The One with Tiffany’s Birthday

There is a part of my mind, way in the back, on the right side.
It’s a little dusty and cobwebby; old, and I can’t always see it very well.
But it’s happy; made up of bicycle wheels, fishing nets, Barbie doll dresses, bagels and peanut butter, crayfish claws and clay. It’s made up of the time when I still had a set of brown bunk beds in the corner of my room and she would sleep on the bottom bunk, every Friday night. Sometimes Saturday too.
There is a part of my mind that holds my childhood and she makes up most of it.
Tiffany.
Even her name sounds like 20 years ago, when we would perform skits and dance along to our favorite songs at family events. When we would make driftwood forts along creek beds or between the crevices of mossy rocks.
When we would pretend to be the adults we are today.
It’s hard to imagine the thought of wanting to be older then, when sometimes all I want to be these days is young again.
Tiffany. She is turning 26 years old today.
And all I can think about is every hot, summer day in August, just like this one, when we would celebrate another year closer to adulthood.
I do believe she has finally made it.

The house smells of Bloodhounds. Probably because one lives here, along with one Bluetick Coonhound.
The walls are a dark navy blue and framed pictures of her and her boyfriend at different racing events line the walls. The living room is cozy and made up of two couches pushed together in the shape of an L, towels and blankets hang over the cushions to collect hound hair.
The kitchen is clean and tidy. Pictures I have sent her from my disposable camera are taped to the fridge and it makes me feel grateful to know she still thinks of me. A coffee machine sits on the edge of the kitchen counter, ready to go for tomorrow morning, with 2 Christmas mugs beside it. Their bedroom is at the other end of the house. A king-sized bed, where I can envision them snuggled up every night, takes up most of the maroon colored room. They use the spare bedroom as their closet space and the bathroom is simple with no windows.
This is her house.
The place she lives, sleeps, cooks, cleans and can make all her own if she wants to.
It is the first time I had seen her house since being back in New York. For years I tried to imagine it and now finally I can picture her here. Decorating at Christmas, her favorite season, and watching Nascar races on Sunday.
She says she doesn’t care for the Interstate that runs not even half a mile from where the house stands, but you can barely hear the rush of speeding cars.
“You have a house Tiff. Don’t you remember the days when we used to play house? Now you have one,” I lean down to pet the old Bloodhound, “and two dogs to go along with it.”
We laugh, as my hand becomes smeared with dog slobber.

I love how humble she is.
She will never admit she owns a growing and successful business, or the fact that she is a natural beautician. She pampers and makes others look beautiful for a living. Rarely is she the one relaxing in the chair receiving a pedicure.
She still has the best toenails in town though.
For her 18th birthday, I remember deciding to give her a makeover and photoshoot. I wanted her to feel like a spoiled princess on this magical day that only comes once a year.
Instead of buying and wrapping up a present, I turned my room into a part serenity day spa, part Hollywood dressing room.
My bed was piled high with only my chicest items of clothing, my dresser was taken over with eye shadows, glitter, mascara, and eyeliners of every color. I turned on the curling iron and had the hair spray handy. The royal soundtrack of Marie Antoinette blared in the background. I rounded up every essential prop I could find like my old guitar, a pink parasol, vintage suitcases, pearl necklaces, feathered hats, and a variety of shoes and high heels.
I bought a disposable camera to use only on her; to take pictures of the extravagant outfits she would wear and parade around in.
I remember closing her eyes and leading her into her very own dress-up room; a world most little girls have dreamt about.
“Sit down and let me do all the work,” I tell her as I grab for the comb and let the magic begin.

This birthday tradition lasts for only a few years. I soon leave for college and date a boy whose birthday falls the day after hers and for two summers I take off to New Hampshire to spend it with him. And then I move away and then as every person should, Tiffany falls in love.
Tiffany and Fred started dating three years ago.
They met while out snowmobiling one Saturday night.
She always said winter was her season, despite being born in August. I think someday she’ll have her wedding on Christmas eve, under a full moon and a heavy blanket of snow.
She has always wanted to get married and have a family.
Playing house as little girls, she was always the one with at least four children, a loyal husband and a yard full of pets.
I was always the one with the second marriage, adopted set of twins, and one long-haired cat.
It’s amazing how at such a young age you begin to become the person you grow up to be.
How your childhood predicts your adulthood in some way or another.
How the house she has today is the one she imagined so long again.
And her fairy tale ending is not far from coming true.

***

Happy Birthday to that piece of my mind.
To that corner of my memory, to the star of my childhood.
May you always glisten and glow, sparkle and shine, love and keep laughing, like the model you were in those photoshoots and the woman you are today.
May you never stop living your dream.