Missouri lawmakers kicked off the year tackling a dubious issue: covering up women's exposed arms.

Lawmakers in the Missouri House of Representatives, disturbed by the sight of female biceps, made national news last week. The GOP-controlled House adopted a stricter dress code requiring female legislators and staffers to cover their shoulders.

Some writers had fun with the irony: A state that worships guns won't let women bare arms.

The lazy pun could be amusing if we weren't so tired of being national laughingstocks. Missouri frequently finds itself in the national spotlight for cringeworthy reasons. We had a former state health director tracking the periods of Planned Parenthood patients. One of our senators raised a fist in support of Jan. 6 protestors, then ran like Chicken Little when they attacked the Capitol. Our other newly elected senator sued China and local school districts during the pandemic, and made us the first state with a near-total ban on abortion after the Supreme Court overturned Roe.

We're not sending our best, and we know it.

The latest embarrassment about legislating women's sleeves highlights our peculiar brand of Missourah misogyny -- it's powered by Republican women. Every single statewide elected official in Missouri is a white, Republican man. Women hold less than a third of the seats in the Missouri House. Those looking for the best way to cozy up to power know exactly where it rests.

It was a GOP woman, Rep. Ann Kelley, who proposed tightening the dress code for the ladies. Last year, Rep. Mary Elizabeth Coleman was pushing for laws to prevent women from leaving the state to get an abortion. Once they've got our uteruses in their clutches, someone has to up the ante. These foot soldiers for the patriarchy will join history books alongside the women who crusaded against giving women the right to vote.

The same religious believers mandating that a girl must bear her rapist's baby also perpetuate the idea that the female body is inherently sinful. Whether it's our exposed hair or bare arms -- and whether via school dress codes that target girls more than boys or via police-enforced hijabs in Iran -- the push to cover us up comes from the same place. The root of the argument: Women cannot be trusted to dress themselves.

It's not about the professionalism of a woman lawmaker wearing a sleeveless dress. It's about who controls what a woman can wear and deem it acceptable. It's about women with a little power signaling to those with more power that they're on the same team. This message becomes even more urgent when more people challenge the assumptions keeping outdated rules in place.

Reporters and lawmakers used to be required to wear dresses and blouses with sleeves upon entering the U.S. House chamber. In 2017, a group of bipartisan female lawmakers protested the rule, and then-Speaker Paul Ryan's office conceded that the dress code should be updated. The U.S. Senate also amended its rules.

Now, Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene, one of the country's most well-known Republican women lawmakers, is frequently seen in sleeveless attire. She wouldn't be allowed in Missouri's House in those outfits.

The rest of the country isn't laughing with us.

They're laughing at us.

A Southwest Airlines gate agent made a tempting offer for travelers in St. Louis right before all heck broke loose.

On Dec. 22, we were waiting to board a flight to Houston, where we planned to spend the winter holidays with my parents and siblings. The flight was overbooked. The gate agent asked for two volunteers to give up their seats to be rebooked on a later flight. Each volunteer would get $1,500.

That was an eye-popping number. My daughter and I looked at each other, possibly having similar thoughts. We had taken advantage of getting bumped on this same route a few years ago: We'd waited four hours for the next flight, and the airline gave us each $500 in future travel funds.

That looked like chump change compared to the $3,000 on the table now. I started imagining beach getaways during the upcoming winter months.

"Should we take it?" I asked. My daughter, who shares my love for a bargain, volunteered to stay back with me. Our current circumstances -- three days before Christmas, with a winter storm predicted for that evening -- were considerably different than the last time this risk paid off, and the chances of making a later flight looked iffy, at best. On the other hand, we were about to board a 5 a.m. flight. Surely there would be a few more chances to make it to Texas before the weather got too dicey.

My spouse immediately quashed my desire to gamble on the holidays.

"No way," he said. "It's not worth it."

He pointed out the worst-case scenario: What if we couldn't make it there for days? Would it be worth the time lost with my family?

I agreed that the potential for hassle and regret was higher than I cared to risk. In hindsight, his advice seems even wiser than it did in the moment.

We had no idea how bleak air travel on Southwest was about to become.

Later that day, the winter storm caused massive disruptions and flight delays. The problems at Southwest escalated due to antiquated crew-scheduling technology that hadn't been updated in decades. The airline canceled 15,000 flights around Christmas, stranded tens of thousands of passengers and lost truckloads of luggage. It took eight days for the airline to recover from a meltdown never before seen in the industry.

It's hard enough to admit your spouse made the right call when you were wavering. It's even harder when the news is continuously blaring evidence of that rightness.

Marital scorekeeping aside, I learned some surprising things from the Southwest fiasco. For one thing, I had no idea I had been flying regularly in aircraft that rely on technology from the 1990s to get where they need to be. We used pay phones and StreetFinder maps in the '90s. I had visions of Southwest pilots answering rotary telephones to get flight instructions. The airline hasn't made any promises about when these systems will be updated, but they did pass out 25,000 frequent flyer miles (equal to a base fare value of around $300) as a "gesture of goodwill" for all the holiday plans they wrecked.

