The freedom of maturity

Boy, if you could've seen eighth grade Stacie. 

Those of you who have,  please keep all comments to yourselves.  Thanksomuch.

Fortunately, throughout high school I became less awkward, wore contacts, found clothing that was my size and did not make declarations of peace or show Kermit the Frog in his underwear.  I learned how to de-frizz my mane and gave up my rainbow colored shoelaces.

And thanks to my newly developed self-doubt and insecurity I also came up with new rules on parental public displays of affection and when playing in the snow with my kid sisters was acceptable.

I still wasn't cool (see marching band references), but I was pretty normal.  However, even that took hours of careful deliberation of what to eat, say and wear, and thousands of she-said-that-he-said-that-he-said-that-she-said-that-she-said conversations.  It was exhausting.

Hallelujah, those days have passed!

Now, I embrace the frizz. 

I wear a bright green jacket in the dull, dead winter.

I run like an idiot in the park with my dog.

I build lopsided snowmen with my dad.

I wear pajamas and slippers to the grocery store.

I am still very embarrased to ride around in my dad's '95 rust-mobile, but that's because I know one of these days it is going to die with me in it and I'll either be trapped inside or you'll see me in the middle of an intersection pushing the dang thing to the side of the road.  But I digress.

I eat chocolate cookies with little regard to my expanding...um, lower section.

And I wear things that are functional.  Like my winter boots.  With my nice work pants tucked in them.

Sometimes I miss those "carefree" days when I was a teenager, but not often.  I'm usually too busy running around, making a fool out of myself and loving every minute of it.