Yesterday was my sister Malibu Barbie's twelfth birthday. So, even though today was our first official day of homeschooling and the whole family had dentist appointments today, we made it a point to drive over to my mom's for the big celebration. There wasn't really a big celebration. It was just our family of four and the 47 people that currently reside at my parents' house. So just a small get-together. With cake. Glorious sweet carbs.
I didn't really go for Malibu Barbie though. I didn't even go for the extra calories. I went because deep down I have a soft spot for 12th birthdays. Why? Because my own 12th was so...what's the best way to put this...angsty.
I was sure that my birthday was going to be amazing, no, not just amazing, AMAZING that year. At 12 years old I was certain that all people of the universe, near and far would stop on this glorious day and celebrate the awesomeness that is me. Now that I think of it, I haven't really matured that much since then. Um, yeah, back to the epic story of my twelfth birthday.
The day was doomed from the start. My parents left around breakfast, some mumbo jumbo about legal proceedings. Yeah right, Mom and Dad, everyone knows that they don't practice any kind of legal stuff on birthdays. So there I was: abandoned and all alone on my birthday (except Jessica and Jay were there).
My parents guilt eventually brought them home (aka their legal woes cleared themselves up). Then they took me to the roller skating rink because it was my birthday. Also my birthday happened to fall on the same day of the week that we usually went roller skating. The skating rink was full of my friends. (Friends: people my age whose names I knew.) Even the guy I was crushing on was there. This birthday had transformed from a gray, dreary day of neglect into a magic wonderland of sparkly that only a twelve year old could imagine.
Then they announced "Ladies Choice," and I worked up my courage and asked my crush to skate. I'm sure you have images flashing through your mind of two awkward preteens holding hands as they skate under the sparkles of the disco ball. That would have been a nice memory I'm sure, but instead he said, "No." I went to my mom's car and cried like I had just learned that I was dying. I was not being melodramatic; I was being twelve.
The moral of this long-winded exceptionally dull and embarrassing story is that if you are turning twelve, I will roller skate with you because only a jerk would shoot a girl down on her birthday.
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