Archives: Abigail Pless

At this point in the semester, I’m literally forgetting what week I’m in. I use progress points like choir, Sunday concerts and piano lessons to gauge what time of the week it is. Recently, though, all of these things seem to be blending together. I can hardly finish eating dinner one night before I realize the sun is rising on tomorrow. I check off and add new things to my “Abber-Do List,” constantly thinking ahead and encouraging myself to finish the day productively so that I may be completely prepared for the next one. Then, of course, there are the responsibilities and goals I have for the week, month and year. Am I the only one suffering from this perpetual somersault of stress and constant worry? It’s amazing to see how the swinging pendulum of responsibility can rule each moment of my life if I’m not careful to take time to enjoy the now.

We started a song in University Choir and Orchestra called Don’t Worry About Tomorrow that we all were a little amused by because it is drastically different than our normal contemporary Christian music style. With the violins plucking chords, the bass grooving a simple line and the drums sitting back on the beat, the biblical message was painted in a reggae tone. Our director even went as far to call the song “unsophisticated” in comparison to our usual repertoire’s spirituality, but after performing it for the first time in concert this last weekend, I enjoyed it far more than I expected to. The repetition of phrases about the lavish sustainability of nature by God’s hand and His everyday provision began to write themselves on my heart. I actually began to question myself over a song I sing a few times a week: why worry about the things to come instead of enjoying the moments of the present?

The song’s text comes straight out of Matthew 6 as Jesus gave His Sermon on the Mount. The picture of the birds of the air—they neither reap nor sow, and they do not fall to the ground without the Father knowing—gives me the exact understanding of what it means to have faith. And even greater still, how much more will God provide for those who love him! The Creator of the universe, who rose man from dirt and spoke the stars into existence, knows what we need before we ask it of him. He provides little old me, Abigail from Modesto, with the “living bread” that will sustain me for the entire day. The song repeats, ”Let tomorrow worry about itself,” and to me, a college student with a million responsibilities, that appears to be nearly impossible. Biblically, it is so full of truth. The meaning of that simple song has caused me to be aware of what is happening in this moment, because the beauty of what I have been given today is so easily tarnished by the frets of tomorrow.

The concept is definitely easier said than done, but the final unsophisticated and elementary idea of Don’t Worry About Tomorrow strikes my heart and rings true…

Live today – don’t worry about the rest.

731 people.
Over 50 countries.
Each, a story.

The balcony of the San Diego Civic Center was entirely occupied: stragglers in the aisles, strollers creating barricades between the upper and lower halves of the balcony, mingled with the snippets of dozens of languages that floated through the air. Families of different ethnicities had items strewn over entire rows of seats to view the ceremony honoring those becoming U.S. citizens. I had never been in a room with more culture than that—strong, united culture here in support of loved ones. I realized that watching these new Americans attain the citizenship they had worked so hard for would be a once in a lifetime opportunity. How often did you clearly see a person’s life change in a matter of a few hours? Seldom.

In the roll call of represented countries, an entire Iraqi family, a dozen in number, enthusiastically jumped out of their seats and waved to us in the balcony, the joyful smiles on each of their faces bringing tears to several around me.
New beginnings together.

“Laos?” One shy, small woman half-stood up from her chair and embarrassingly waved a tiny hand to represent her country.
On my own in a strange place.

A British woman and her adult twin son and daughter proudly stood for the United Kingdom, grinning and waving to their Belgian husband and father, Belgian aunt, and the American friends who spent an uncountable amount of nights praying earnestly for God to protect them from having to leave their home in America.
A 20-year battle – conquered.

One Mexican woman marched up to the microphone and described her enthusiasm for choosing to become an American, with her family cheering the entire time she spoke.
Finally.

A bent and stout man with a flushed face and white hair clutched his new United States’ Citizen Certificate as he approached his equally small and bent wife in the foyer, and amongst the applause of the enraptured families, I alone witnessed the tears sparkling on their cheeks and the quiet embrace they shared.
Our sacrifices were not in vain.

The District Office official watched as the Afghani man tried the signature of his new name, handed him the certificate with the official stamp and said, “Congratulations, Eric.”
A fresh start.

I will never understand the sacrifices these incredible people endured and the homes and lives they had to leave behind to become a United States’ citizen, but I know it’s people with this courage that continue to redefine America as the home of the brave.

