Cake in Excess

Yesterday I lingered in front of the mirror a little longer than usual. I stared at the wide open pores, the deepening lines that trail down from my nose to the outer edges of my thinning lips, the worry lines forming in between my brows. There are flyaway grays that I can no longer count and will not bother to pull. I am only a step or two away from a twisted bun, rolled stockings and bifocals.

I stepped back. Slowly. Away from the mirror. Why do we do this to ourselves?

My hands are looking more and more like my mother's. I used to look at my hands and think they didn't look any different than when I was a teenager. They were soft, creamy and begging to be held. Now, I see gray-blue veins and dry patches. My nails are short, uneven. But, thankfully, the coat of hair that has covered my arms since I was young is still there. Furry is a sign of youth, right? So lucky . . .

I remember when I was barely out of toddler-hood and my mom took me to a neighbor girl's birthday party. I had finally stopped stripping down to my underwear and streaking the neighborhood, so my mom felt that just maybe I might be ready to socialize in a more formal setting.

I loved being naked, nearly naked. I was fearless when I was naked.

We didn't have any money for presents, at least not really good presents (Silly Putty and those plastic rings with decals from the drugstore weren't even within our budget). Construction paper, scissors and a slew of broken crayons were all I needed for a real gift. "Homemade is so much better," my mother lied. Sometimes, I would even use glue and a few of nature's cast offs I found in the yard. I saved the pine cones and lilac sprigs for really special friends.

I didn't get parties (I still don't get parties--something about forced socialization makes my spine want to roll up and hide in my nether regions). But, I did get games. Games and cake.

Games were for winning. Cake was for scarfing.

Apple bobbing. I win. I might have to drink half the tub, but I would win.

Pin the tail on the donkey. One confident stick.

Tag. Please. Don't insult me. Keep in mind that I ran around the neighborhood naked. I called it training.

Pinata. Nice try.

Blowing out birthday candles. I knew I could always do it better. One breath. And it didn't even have to be a big breath. I was that good.

Cake. Biggest piece. "She's so tiny, where does she put it?" the adults would whisper. I would puff up with pride and an infusion of glucose.

The kids were in awe of me--the scrawny kid with scabbed knees, a faded t-shirt and lace-less shoes.

Nothing phased me.

JR carefully, methodically picked at the sprinkles on the cake, careful not to come in contact with the blue butter cream frosting.

"It's sweet! You'll like it," I spooned the frosting and lifted it to his mouth. He turned his head away and sneered as if to say, "You can't make me."

This evening JR and I shared a small white and butter cream cake snagged from the bakery of an infamous super mart. I missed my cake. Yesterday.

When I turned another year older (DO NOT wish me a happy your-getting-older-and-there-is-nothing-you-can-do-about-it day, AKA BIRTHday. I've moved on.)

What I miss most. Not creaseless skin. Not my gray-less long dark hair. Not the halcyon days of my blissful youth (insert sarcastic sigh here). Nope.

I miss that donkey. I miss running nearly naked (Wonder Woman Underoos--so fitting). I miss stuffing fistfuls of cake in my mouth, puffing out my cheeks and running to make sure I didn't miss taking the first swing at that pinata.

But then, I look at him, smearing the blue frosting around on his plate. Licking his fingers while simultaneously arching his back, demanding to be released from the confines of his booster.

And then he runs. I chase with a damp towel. He's faster than me (his sister-in-utero slows me down).

He's faster than me.

And then I see it . . . tag, pinatas, donkeys, cake in excess. He's going to be fearless . . . he IS fearless. Watching him while twirling my graying hair and pushing my glasses up on my nose . . . This is going to be very, very cool.


But this time, I'm totally springing for the Silly Putty (and a gallon of Oil of Olay).