I am riding the bus and thinking how I am going to be 40 tomorrow. I am hoping I wake up feeling dignified, distinguished, sophisticated, and wise to the ways of the world. I am hoping that every hair on my head will look as if it supposed to be there and my clothing will always fit just right. I am hoping that no matter where I go I will look put together, match, and that my lip gloss is always the right color for my skin tone. I am hoping that this late in life pimple of the week will jump ship and go bother someone more age appropriate. I will wake up listening to classical music and opera and only watch documentaries and foreign films worthy of an Oscar nod. I will order gluten free and understand it. I will be satisfied with a small cute sliver of cheese cake and drink diet cokes with a slice of lemon on the rocks. I will have a charming laugh that rings the ears like a tinkling bell and always mind what I say.
You know, I hope I wake up grown.
But what I am sure what will happen is I will be the same girl I was all my life. I will have no sophistication about me and the only wisdom will be from what life handed me and the part time buddhism I practice. I will feel like the strongest, most liberated woman in the world until someone throws a cheesecake down in front of me and I turn to a kitten. I will listen to my eclectic playlist of Muse, Waylon Jennings, Lil’ Wayne, Tool, Modest Mouse, Tom Petty and so on. I will always say the wrong thing at the wrong time, my hair will always be out of place, and my laugh will always be the same out of control hellish giggle. I will continue to be the same, clumsy, pout, baby poor sport. I will still continue to NOT step on the cracks and pick up pennies when they are heads up. I will still cringe when I see a balloon because I know at any second it can pop. I will still scream “Mama!” when I get a paper cut or stub my toe. And I will continue to believe that a good John Travolta movie can pull you out of any funk.
Yeah. I’m still that rez chick.
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