I also learned that airlines are required to compensate travelers who are involuntarily bumped from a flight, but not those whose flights are delayed or canceled because of bad weather, air traffic delays or mechanical issues.

While Southwest continued to work on refunding customers and rebuilding its reputation, another unprecedented snafu grounded all domestic flights temporarily: On Jan. 11, an FAA system failure caused more than 7,000 flights in or out of the United States to be delayed.

Given the potential impact on our lives and economy, updating systems and technology ought to be a higher priority for government and commercial air carriers.

For the rest of us, difficult situations largely outside of our control provide a chance to model patience and resilience for our children. It's never the poor gate agent, ticket counter worker or customer service representative who decides to cancel a flight.

Our own near-miss with the Southwest meltdown reminded me it's not worth gambling on special family moments.

Those days ended up being worth much more than $3,000.

Last spring, a Ukrainian woman's post in a Facebook group caught Grace Cohen's eye.

Cohen, a 28-year-old graphic designer in the St. Louis area, had been following the news about the war in Ukraine, researching ways she might be able to help. She learned that Americans could sponsor someone from Ukraine if they agreed to house and support the individual for two years.

Soon after, Cohen saw a Facebook post from Anastasia Kabanchuk, a 24-year-old English translator whose parents sent her to Poland a few weeks after Russia attacked Ukraine.

"I can't stay here in Poland for long, so right now I'm looking for a sponsor to help me move to the USA," she wrote.

Cohen discussed the idea with her fiance. He was on board. So, she commented on Kabanchuk's post: "Hey, I'm in St. Louis. Message me if you're interested in staying with me."

The two women talked via a video call the next day. By the end of the conversation, they seemed like a good match for the sponsor program.

Cohen's relatives and friends had mixed responses to the idea that a stranger from across the world would move into her home. Half of them thought it was crazy; the others thought it was incredibly kind.

Just before Russia invaded last year, Kabanchuk's parents told her she needed to go stay with their friends in Poland. She refused to leave her parents behind. But when the Russians targeted nuclear power plants in March, her mother said Anastasia was leaving for Warsaw the next day. They found a bus ticket, and it was time to say goodbye.

"Do not worry. Do not cry," her mother said to her. Her mom said the separation would likely just last a week; her father said he wanted her to be safe. Kabanchuk tried her best not to cry.

It took 12 hours to get to the Polish border, then another 14 hours to cross it -- her bus was just one of dozens, all filled with Ukrainians leaving. Since the Russian invasion began, more than 12 million Ukrainians have fled their homes, including 5 million who have left the country.

Once she was in Poland, Kabanchuk's family friends picked her up and drove her to their home a few hours away. Her weeklong stay ended up lasting five months.

Cohen, an only child like Kabanchuk, grew up in Missouri. When she was in elementary school, she remembers her mom, Lori, passing a homeless person on a street corner while driving home. As soon as they arrived home, her mother made a sandwich, put together a boxed meal and drove back to the man to give it to him.

"It made such a big impression on me," Cohen said. "She was the kindest, most generous person I've ever met."

Her mother was diagnosed with melanoma and died when Cohen was 17.

Her father, Victor, worked as a real estate agent and landlord. He would often go out of his way to try to find shelter for someone in need. His grandparents had fled from Poland before World War II.

He was fighting leukemia when he caught COVID-19 two years ago.

He didn't survive the virus.

"I miss them so much every day," Cohen said.

Losing both her parents made her realize how much it had meant to grow up in a loving and safe environment. She knows her parents would have supported her decision to sponsor a person displaced by war.

"I often imagine what it would've been like to be a Jew during World War II, and how I would've hoped someone would be generous enough to shelter or hide me," she said.

Her decision to take in Kabanchuk felt like a way to honor her parents.

After the decision was made, Cohen and Kabanchuk filled out the paperwork online. It was quickly approved, and Kabanchuk arrived in St. Louis on July 14. As soon as Kabanchuk unpacked her suitcase, Cohen took her to her favorite bar to meet a friend. Kabanchuk was excited to discover what her life in St. Louis might be like, but also a bit scared.

Meeting Cohen and her friend made her feel less lonely.

Kabanchuk says she was fortunate to have her application for a work permit approved quickly. She constantly worries about her parents in Ukraine, as power outages can last for hours and it takes longer to receive a response to her messages. Nonetheless, she recently got her driver's license and landed a job as an administrative assistant. Even though Cohen has told her she is welcome to stay as long as she needs, Kabanchuk would like to be able to get her own apartment eventually.

She says that even when she does move out, she and Cohen will stay close and see one another regularly. Her dream is to be able to take Cohen to her home in Ukraine -- to meet her parents, to experience their culture and hospitality.

She talks about that day longingly.

A day when families can be reunited.

A day when the war is over.