Today is my baby cousin’s birthday.
I call her my baby cousin, as if I have some kind of seniority. She’s prettier, thinnier, richer, smarter and a better athlete. She puts the word ‘doctor’ before her name because she earned it, and she commutes to work in Washington, D.C. from her home on the beach in California.
My only seniority is being six years older, which isn’t as exciting as it was when I was in my 20s.
Today is her birthday, but because I’m egocentric, I thought I’d talk about my birthday, and how she brightened it.
As you know, I turned 40 only just. I said in my head, I spent my young, firm-body years wishing I had the courage to get my belly button pierced. I’m fast becoming an old hag. I’m on the cusp of its being ridiculous. It’s now or never.
So I made an appointment with a plastic surgeon, who put me under to do it. This is how big a sissy I am.
The man couldn’t help but notice the toll five years of lactating took on the breasts he had to tie out of the way to do the piercing.
He urged me to get a boob job. I stood firm – you know, figuratively — and just got the piercing.
Here’s where my baby cousin comes in.
She sent me one of the two funniest birthday cards I’ve ever gotten, (Fred Bauman sent me the other.) It showed two blue-haired wrinkly old biddies playing poker.
One of them has a speech bubble that says, “I’m thinking of piercing my belly button.” The other says, “Really?”
On the inside she replies, “That way I can put a hook in it to hold up my bra.”