49

I am probably someone who tends to take stock at various times of year, perhaps obsessively and a little too much. New Year's obviously. Or every fall which seems like a new year, or at least did when I was beholden to academic calendars. Birthdays too, and this one finds me entering what impossibly is my fifth decade, a half-century, at age 49. This is one of my favorite birthday photos, complete with a much-coveted Barbie cake I had been pestering my mom for.  Judging by my hair length and color, I was probably 5 or 6 here. Earlier, my sister posted a photo of me hovering over a terrible cake I decorated myself with an ocean theme and horrible bangs, still blonde and sweatshirted as I always was then, and turning 18. It's amazing that photo exists, likely snapped by my mom on my camera (I vaguely remember photos with friends later playing ski-ball with my friends, but those may have been among our prom weekend photos.) I don't remember much about that 18th birthday other than that photo and that sad cake. That girl thought she knew everything. But really she knew nothing. 

Today, I wake up a little earlier and instead of the usual muffins, eat the final slice of the small square frozen grocery store fudge cake I bought a couple days and have been working through each night steadily for dessert. I make coffee. I finish up the dishes I left in the sink last night. Today, I have quite a bit of work to do, but it's good work and I am trying to clear my queue since I am spending the weekend at my sister's. I start the day by making arrangements with the artist I've been talking to about finally getting the botanical tattoo I've been talking about and planning for almost 4 years that got delayed due to bravery and money and then Covid. I have articles to finalize and decor things to write, plus my daily NAPOWRIMO piece to somehow make materialize. I will figure out what to make for dinner. Tonight, J will come over and maybe bring more cake and cocktails and we'll probably try to watch a movie but may fall asleep. (mostly because its late and we'll be no-doubt high and neither of us are 18 anymore).

I will, of course, for the first year, be missing both my parents from the equation. My mother, who would have called me at night no matter the day. My father, who didn't necessarily call me, but would, days before or after, be like "That's right, it's gonna be / it was your birthday!. He would then, next time I saw him, hand me a card filled with cash (some of the same cash I've been hoarding to finally get that tattoo.) It's the first birthday I've been entirely parent-less and it feels strange and not quite right. 

What 49 will bring, who knows?  There is a new book on the horizon, collapsologies, aka the 2020 dumpster fire book we've all written, that I will start some final edits on in May and release over the summer. I have plans for more postcards and bookish things and getting through the tardy chaps that were due out in the fall and were delayed. There might be more surprises and good news shaking around that will eventually spill. 

That 5 or 6-year-old would be stoked as hell to see the new Barbie movie when it drops this summer. The 18-year-old would be happy to know that those silly poems she scribbles in her diary and on pen-pal stationery and lined notebook paper will somehow make up a huge portion of her life one day. That she will live in the city she so badly wanted to.   She didn't know about the internet or streaming or online shopping or any of the things that would play a big role in her current life but would have told you you were making shit up if you described them to her.  She still liked horror movies and cats (another photo I have somewhere from this session I think has me holding my cat in fact.). My fashion sense was not developed and I was knee-deep in diet culture hell, but thankfully things would get better on both fronts.  She would have told you she would be a scientist but instead would be a poet, which sometimes feels like the same kind of thing.