When Minnesota weather isn't "Minnesota Nice" it's best to escape

What to do with those childhood dreams?

I wish I could remember who gave me my first journal.

I can remember it clear as day. My brothers and sisters circled the kitchen table, working on their homework. I was three-years-old, maybe four. I had a journal and a pen and the ability to "write" loop after loop after loop.

I said I was doing my homework.

I said I was writing.

I wanted to be like them.

I wanted to be a true original.

That journal book is lost, and hardly missed. I started writing in journals, in earnest, on July 9. 1990.

I bought a fabric covered journal at The Bookmark, the bookstore at Gustavus Adolphus, while I was at the St. Peter campus for writing camp. It was the summer before twelfth grade and I defined myself by my ability to write. I filled those pages, and pages of many more similar books for years.

I wrote about what made me happy, what made me angry, what made me sad. I wrote about first loves and college stress and arguments and friends getting pregnant, sisters coming to visit, holidays, I wrote about all of it.

Then, one day, I didn't.

Columns, editorials, articles, blogs, newsletters, Tweets, web copy, e-blasts and status updates have filled the gap, satiated my thirst to get it all out. Somehow I went from needing to write for only myself (No one has ever been invited to read my journals.) and to write for anyone curious enough to spend the time inhaling my words.

But here I am, with this stack of books, nearly 20 in all. Books I filled with every thought, feeling, hope and dream of my young life and I'm contemplating throwing them away. But what else to do with them? Do we toss it all away and immerse ourselves in the new way of self expression? Do we stick them in a closet to take up space? Do we dare share our words of youth?

Young, Wild & Free!

Yesterday a man seven years my senior commented on my age and my upcoming birthday and said "Wow, your biological clock must be ticking."

Did I punch him in the throat?
No.

Did I ask him how Viagra is working for him?
Should have.

Did I agree with him and flash a smile?
Oh hell no.

I simply said, "You know, that's kind of a mean comment" and went on my merry way.


Today, I went to the liquor store. I handed over my check card to pay and then she said something wonderful:

"MAY I SEE YOUR ID?"

"Sure can!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, it's just that your signature is worn off...." she said.

"Really? You had to go there? You couldn't let me enjoy it for a minute?" I asked.

She tried to make it better.

"It's just that you're a regular."

I laughed. Apparently not only do I look much older than drinking age, but my love of Blue Moon, Corona and Mike's Hard Lemonade is no secret.

I will be celebrating my birthday with Bret Michaels because he "rocks my world" and I used to love driving around in my 1980 Oldsmobile Starfire listening to my Poison cassette tapes. I only wish I still had my long hair so I truly could rock the 80s.

I imagine I'll be back to drinking Blue Moon and loving goat cheese and pine nuts again by Tuesday—but for this weekend, I'll drink light beer and swear a little bit. Ok, perhaps more than a little bit.

Apparently crosswalks are optional...

Earlier this evening I bundled up, grabbed my iPod and strapped on my tennies (Anne Klein not Nike, but hey, it's me here!) and set out to get some exercise in.
I had big plans.

"I'm going to do this every day."

"Heck, I can do it in the winter,too. I do have Yaktrax after all."

"This is great exercise, kinda sorta almost as fun as riding my bike in the summertime."

I strutted and strutted some more.

I ventured off the trail so I could head down to the lake. If I'm within a block of water I can't just not go to the shore. That just isn't natural!
I came to the crosswalk on the corner and waited.
And waited some more.
So pleasant and patient.
Even a little longer. Cars continued to buzz past me, south on Highway 61. North on Highway 61. Wrrrrrrrrr.
Zoom. Zoom.
Patience deserted me.
I put my hands on my hips and assumed my bitch stance.
Immediately cars from both directions came to a halt and I nearly skipped across the street.

"It still got it," I thought.

On my journey back I honestly expected no troubles. The complete insanity of earlier surely had been a fluke.
Not so much...
I waited.
Waited.
Saw a break in the traffic and proceeded to cross. Then I nearly got plowed over by a van—a van that had a handicapped parking pass hanging from the rear view mirror.

"Do you want me to join you for wheelchair basketball?" I screamed at the van.

Yes, I really and truly did say that.

I had to finish running across the street as I realized yet another approaching car was not going to stop. I pointed at the crosswalk. He simply pointed at his phone as if to indicate "Don't bother me, I'm on the phone."

I was passed by a dog walker as I neared home. I hate getting passed. It made me feel bad.

Then I realized I wasn't quite sure if the dog walker was a man or a woman. So I held my head high (sticking out my chest to celebrate my girlie bits) and walked to my door, with plans for yet another walk.