Happy birthday to me! I'm 29—AGAIN!
And happy birthday to my sister! You know her as Udder Hysteria. And if you don't know her, go check her out! She's way sweeter than me, but she can't help it. It's that birth order thing. I am number one of the Brady Bunch and she is number four. Yes, I'm Marsha Marsha Marsha and she's Jan. We miss number six, our little Cindy, who is sadly, sadly no longer with us.
Though we were born on the same day, my middle sister popped out four years later, and there were two brothers in between us. Yeah, if you do the math, mom was busier than a stripper at a frat party. Guess she was practicing to be Catholic. How she managed to pull off a second birth on this most sacred of days is a testament to how well she had honed her baby-birthin' skillz. That, or Dad only practiced his religion on a certain day of the year.
So my sister and I are both 29 again, though obviously I've been 29 four years more than she has. This is why she comes to me for my expert advice, because my four hard-knocked years ahead of her really mean something of incomprehensible value and teach her all the things NOT to do. You're welcome, sis.
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| Circa 1970: Marsha and Jan |
Though we're not twins, my sister and I have so many moments of unspoken twin-like communication, it's scary. Our gut responses to the same stimuli (you know how I like to get all scientific) are incredibly similar if not identical. The notable difference is, she thinks things through before she reacts and then makes a plan for action. I, on the other hand, do not. Obviously, this is because I'm too busy leading the way, being the windshield that deflects the bugs. For her. Obviously.
The important thing is that nobody knows my bullshit better than she does. Nobody supports me more staunchly; nobody reads me more accurately; and nobody could make me prouder as a sister—though she's way too far away!
Happy birthday, Jan!
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