Nothing is more humbling than being asked to do something in the name of the Lord that you don’t feel confident or comfortable in. You know, that wham! stomach-hits-the-floor sort of overwhelming feeling that lets you know it’s the right thing to do because: 1) the opportunity has risen from a Plan apart from your own; 2) comes out of the place you absolutely least expected it to; and 3) this request requires service from you that could quite possibly (and most likely) come from the most vulnerable or weakest area of your soul.

Last year, two of my professors in the music building at CBU asked for a last minute favor for them and a small group of singers: the assigned pianist hadn’t returned to school for the year, and this small group of seven singers, called Promise, had an empty piano bench that desperately needed to be occupied – as in like, four-days-until-the-first-concert kind of need. The doubts and fear that permeated my mind were staggering. These types of small groups are some of the biggest ministries the School of Music puts out into the community and is also a major portion of exposing the school for people to see; they do their best to choose participants to represent the school in the most positive light, with high expectations for each person based on their abilities.

Me? This group, made up of some of the finest singers at our school – professional singers, composers, graduates and performers – and they need me? I have only ever accompanied someone maybe twice in my whole life, let alone an entire hour-long concert with seven singers depending on me…

 I’m a singer. I’m not educated enough in piano. I’ve only had five years of lessons – these other PIANO MAJORS have been playing piano for twice or three times my measly five.

 I can’t just pick up a piece of music like they need me to and play it well enough to present to a congregation.

 No. Absolutely not.

 But the tugging at my heartstrings refused to let the decline come out of my mouth. I had to do it. With a concert in four days and a congregation expecting Promise to be intact at their church, prepared to lead the service in worship and a year’s worth of services in various cities after that, I didn’t have a choice. They needed me.  

Needless to say, the hours spent in a piano practice room the following four days were more numerous than the entirety of my practice career up to that point. Never had I felt more vulnerable and literally, shaken to my very core. My security blanket of inexperience and lack of knowledge had vanished and I was left utterly exposed for all to see.

At first glance, I was slightly intimidated by my group because of the amount of talent and true gifts of music they possessed, but looking back at the situation many months later, I can’t imagine myself being placed with a more appropriate, insightful, and encouraging group of musicians. In the hours of the first rehearsal, I struggled immensely with just getting over the nervousness inside of me. The singers each supported me with words, patience in my uncertainty, and roused the confidence in me that I couldn’t manage to find on my own. The first couple of rehearsals were painful, with a myriad of questions like, “What key am I in?”, blatantly wrong chords and notes played, and several occasions where I stopped playing entirely while the group continued to sing. Baptism by fire? Yep, I was living it and wasn’t enjoying the pressure of excellence I put on myself of and my own heart’s lack of understanding towards my abilities. Many days, I left in tears of self-discouragement.

In light of heartache, I knew the work I was doing belonged to the Lord. It was by His hand that the professors trusted my talent enough to ask me to serve in the small group, and it was His power that I sought for in the Word to strengthen me for the task He had led me to. The entire year’s struggles continually squashed any hindering pride within me: “A man’s pride brings him low…” and it did just that –dragging me by a leash through a refining fire in an inexperienced territory, which ultimately buckled my knees at the foot of the cross. As I’ve heard many people describe, the way God humbles a man to submit to His will so that He can use them to bring Himself glory is the time where the man learns the most. On the journey through the muck and mire of inward and outward struggle is where God teaches the disciplines required to be a follower of His Son.

Through all the moments of uncertainty, joy rooted to my heart as I reminded myself that God was giving me the opportunity to serve him, even in my naivety and self-doubt.

“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.” 2 Corinthians 12:9

Continually, on those Sunday mornings, a member of the congregation would approach me and tell me of the tears they shed because of the service’s impact on their hearts, and thinking about my own shed tears of heartache, I would recall,
“… and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.”

In my first piano lesson of the new semester (2013 already?!), my teacher said, “Over the break, I never knew which day it was – it was like six Saturdays and a Sunday for three weeks.”

