I am 33 years old, so my twelfth birthday was just over 20 years ago. I can’t even believe I’m saying that. My best friend and I were reflecting just today on how crazy it was to think that we’ve had certain things in our possession, things like tongs and pans and children for 6 years, 10 years, 15 years. Not so very long ago, this duration of time was unfathomable; a lifetime to my adolescent self.
I barely remember my twelfth birthday. Jim Morrison once wrote a poem that’s been one of my favorites since I stumbled across it in high school because it strikes me as true. A rock star’s truth and my truth, parallel universes and worlds apart:
As I look back over my life
I am struck by postcards
of a time, I can’t recall
So for my twelfth birthday, I have flashes of memories in my head that are somewhat confirmed by my mom’s old photo albums. I think it was a slumber party. I am pretty sure that I invited a bunch of girls that weren’t really my friends, simply because they were the cool girls and everyone who was anyone invited them to their parties. I remember one of them being a bitch – I hadn’t really wanted to invite her. She topped it off by throwing up all over my mom’s rug. In reality, it was insignificance followed by 20+ years of other mostly insignificant things, broken up by bits of truly significant and beautiful things.
I can’t believe I have an almost twelve year old child now. She soon will be planning her epic twelfth birthday party. Me? I’ll be there with my camera.