When I was a little girl and my birthday was just around the corner, I couldn’t contain my excitement. With my parents and eight kids, our family had built-in birthday parties. I shared mine with my sister who was 4 years and 3 days older. But, our mother made sure we each got our favorite cake. Strawberry shortcake for her and chocolate on chocolate with a side of chocolate for me. And Pepsis for everyone. It was the only time we actually got real soda. Typically it was jugs of Kool-Aid in our fridge, which my older brothers affectionately called “bug juice.” I think it was to deter us younger kids from drinking it. But we were fearless and would live forever so we filled up our Flintstones jelly glasses over and over. But on birthdays, we each had a bottle of Pepsi.

“Away with this swill,” we’d declare as we pushed aside the watery bug juice and chugged our sodas.

Several decades later, things are a little different. I still love my birthday, don’t get me wrong. But my priorities have changed. Instead of dropping hints of a doll or cowboy guns and holster I eyed in a magazine, I’m making annual medical appointments. Like a classic car that was once shiny and new, this body of mine periodically needs some work so it’s easiest to remember to do it in my birthday month.

Some of my parts are rusty. Others need a tune up. While still others are may eventually need to be rebuilt. I wonder if I can ask for Sophia Vergara collection of spare parts.

Like a 20-step preventative maintenance & safety inspection, I open my calendar, get on the phone and start checking off the list:

Headlights – Fortunately mammograms are not necessary every year for women of my advanced years. It’s actually helpful now that my pretty and perkies are long and loose because I can just sit in a chair near the door and flop those girls up on the vice grip making it less involved for me.

Grill – Keeping up with cleanings and lying about flossing “at least once a day!” helps to avoid the dreaded gum planning. The words sounds nearly as awful as the procedure.

Radiator - Avoiding hormone supplements, I’ve managed to keep those hot flashes at bay with a great gift from my friend, Patti—a personal fan draped around my neck.

Under da hood – A tisket, a tasket, all my eggs were in that basket—once. Today there is nary an egg to be found. Not that I’m looking to make the Guinness Book of World Records for birthin’ no baby or anything but it’s sad to think that there’s an old codger out there still producing sperm while my factory was closed in the recession.

When the OB/GYN finished cracking it all open and reeling back his tools, he happily remarked. “Well, this is the last time for this!”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well at your age, medical recommendation is that you no longer need this…” and then muttered something about life expectancy, no point and a dried prune. At least that’s what I heard.

“Well, I beg to differ. I still need this!” I protested, flipping up my paper gown to reveal my aging nether regions.

“Oh, no,” he laughed. “That’s not what I mean. It’s just that there’s no medical reason to test you for certain issues related to your, well…

“Hoo ha?” I offered. “Doc, I’m an old lady. Just give it to me straight. Well, not really. I’m married to woman.”

Suddenly a red light went off in the room and he ran out, screaming “Emergency!” I’m sure it was connected to that wand he was holding to trigger an alarm to go off to get him out of the room.

I’m continuing my yearly ritual of fluid replacement, alignments, and recharging the battery. This year, it includes a better fitting bra to refine the shock absorbers so I can continue to strut this ’53 Model J for many more years to come.

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Copyright 2017 Judy Lane