I don’t know about you, but my Saturdays consist of sleep, movie marathons, food, an occasional assignment, and more sleep. On the off chance that my roommate or boyfriend wants to get out of our apartments, we will go to the cinema or Newport Beach. The 6^th day of the week (or 5^th depending on which came first, the chicken or the egg aka Sunday or Monday) is my day – I get to choose to spend it however I may please. So, naturally, I took advantage of my “six Saturdays and a Sunday” over my Christmas break. Since I have the pleasure of living with my best friend and her mother, it was like that slumber party that you look forward to for weeks ahead of time, with the invitation practically jumping off the fridge each time you walk by it. We read books upon books, watched our typical “Kylie and Abigail” movies (Little Women, Anne of Green Gables, Batman, etc… yes, I said Batman), consumed more coffee and hot chocolate than water, and lounged around in our pajamas all day. On top of all the relaxing, our hometown (dear old Modesto) was chilly, rainy, and foggy (Winter in December?? Who would’ve thought…), meaning the pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof brought the blaze of a fire, thus producing more hours snuggled under a blanket. The days lazily slipped by as easy as they came, ending the week in a refreshing morning at our home churches on Sundays. My break was as lazy as it sounds. Funny enough though, at the end of it, I didn’t feel as rested as I would’ve imagined myself to feel.

Mama always said that if I didn’t get up and do something, I would increasingly feel more and more tired. I suppose that’s because mankind was created to work – to have something to keep us accountable for our actions and energy – and to glorify God in doing it. Proverbs is saturated with verses regarding working and warnings against idleness. Solomon’s wise words repeat several times that if you take part in laziness and slack in responsibilities, the sluggard will go hungry as the diligent wants for nothing.

As Spring 2013 begins, I’m going to encourage myself daily that putting my nose to the grindstone and working my absolute hardest is not going to go to waste because I know God has blessed me with the ability to work efficiently, so I will do so to glorify Him. The majority of the time, each hour will be accounted for and hardly a minute will slip past me, but even so, our God is the Lord of the Harvest, and I will offer up my skills to Him to contribute to a plentiful crop.

King Solomon also states in Ecclesiastes 3, that there is nothing new under the sun, and I know that, if the Lord wills it, another week of “six Saturdays and a Sunday” will happen upon me again. But for these next three and a half months, let the season be exalting the Lord’s name in diligence and a steady hand at the plough!

These past couple weeks of December, I’ve been trying to brainstorm why everyone looks forward to Christmas. The solid answer seems to be that it all boils down to traditions.

Each family has their own – some obscure and unique, others loaned from culture, but every one treasured. To list each special and Pless-like tradition my family has accumulated over time would make the paper as long as Santa’s toy list, (and then some), but they are literally the reasons  I crave Christmastime in the midst of the hottest day in July.

Of course – the tree. How can anyone start the month of December with no fir tree immediately dropping pine needles with each step as you carry it into the living room. It made Mother (and the cat) crazy, wafting its distinct woody scent through the house.  She would pull out the largest boxes of antique ornaments I had ever seen from the attic to (gently) hang on each branch, complete with tinsel made from actual aluminum that she kept in its original 1950s cartoon-illustrated cardboard box. She and Daddy would wind strings of large multi-colored bulb lights that flickered and a never-ending strand of bubble lights around the tree, carefully placing each light in a perfect spot for all to admire. And as the baby in the family, I would place the ancient revolving, red North Star at the top as a final hurrah! I would literally sit in front of the tree every day, admiring the family’s work, as the cat contemplated which antique ornament would be his next victim. Between the loose needles  smashed into the Persian rug and the daily shattering of a 100-year-old ball or tiny glass trumpet, Mother was undoubtedly anticipating the first Thursday of the new year when it was time to clean up and put everything away.

Grandpa was a diabetic, so naturally on Christmas Eve, he wanted pizza and Coke, followed by some sort of dessert and coffee (decaf, of course). As long as I can remember, he invested in pizza as Mother and I prepared some sort of delicious sweet—indulging Grandpa in his sweet-and-salty tooth and giving us a break to prepare for Christmas morning brunch. Although he took the majority of leftovers home with him, we kept a little for ourselves to have as appetizers on Christmas morning, because nothing tastes better than cold pizza and Diet Coke on such a special morning (except bacon-wrapped Tater Tots).

As soon as my body got the faintest hint that morning had broken (hardly ever after 5:30 or 6 a.m.), I burst out of bed and flew down the stairs to see what Santa had awarded me for the year of Good Girlness. The year that “Santa had to leave and come back because a certain little girl came downstairs too early,” Mother installed a hook lock on the door at the bottom of the staircase to use on the occasions that I was up too early. (That was the year I had begged for a Felicity American Girl doll. How could I wait any longer than 2 a.m.? Surely Santa had already come and gone by that time). To me, nothing looked more beautiful than the tree so thoughtfully decorated, with elegantly-wrapped gifts placed “just so” underneath, and the hand-crocheted stockings our mother had made for us brimming over with specific goodies for each of us.

