The (very merry) twelve days of May

I’m addicted to holidays.

That’s the first step, right? Admitting you have an addiction…

I think, though, that in order to overcome an addiction, you have to want to change, and I don’t want to. I am at peace with my addiction.

I love everything about holidays. I love the insta-happiness I feel when I wake up on those magical mornings. I’m not just talking about Christmas, here, either. When I wake up on Halloween and the Fourth of July and St. Patrick’s Day, I am giddy.

Who doesn’t love candy (especially the cinnamon hearts at Valentine’s day)? And fireworks? And wearing green?

On Earth Day, my sister even paid a tribute to me on her blog. I felt so honored. It was like a little Earth Day present. Which rhymes with Birthday, the very fabulous day on which you also get presents (!!)…that brings me to my next point.

This year, my family missed my half birthday. Last year, my brother Duke remembered to get me a present, and this year, no one even noticed the day had come. Freshman year of college, my mom sent me a half birthday care package. This year? Not even a call.

But I am ok. I definitely survived. I think part of the reason I pulled through was because I knew that St. Patrick’s Day was so close. It gave me something to live for. I also think that maybe some people might have forgotten it because I might have forgotten theirs too. I’m definitely sending gifts next year; the mistake won’t happen again.

Another not so official holiday, but one that I think is definitely in the making, is what I like to call the Twelve Days of May.

The twelve days of May was kick-started when my brothers received their tax-refund check in the mail. It had begun.

Over the next few days (approximately twelve) everyone in my family began to receive their checks too. The little Post Office elves would sneak onto our porch and slip the gifts into the mailbox, pausing only for a second to make sure we hadn’t left them any treats.

We can get online and track our checks just like we can track Santa.

First, I got a very small one (about $1.54); I like to call that my stocking. It made me happy to know that the government was thinking of me, but it was merely a preview of the next gift to come, wrapped in a beautiful envelope and decorated with a perfectly placed stamp.

Soon, another check came in the mail, luckily a little more substantial. When I opened it, I had an idea as to what it might be, but I didn’t know exactly what the government gave me. As the numbers danced before my eyes, I saw a year of fun with this money. A CD? The stock market? The mall? Where would this gift take me?

Finally, the last check came in the mail, and as I opened it, I was happy to see the numbers, but sad that the season was over so soon. It would be another year before it came around again.

I knew that this year I’d been a good girl. I had worked hard and stayed off the naughty list. So, just as we’d shout, “Thank you, Santa!” when we were young, I thanked the government. I knew I had earned the gifts, but I still wanted them to know that I was grateful. I don’t want any coal in my envelope next May!

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.