Marsha Marsha Marsha

I meant to post an update on the novel. Ever since I eliminated that character, the story flows better. It makes sense now. Not as many loose ends, pointless dialogue, etc. I actually banged out an entire new chapter last weekend. And that was after spending half of my day off in line at the DMV waiting to change my name (hey, I got married a year ago, no need to rush these things). When you change your name, you have to get a whole new license. They don’t take away the old one – they just punch a hole on the edge to invalidate it. When I stuck it back in the little clear plastic thingy in my wallet, I noticed that the hole wasn’t visible anymore. So my first thought, like any good girl who has (Mom, close your eyes) faked losing her license after turning 21 so she could get a new one and pass it on to an underage friend, “Hey, I can give this to someone – maybe one of my little brother’s friends.” Then I started waxing nostalgic about my first fake ID when I was 19, from a girl named Marsha Wilkerson. Marsha and I waitressed together, and I will never forget her name, address, height or date of birth, forwards or backwards. Marsha’s license worked well for me – she was only three years older and she really did look kind of like me. But it only lasted about 3 months before I got it taken away at some cheesy night club in Buffalo owned by a former Buffalo Bills quarterback who shall remain nameless.

So I sat there, thinking about my first fake ID, and Marsha, getting this little glowing feeling in my stomach – kind of like when you volunteer or donate money somewhere – because giving my license to one of my brother’s friends would just be the Right Thing To Do.

And then I remembered that I’m 30 years old, and that no 19-year-old would ever pass for 30, especially my brother’s uber-cutie girlfriends, and that my days of passing on the torch of fake IDs has long passed. *Sighs wistfully.* (Okay, Mom, you can open your eyes again.)

It’s weird being 30. Almost 31, actually. I remember when I was little and my parents were in their 30s, and we used to think that they and their friends were just so old and so lame! Now, I’m there, and my friends are there (some are even closer to 40, not mentioning any names), and it just doesn’t feel right.

Maybe that’s why I have to write about high school. As much as I hated it, I guess I’m not done there yet. Maybe I need to troll the local schools for new book ideas. “Excuse me, miss, yeah you, how much do you hate your life right now? Tell me about it. No, really. I’ll pay you. Well no, not right now exactly, but when the book sells. It’s kind of like investing in a start-up. No? Okay, do you want to buy a fake ID instead?”