It’s my birthday this week. I should be thrilled, right? Well, I’m not. I don’t want to turn twelve years old. If anything, I want to go backwards – to get younger. Or, if that’s not possible, I’d like to at least stop getting any older. I just don’t want to grow up. Is that so bad? Well, is it?
I know what you’re thinking. I’m thinking it too. I had just hoped that, maybe, if I ignored it, it would cease to be true somehow.
But, it hasn’t. And it won’t.
It’s official. I have finally turned it into exactly what I was so afraid of becoming all along. I am THE GIRL WITH THE DEAD MOTHER.
What else could possibly explain the fact that I am actually upset about turning twelve years old? TWELVE YEARS OLD!!!!! It’s completely ridiculous. I should be thrilled. And I would be, I think, if it weren’t for the fact that I have lopsided breasts and a dead mother.
Because, let’s face it, there is simply no avoiding the fact that, as I grow (older), my breasts are going to grow as well. They’re going to grow larger and larger, and more and more lopsided.
No matter how hard I try to stay optimistic about my future, my deformed breasts are always going to be there – a daily reminder that (if I’m anything at all like my dead mother) I have less than twenty years left to live.
Think about that for a moment. And then tell me why I should be happy about getting another year older. I’m sorry, but knowing that I’ll be able to drive a car soon (or vote for the President of the United States), can’t possibly make up for the fact that, whenever I talk about “the rest of my life,” I’m probably talking about only nineteen years…. Nineteen years!!
I mean, come on! Everybody knows that life doesn’t even really start until a person reaches her twenties anyway. So, what kind of future does that leave me? Not much of one, that’s for sure.
Which is why, despite the fact that my father has been pushing me to have a humongous birthday party (and invite everyone that I have ever met in my whole entire life), I haven’t even wanted to acknowledge the fact that I’m aging at all (let alone celebrate it).
We’ve been arguing about it for weeks. And, even though for a while it seemed as if we’d never reach a compromise, in the end we finally worked everything out. I agreed to have a birthday party this Friday night (a sleepover), and my father agreed to a (very) limited number of guests (only six girlfriends, to be exact).
I wish that I could say that I’m excited about it, but I’m not. In fact, if you want to know the absolute truth, I’m pretty much dreading the whole thing.