35

Holy shit. It's coming.
I've been having some long talks with my all-time BFF this week. She's quiet and lovely and keeps things to herself; in our 20+ year friendship, I have seen her cry maybe twice. So when she called and was wavery in the voice, I knew the news was not good.
However, there are two sides to it...it's never good when a long relationship ends, but good comes out of it if you end up happier, right? And she is. The last three conversations we've had about it were more about the weight off of her shoulders, the joy in her heart at not having to pretend anymore, and hopefulness, which has been missing from her beautiful face for far too long. I just love her to death, and I think now we are going to make some serious plans to spend the second half of our lives closer to each other. Our friendship is Hallmarkable fo shiz, since we became very fast friends at an early age and even though she moved away 6 months later, we have always stayed just the way we were to each other when we were fourteen. She truly is the most precious gift I've been given.
Her birthday is next week. She is the first of my childhood friends to turn 35, and now I am OBSESSED with it. Next Wednesday, the day before her birthday, marks exactly three months until I turn 35. Thirty five. Thirty. Five. I have been fine with every other single birthday I have ever had. This one, not so much.
First of all, I have a lot of things/ideas associated with this impending number. I was 12 when my mother turned 35, and shortly thereafter she freaked out and left town with our tv and all of my childhood things packed into the back of an Oldsmobile I would inherit when I got to college. I have three 'Plans B' in effect for when I turn 35 with three different boys. If they all work out, look for some polyandry on N. 14th St come July, though I doubt I can actually lay claim on them. I have to stop smoking and start having annual hoo-haw lookie-loos and breast exams. My children are more likely to come out retarded, if I have them at all. My skin will be less pliable, my wrinkles deeper, my hair thinner, my ass fatter, my chance of every single disease in the world increased ten-fold, and I'll probably have a full beard within a week. Basically, I expect to wake up on July 1 looking like my grandma.
Of course I know this isn't true. And I promised myself a fantastic birthday gift. Maybe this sounds insane, but when I turned 18 and had my first tattoo, and the long-lost Teshannon and I were smoking cigarettes in a parking lot while picking off the dried blood, I said to her, in a conversation I recorded plainly in my journal at the time, "Tanna", because that's what I called her, "If I am not married or am divorced at 35, I am gonna have this turned into a sleeve that covers almost all of my arm." "Why?" she asked, to which I replied, "Well, the only reason to not get a sleeve, really, is so that you look good in your wedding dress, right? And if I haven't worn one by then, I'm probably not going to. So, why not get a great big tattoo to commemorate it?"
Voila.
2009.
35 years old.
Made the appointment today.

It's gonna be the best part of this birthday, and to be honest, I can't wait. :)