to be president, homosexual relationships are commonplace and green is (apparently) the new black, who really knows what classic is anymore?

Or maybe classic never really existed. Maybe it was just something we all took comfort in. Some hope to live a classic life, with white picket fences and babies and beautiful husbands. Some hope to find that perfect classic black dress to go with those (oh-so) perfect classic pearls. And some aren’t sure what classic means really, but never again want to be told they have to go to class.

76 years ago, on this day, Amelia Earhart began her journey to become the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic. She challenged what women viewed as a classic lifestyle and began to make changes for women everywhere.

Maybe Amelia Earhart is a classic?

Maybe Amelia Earhart played with dolls and dreamed of finding Prince Charming and her white picket fence…and of flying from Newfoundland to France. Boy was she busy!

There might be more to being a classic than we have ever realized…or there might be far less.

Is it possible that to be a classic is simply a mindset? I think I might be an American classic. Is it all in the attitude?

One thing is certain: a real, live, true, American classic is Cheers. It also happened to end 15 years ago on this day. I don’t know what could possibly be more classic than a place where everybody knows your name and a show that managed to entertain 93 million viewers during the series finale.

Even though it's a classic, Cheers had to have its last call 15 years ago, Carrie and Big will have their last call in just ten short days, and Hillary Clinton might soon be having her last call.

I really just hope everyone involved can find the way back to their dream home with Ken (or Bill).