1978. Mary VanGordan and I closed our eyes and asked the Ouiji Board questions. "How old will I be when I die?" 4-2, wrote Mary's sister as the glass whisked around the board.
1986. On my nineteenth birthday, my dad sent a card with a pin inside that said, "Life begins at 40." Not much time I quickly realized, after doing the math.
The years I spent, with no retirement plan or financial consequences, officially passed yesterday. I can now call out the Ouiji board for being a dirty rotten liar and let the living begin.
Voicemail from my sister: "Happy birthday, flashdance sisterpants! I hope you're not working. I hope you're drunk, in a gutter somewhere, on your birthday. You don't want to talk, I understand. If you want to talk, call me back. If you're in a gutter, sleep tight. I love you. Goodbye."