Remembering that morning each year reminds me what it is about the season that makes us yearn for it: family traditions. My best memories are those in front of the tree, colorfully and brightly lit, with cold pizza and our goodies in hand, and the old JVC log-sized video camera sitting atop Mother or Daddy’s shoulder.

I only have a couple more years to enjoy the traditions my parents established for my family before I’m on my own. I will cherish them and look forward to each one, because now I’m reaching the point where I will be deciding how to borrow and create my own traditions to carry out each year. Knowing how I was when I was growing up and the potential of what my kids could be, God willing, I think my own traditions will include a hook lock!

I didn’t find a definition for finals week in Merriam-Webster Dictionary, so I offer these two for your consideration:

 Finals week (n.):

1. the day(s) in a student’s life where each minute is accounted for, caffeinated drinks replace water, the most unhealthy foods are consumed, and after the last final, a great sense of accomplishment overwhelms the student knowing that the student completed every last detail to the best of their ability, usually resulting in a temporary hibernation.
2. the day(s) in a student’s life where the student loses their mind from over exhaustion, suffers from loss of sense of time from the stress of responsibilities, possibly resulting in stress sleeps where, instead of completing every duty assigned, the student’s brain turns off and is induced in a long unscheduled nap, thus leaving the student feeling unprepared and disappointed.

As you know, finals are looming, making us crazy and driving us to unusual habits (i.e. sleeping in odd positions and places, craving Alberto’s Tacos at 1 a.m., drinking coffee every two to four hours, etc.). It’s amazing that the necessities and priorities of everyday life outside of our studies are almost all flipped with the stress of completing academic requirements. Each person really needs a “Surviving Finals Week” guide or checklist to organize and keep him or her from giving into the second definition of “finals week” listed above. In a big picture approach to conquering finals week, I have decided a few things are the most important and will aid me in coming out on top. Maybe they will help you, too.

1.     Don’t forget to immerse myself in God’s word. As I grow busier and increasingly stressed, I am tempted to cut out the most vital time of my day,  because—as my naturally arrogant heart would say—I’m obviously living and breathing, so I can accomplish all my responsibilities on my own. I’m encouraging myself and those close to me to dive into God’s word to get closer to Him in the midst of this stress, because He is the ultimate conqueror and giver of all things. This time of my day is the most precious, really needed and gives me a perspective that will put the trivial, worldly things into their rightful place: at the foot of Calvary’s cross.

2.     Scour the pockets of clothes and couch cushions for loose change. When I am stressed, I immediately crave Cheetos®, ice cream, In-n-Out and chocolate. It’s like a light switch: “Oh, you’re stressed,” says my brain. “Here, let’s load you up with insatiable cravings and yearnings for junk food.” Literally, those are the worst foods for me during Finals Week. That loose change is going to buy satisfying fruit and vegetables to snack on as I practice piano and vocal music, or study for tests (I’m attempting to trick my mind into thinking the crunch of celery is actually the crunch from a potato chip… Shh! Don’t tell!). Some of my professors have recommended bananas right before a test to physically relax the muscles and give a boost of natural sugar to increase brain activity. Is that completely accurate? I don’t know, but it gives me an excuse to eat a wonderfully sweet snack, possibly alongside peanut butter, depending on my mood.

3.     Reviving the idea of “Bed Time.” I know that after 11 p.m., my brain is useless and refuses to function. (Un)fortunately, trying to stretch its capacity during Finals Week is not going to yield great results. Uninterrupted sleep during the hours of 10 p.m. and about 4 a.m., for me and others who have experimented with this, has proven higher functionality during the day with increased energy levels, metabolism and detoxification. Let me challenge you to call it a night by 10 p.m. and wake up as early as 4 or 5 to finish that assignment you were stumped on the night before. Surprisingly, you will find your mind is alert and fully functioning. Make it a habit, and you will notice a drastic difference in the smallest ways, such as lack of illness, higher energy levels throughout the day and less grouchiness

4.     Become a fish. Water, water, water! Increase the intake of water. Fill a water bottle with this clear liquid rather than coffee or soda, and it will wean out any nasty toxins in the body and give you something to sip on constantly. Not only will it help fight off the Sandpaper Throat (as I like to call it), but also it will prevent you from falling asleep in those last lectures before final exams!

