I fall. A lot.

Figuratively, literally; both my head and my behind seem to need constant, unexpected contact with terra firma. It would seem that the universe (if I believed in such a thing) was dead on when it had me born as a Capricorn, the ultimate earth sign. It was also playing a big joke when it had me born to a woman who wanted me to be dancer-- I spent much of the fourteen years of weekly ballet classes in a heap on the floor instead of gracefully in the air, but whatever. I’m also the girl who spent eight weeks in a cast on my leg from walking across the driveway. Yes, walking across the driveway. It’s not even a good story.

Over Labor Day weekend I had the honor of playing “The World’s Oldest Bridesmaid Barbie (tm)” for a beautiful and lovely friend. Now I’m going to level with you here: there is something truly pathetic and sad and totally like a Lifetime movie starring Jennifer Love Hewitt about this situation. See, I’m about to turn 40. Yes 40. And yes, even though I know that in Kabbalah 40 is some kind of enlightened number, blah blah blah, and that it’s just another day, and that Kabbalah is a total load of Ashton Kutcher crap, I’m perilously close to jumping to the next box in questionnaires. And I really don’t like it. Not to mention I’m about to be relegated to a totally new dating pool in my online quest for love (more on that later-- can’t wait to meet you, Wyldmustang, 65 in Canyon Country). So at this incredible three day wedding extravaganza that united two wholly young, gorgeous and abundant people I felt a little (OK, A LOT) sorry for myself. Which is both annoying and expected. But really. Who wants to be the broke, in-a-rut bridesmaid that has almost a decade on the next oldest bridal party member? It was totally Bridesmaids minus any humor on my part at all.