I am 49 today. Dear God, I am 49.
I am 14, surprised by my friends with dinner, presents, and a sleepover singing Duran Duran, Adam Ant, and David Bowie.
I am 30, throwing myself a party. Slightly derailed that life’s plans aren’t following my exact marching orders. Praying for a baby soon.
I am 16, and my father, in a blue suit and red tie, is pulling out my chair for me at The Petroleum Club. We are dining on French onion soup and Chateaubriand. We are dancing on the parquet wooden floor to the Lawrence Welk-imitation band, and he is humming along in my ear.
I am 5, playing pin the tail on the donkey on the patio of our house on Meadowcrest. Sweltering hot October in Texas, the elastic from the party hat digging into my sticky chin.
I am 20 something and dancing on a table at The Barley House.
I am 40, swaddling a newborn, weeping from lack of sleep mixed with pure joy.
I am 10 and staring up at Big Tex, wondering how they got him there. I’m begging for Salt Water Taffy, praying it doesn’t come back up when I’m on the Tilt-a-Whirl.
I am 37, and it’s the first birthday that I haven’t heard my Dad’s voice say, “Happy birthday, Tootsie!” I am with my three-year old at the park, watching her dig in the playground gravel with a sand shovel and pail.
I am 49, and I’m perpetually shuttling kids around in my car, chronically tired, yet recklessly happy.
And planning my 50th birthday blowout.