These few points are vital to my success and survival of this week, and I challenge those also enduring end-of-the-semester stress to come up with a short list of big picture ideas to aid in their domination of the last few days we have. I’m going to write my own list on my hand, a mirror, sticky notes, my laptop, wherever I can to remind myself of the key ingredients to success. I am determined to make this week a piece of cake!

Now go back to the beginning and read the two definitions for finals week again. Which one are you going to choose for yourself?

Recently, my family’s holidays have been slightly different than the years past.

My father passed away four months ago and my mother four years ago. Therefore, the holidays are more or less what my siblings and I decide to make of them. At the highest rung of the totem pole as the oldest is my brother with his wife and their three young boys, who are closer in age to me than I am to my brother. Then there is the middle child, my sister and her husband. On the lowest rung as the youngest is me.

With the melding of family traditions and go-with-the-flow mentality, the past four years of holidays have been interesting and ever changing.

This past week’s Thanksgiving break was spent at a quaint, homey, beachfront cottage in Santa Cruz, over an hour south of San Francisco. It was the first time all of us “kids” vacationed together due to the uniqueness of our lives and schedules. Having been the vacation spot for various summer outings before, the familiarity was comforting. We were swarmed with memories from our childhoods with our parents. We also were anticipating the plethora of new memories to be created during week together, as well.

In an attempt to cope with the recent death of our father, we had decided Thanksgiving was going to be different than any other we had ever experienced before. Instead of our traditional turkey, mashed potatoes and football game playing in the background, we enjoyed chow mein, orange chicken, fortune cookies and bike rides along the winding cliffs of the bay.

The week was not only a time of mental and physical relaxation, but also a time of learning. I never lived with my brother, and my sister has been out of my home for five years now, leaving each of us living in different cities. New facets of my siblings’ characters were revealed to me through observation and everyday actions. Because our family has endured trauma, illness and death, experiencing life and light-hearted fun together was a blessing that has not been frequently and readily available. The hours of laughs, silence, freedom and togetherness benefited each of us in ways that we might not be able to recognize amongst ourselves. However, we most definitely feel it in the depths of our hearts.

A week plucked from our schedules specifically to be in the company of our siblings in a familiar place under a new context was a soothing way to celebrate the holiday. It was unique, special, uniting and perfectly timed. What a way to spend a week dedicated to thankfulness!

I like to think of myself as compassionate, as someone who understands others’ heartache and trials and can share in the joy when their cup runneth over.

I had never experienced compassion in my area of study though, until this week.

I want to be a teacher. Since 7^th grade, I have known I would one day share music with kids, adults, teenagers – basically whoever would let me wave my hands around in front of them and make music. I have been blessed to study my passion and hone my God-given gifts at a school with overwhelmingly brilliant professors and musicians. I have also been blessed this year with tutoring students who need help as they build piano skills or their knowledge of music theory.

After a week on the job as a tutor, all my weaknesses have been pinpointed as I tutor these hardworking music students. My patience has been tried, and my speech effectiveness has been pushed to its limit. The ability to explain a concept several different yet effective ways has been stretched, and I have experienced true compassion for these musicians for perhaps the first time in my life.

In college, we have the opportunity to gain knowledge about our passions. What happens when we hit a road block in that passion that makes us truly uncertain about our choices, our abilities and our prior experience? We either take necessary actions to fight through it or we get out before we truly fail.

Today I worked with a fighter—a brave girl who struggled to stay afloat in the accelerated class setting because of her lack of experience. My heart hurt as tears rolled down her cheeks in vexation. The humility she shared with me, a complete stranger, displayed the fight she needed to succeed, and I knew that I would do everything I could to help in her journey. I discovered a respect for all the students who battle for knowledge of their art. I was inspired to fight alongside them, offering my time and experience so they will not feel alone.

What an inspiring and convicting time it was, and a testament to how powerful compassion can be when channeled through teaching. It was a solid confirmation of my passion for helping those who truly need someone to fight by their side.

