Happy Birthday, Saggyskirts!


Some people go drinking on their 22nd birthdays. Some go to Europe with friends. Some play World of Warcraft until 3am. I, however, decided to branch out a bit.

On Tuesday, my 22nd birthday, I turned eighty-two years old.

22 Is the Happiest Number | Flickr

I know. The math doesn't quite seem to add up, but it's true. Somehow, I managed to skip through sixty years of life without suffering the effects of gravity on my boobs or gathering any wisdom along the way.

You see, I woke up on Tuesday, September 4th, 2007, and couldn't walk. I picked up a sexy hobble instead. This may be the result of going downtown Chicago for the annual Jazz Fest and getting shoved off of a sidewalk by drunk people and losing my balance and tearing an imaginary muscle in my foot . . . Or it may be the result of old age.

On Wednesday, I walked into my mother's office with the purpose of asking her a question. I forgot the question the second my mouth began to open. I stood there dumbly, took a candy bar from the basket on her bookshelf, and hobbled away. This could be because I'm absent-minded, or it could be a sign of old age.

Just yesterday, it took me five hours to notice that I had only painted one fingernail before going to bed. I can't even think of any other reason for this except that I'm getting old and senile.

I had to ask the tech guy at church this morning to adjust the new in-ear headsets the band was using because I couldn't hear very well in my right ear. This might be because I've spent the past eight years of my life playing piano on stage with a monitor blaring into my right ear, or it might be my old age kicking in.

If you stop by my house, though, and I yell at you to get off my lawn or offer to bake you cookies or attempt to knit you a sweater in primary colors, don't be surprised. Just get off my lawn, eat a cookie, and wear a sweater for your dear old granny, mmkay?