Life Lesson #37: You say it's your birthday...

Tomorrow, I will officially become a member of the Quarter Century Club.
I’ve been trying to surmise my feelings about this. I think shocked pretty much sums it up.

You see, I am not at all freaked out by being twenty-five. I don’t feel as if I’m getting old or that I’m not where I should be in my life. I don’t feel pressured to suddenly be making a certain amount of money or pop out some babies. I could care less about a few wrinkles or some grey hairs.

But I am totally, one thousand percent shocked. Where the hell have the last twenty-five years of my life gone?! I mean, seriously, I have been sitting at my desk all day, freaking out every time I look at the clock, only to discover that five minutes, not an hour, have passed by. Yet I can’t, for the life of me, figure out how years have just whipped by!

My parents threw a birthday soiree on Sunday in celebration. I managed to drag Madonna, Westchester, H.F.T. and Hansel along. I promised free food, alcohol, and highly inappropriate comments from Grandpa Al. I get the feeling they were not disappointed.

Throughout the day, my parents called me Penny. Because even though I’m turning twenty-five, they still call me by my nickname from childhood. I figure since it’s stuck, and it being the momentous occasion of me entering a new survey bracket, I’ll share with you just how Penny came to be.

It has to do with pooping.

First Stage, in which a seed is planted: Being in Caldor as my mom is buying some t-shirts for my older brother. I am still not potty trained, but I fall in love with some My Little Pony underwear. I grab the three-pack off the shelf and hug it to my chest.


“You want those?” my mom asked.

“Yes!”

“Well, then you have to learn to use the big girl bathroom. Can you do that?” she continued.

“Yes!”

“Okay, then you can have them,” She concluded.

“Yes!”

I became obsessed with my underwear, and maybe more importantly, making sure I told my mom every time I went to the bathroom. How else could I be sure she’d keep buying me big girl underwear?

“MOM! I poopied in the big girl bowl!” came from my lungs for several months. My brother delighted in making fun of me every time I made this announcement.

“Why do you have to tell the whole world you used the bathroom?” he asked as he laughed at me.

Second Stage, in which the seed takes root and an idea begins to grow: Sitting on the toilet in the bathroom, singing to my imaginary friend, Ed. He lived in the vent in the ceiling.

I didn’t really enjoy having to sing to Ed, but it was the only way he’d keep me company while I was in there. And since I was only in there for the underwear, I decided if that’s what he needed to stick around, so be it.

My mom, who was in the kitchen cooking dinner but insisted I keep the door open, god forbid I fall in and she have to save me or something, heard me jibber jabbering away.

“You okay in here?” she asked as she stuck her head in the door way.

“Yes! I’m just singing to Ed,” I said.
“Who?” my mom asked.

“Ed! He likes me to sing and then he stays,” I said.

“What?” she asked, still totally confused.

“Ed wants me to sing to him!” Why was she not getting this? Simple logic lady: you want someone to hang out with you, you do what they say.

“Who is Ed?” she kept bothering me.

“Mom! I can’t talk to you, I have to SING!”

Of course, my brother soon learned of my singing-while-pooping habit. The wheels were turning, I’m sure.

Third Stage, in which the nickname flowers: My brother promised me that by eating just one penny, I’d be able to make more come out of my butt whenever I wanted. Being too little to understand the value of each coin, I just assumed the penny, being gold and different from all the rest, was worth the most. The ability to make a whole bunch of them? I wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass me by!

My dad found me later that afternoon, kneeling next to the toilet, staring intently into the water as I hummed a tune to Ed.

“Hey, what are you doing?” he asked.

“Waiting for more pennies. It’s still just one,” I said.

He stood over me and looked in.
“How’d that get in there?!” he asked, probably grossed out at the gerbil size turd floating in the water with a penny stuck to it.

“From my butt. But there’s supposed to be more,” I answered.

“Does your mother know about this?” he asked me.

“I dunno. Can she poop pennies?!” I was suddenly excited. Maybe I wouldn’t have to worry after all. If mom could poop out pennies, well, I could just take hers.

Suddenly, my brother comes dancing in the bathroom, chanting in the tune of the ditty I was just humming to Ed:

Penny Penny Poop a Denny, has a boyfriend, his names Eddie, Penny Penny Poop a Denny, has a boyfriend, his names Eddie!!

And thus, a nickname was born. Shortened to Penny by most family members, but sometimes, used in full: Penny Penny Poop a Denny. With a boyfriend, of course, named Eddie.


Lifes Lesson # 37: I may be getting older according to my birth records, but I’m holding steady to Penny. Maybe because I feel, all these years later, like I've still got a part of that wacky child inside. I kind of hope that when I make it to the Third Quarter Century Club, she’s still bouncing around.

‘Cause she’s just a silly, little humming girl.