As long as I have the opportunity to teach and guide students toward achieving their dreams, I will do whatever I can to make that battle more manageable. After all, our dreams are what make each of us unique.

PREFACE

In the performing arts’ and sports’ worlds, there is an eloquent term used about a week or two before “Opening Night,” or “Game One,” or “Ready-or-Not-Here-We-Come,” to describe the hectic, frenzied last rehearsals, run-throughs or practices: Hell Week.

I told you it was eloquent.

I am in the midst of my Hell Week.
~ ~ ~

As always, the first class session of a new semester with a new schedule, each professor jogs through the Course Syllabus. I flip through each page of my planner, jotting down information and dates for papers, quizzes and exams, and midterms and finals like a responsible student. As soon as the last professor says the last, “Turn into Blackboard by 5 p.m. on…,” I close that planner and toss it into my backpack (where it undoubtedly rests until the end of the semester). For about two months, I dominate like Caesar, learning and understanding new things to the point of expertise, and then the gladiator games hit and I cower like a child: all the papers, exams, and midterms collide into the two weeks before Thanksgiving break.

I am almost certain that last week, my professors sat in a conference room with coffee and pumpkin pie and collaborated on the extended due dates for my classes’ assignments: research papers, class performances, multiple choir performances, major exams, and tests on top of everyday work and homework. Naturally, when requirements are at hand and the week is at its peak of busyness, my subconscious rebels and entices me with new recipes for baking, trips to LA to attend the symphony, disorderly apartments which result in clean sheets, and/or presidential elections. Let’s be honest – nothing gets done when spare ingredients need to baked, or when America elects a new (or renewed) president. Several times a day this week, I have calculated an approximate number of hours I should dedicate to each task in need of completion, how many hours I will realistically dedicate, and what I could possibly do to distract myself from said hours of work.

Now, to resist my relentless urge of visiting Barnes and Noble for a new book, here’s to Hell Week.
Apple Crisp, anyone?

As the mornings turn brisk, and the sun’s heat fades to just skin-warming, I cannot help but leaf through my childhood memories of autumn – shopping with Mom for the perfect winter coat, opening the front door after school to a waft of what the slow cooker had been cooking all day, rifling through piles of leaves with my best friend (Bailey, my next door neighbors’ black Labrador Retriever), and birthday celebrations complete with meatballs, elaborately wrapped gifts, crazy cousins running amok and pumpkin pie.

However, among my plethora of fond fall memories, Halloween happens to land in my “favorite” category.

From Baby Bop to Sacagawea (I liked history, okay?) to Queen Amidala, I took pride in my costumes. If an idea entered my mind, I was set – there was no way I was going to dress up as anything other than that. Occasionally, that determination translated into my mom and sister-in-law sewing outfits and additions to something we bought or had handy. Weeks before Halloween night, my costume would lay out for me to admire as I walked past it. Waking up on Halloween morning to a sweet goody and note on my nightstand from my parents always started the day perfectly. Then… (insert dramatic pause here) … my eyes would veer to my costume, waiting patiently for me put it on for the annual school costume parade. I would practically fall out of bed in excitement. After breakfast, mom would help me with whatever hairstyle and makeup my costume required. Since my mother was a florist, smartly tied bows appeared in my hair, on my wrist, around my waist and on anything else she could tie a ribbon around, regardless of if my costume required them or not. Then the crowning moment: the donning of the outfit. With the final approval from Mom and Dad that every piece of clothing and appropriate accessory was in tact, we would leave for school.

After about half an hour of strutting my stuff on the playground, inspecting my friends’ costumes and about five hours of Halloween-themed school lessons, I would head home to a nap, because Momma definitely did not want to take a cranky Sacagawea out for more candy. My aunts and cousins would meet us at Headquarters (my aunt’s prime location for supreme candy-hunting), flaunt our carefully chosen outfits and go on our merry way of Trick-or-Treating. With stomachs aching from laughter and pounds of candy in our arms, our family would make our way back to our Aunt’s house to appraise the outcome and do business (“I’ll trade you a Reese’s for a pack of Starbursts!”).

I am almost positive that as a child, I consumed more sugar, enjoyed naptime, ate all my vegetables and could not wait to get out of bed to get dressed in the morning on Oct. 31 more than any other day of the year.

Is it socially unacceptable for a 20-year-old to go Trick-or-Treating? Because I’m pretty sure I could squeeze into this costume again: