December is my favorite month. But not because of Christmas. No, December is my favorite month because that’s when my best friend becomes the same age as me again, after being younger for seven months. Margo and I have been friends more than fifty years. (Wow, when I read that sentence it’s scary.) We were both born in 1946. Naturally you’d think we’re the same age. No brainer. But believe it or not she denies it, on a technicality. She points out that I was born in May, but she was born in December, and that therefore she is younger than me for the seven months between our birthdays. Talk about hair-splitting! I think the basis of comparing our ages should be whole years only, but Margo disagrees.
The whole thing is a lot of fun actually. It gets more fun every year as we get older, and send each other humorous birthday cards suitably insulting to senior women: someone at an archeological dig, for instance, holding up a stone tablet and declaring, “We found your birth certificate, and it’s intact!” Or people standing in front of a massive ancient redwood tree over the caption, “Relatively speaking, you’re not that old.” Or an older woman telling her friend that she uses her boobs for knee cushions when she’s gardening. When I’m in the card section of a store, shoppers turn and look at me whenever I read a good one because I LOL without inhibition. The emphasis is on the second L, for LOUD. At least they haven’t seen me FOFL yet.
As I write this it’s late December, so we’re the same age again. I get to bask in that until May, right around the corner, when I’ll be the elder again and Margo can gloat. I can deal with that. After all, it’s temporary. In December 2016 the score will be evened up again, at…well, you can go back to the top and read when we were born and figure it out. I don’t want to make it too easy for you.
And so the beat goes on, hopefully for many more years of friendship and laughter and delightfully insulting birthday cards.