Aging: A Timeline

Birth:  I was a girl.  My parents were thrilled.  Because they were big fans of horse stuff, my birth announcement read:  “It’s a Filly!” and all of my vitals were listed in horse speak. 

Age 20 months:  Martie was born and the entire scale of my world changed.  I loved that baby like you could not believe.  I was now Big Sister.  She was now Little Sister.  And the friendship began. 

Age 5:  Madre began explaining to Martie and me about the birds and the bees.  She did this with diagrams.  We were grossed out.

Age 8:  Madre had explained about the birds and the bees so much that it was old news.  Still grossed out.

Age 10:  Madre got remarried and I got two brothers.  Ew.

Age 13:  The Squirt was born and the entire scale of my world changed, again.  I loved that baby like you could not believe.

Age 15:  I got my first car, a 1969 Karmann Ghia convertible.  It had no radio, a top that had been slashed, a dashboard that was crumbling, and the original paint job which had faded from red to an odd pink color.  I loved that car.

Age 16:  My first kiss.  I was pounced upon by a boy that I had a crush on FOREVER.  And it was . . . . kind of gross.  I remember thinking to myself, “I waited all that time for this?”  As teenagers, Phranke and I dissected the entire event to pieces and I still think it was kind of gross. 

Age 16, also:  I failed my driving test.  The driving part.  Ridiculing ensued.

Age 17:  I passed my driving test.  With flying colors.

Age 17, also:  Martie and I had our most memorable fight, ever.  We were arguing in front of our friends when I thought it would be a grand idea to spit my gum in her face.  In retaliation, she grabbed my purse, stuck it under the tire of her VW Bug and ran over it a couple of times, thus solidifying our best friend status.  We have no idea what we were fighting about. 

Age 18:  I headed off to college. 

Age 19:  I went to Europe.  I fell in love with Michelangelo’s David. 

Age 20:  My 20th birthday happened in Chamonix.  I cried because I was no longer a teenager.  I also made out with an Italian guy named Luigi.  It was not gross.    

Age 21:  I graduated from college.  I said good-bye to some of the best friends I have ever known.  We promised to stay in touch.  We have.

Age 22:  I got a tattoo.

Age 22 and a half:  I regretted that tattoo.

Age 23:  I moved to Alabama.  Why?! Why!

Age 24:  I became a Christian. (Maybe that was why . . . .)

Age 27:  I got married.

Age 29:  I bawled my eyes out because I was “old”.  In the midst of my bawling, I hit the Dillard’s counter wailing about my “wrinkles” and “decrepit skin”.  They saw me coming a mile away and took me for every cent I had.  A few hundred dollars later I owned a large chunk of their skincare collection which did nothing to erase my “wrinkles” and “decrepit skin”. 

Age 30:  Pooh was born.  I loved that baby like you could not believe. 

Age 33:  I got divorced.  

Age 34:  Tigger was born.  I loved that baby like you could not believe.

Age 34, also:  I moved to Nashville. 

Age 37:  I had my only hangover ever.  It was Not Pretty. 

Age 37, also:  I broke my first bone.  It was my pinkie toe and it made me curse copious amounts. 

Age 38:  I fretted a lot because my eyes were “old”.   Martie gave me some eye cream and an explanation that it smelled like “rotten asshole.”  I felt certain that something that smelled like “rotten asshole” would definitely work because everyone knows that beauty treatments are not always pleasant.  I used it faithfully and every time the hot air from my hair dryer would hit my face, the heated smell of “rotten asshole” almost made me varmint. My eyes still look exactly the same. 

Age 39:  Gosh, I don’t know yet.  I plan on spending lots of years here, at 39.  So far, one day into it, it’s been amazing. 

I have received a ton of phone calls and emails and text messages from assorted friends and family members.  I got pineapple cupcakes.  And some cards.  And a really sweet magnet that says:  Better Buy Me Another Drink.  You’re Still Ugly.   

Phranke sent me this message:  Happy Birthday.  Welcome to 39.  It’s a very good year.

And Quan sent me this message:  HAPPY BIRTHDAY JIMMIE!  I got you something but let’s be honest….it will never make it to you.  I’m about to tear into it now.   (PS – it did have a malt ball on top but I already ate it.)

Finally, tonight Billie and I are watching this:


Birthdays are wonderful.  I love them.  Thank you to all of the best friends I’ve met along the way (I’m talking to you Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee and Alabama!).  I luff you all.  And thank you to all of the best family I’ve been lucky enough to get.  I luff you all, too.  Special thanks to Madre for enduring several hours of labor and yelling and swearing and cursing to get me here.  I know I’m your favorite. You don’t have to tell Martie.  ♥

Oh, while I’m at it, being all older and wiser and stuff, I should “Impart Wisdom” to you again.  When using power tools, I’ve learned it’s best to wear closed-toed shoes.  This is what happens when you drop an electric hand sander that is currently in the “on” position on your naked toe.  Ow.  Time for a pedicure! 


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