IT’S MY (TWIN) BIRTHDAY

Fifty two years ago today, I was born in Houston, Texas, just twenty months after my sister, Suzanne. I’m told that we got along very well though we are very distinct individuals. She loved dresses, I preferred cowboy boots. She played with dolls, I loved my brown Tonka truck. She colored inside the lines, I caught frogs in jars. On my fifth birthday, something radical happened . . . a third sister was born! “Your little birthday present came today!” Honey and Papa breathed with reverence. “I didn’t ask for a baby” I whispered grudgingly. Seven year old Suzanne was thrilled—another doll to play with. I thought babies were boring—Amy wasn’t any fun. A few days later, I went to kindergarten and after that, I have absolutely no memories of my sister for a few years. I’m told we got along very well (even though she's REALLY unique!). Suzanne and I played school, Amy dressed the cat in doll clothes. Suzanne and I cheered at football games, Amy went to Gran's house to make pralines. Amy was obsessively neat, I was creatively messy. Suzanne and I left for Baylor, Amy . . . a few more years I don't remember.

I do have memories of what happened every year around our birthday. Money and time were tight and our mom wasn’t going to make two birthday cakes or hold two birthday parties the same week . . . so began the illusion of the twin birthday. One year, Amy got to choose the cake; the next year, I could choose. One year Amy got to have a birthday party; the next year was my turn. In my mind, that really stunk. Suzanne’s birthday was December 27 and she got the full treatment two days after Santa came. The only redeeming thing about sharing a birthday with Amy was the several years she was convinced that we would cease to have a twin birthday if she didn’t do exactly what I said. I also may have fabricated something about finding her in the gutter and deciding to let her share my birthday since we weren’t certain when she was born. If you’ve ever read The Birth Order Book, you’ll recognize that I was the quintessential middle child!

You’ll be relieved to know that I finally outgrew those childish attitudes and began to enjoy the novelty of being born on the same day as my sister. Most years, Amy sends me a card that says “Happy [one year older than I really am] Birthday”; my annual reminder that she’ll always be five years younger. Revenge works. Now that we’ve lived 661 miles apart for twenty two years, I’d give anything to share a birthday cake or party with her.

My birthday wish this year? I’d love to meet a number of people who were born the same day, same year as me. In my lifetime, I’ve only met one, and he married my cousin Bonnie. It’s a cosmic feeling to know that someone else entered the world on exactly the same day as you—that's a real twin birthday!! So if you and I happen to share August 30, 1956 (or any other year), let’s celebrate the gift of life together in wonder.

On Simplicity: I was Going Through My Closet . . .

If I really prefer to go barefoot, why do I own FORTY pairs of shoes? One may avoid that question by meditating upon more than 2,700 pairs of shoes that Imelda Marcos left behind when she and her dictator husband fled the Philippines in 1986. Some claim that her shoe collection once numbered 5,400! She later corrected this gross exaggeration. “I did not have 3,000 pairs of shoes,” she clarified, “I had 1,060” (If she changed her shoes three times a day, it would take her almost an entire year--353 days--to wear them all)! Thank you for clearing that up for the millions of poverty-stricken Philippinos you and Ferdinand left behind. So . . . when I was cleaning downstairs yesterday, I found six pairs of my shoes between the front door and my closet—probably because I have always preferred to go barefoot. One of my earliest childhood memories is the scrumptious feeling of the cold hardwood floor on my hot, bare feet when I entered Mr. Pinno’s store in Marlin, Texas. He didn't have a sign that read, "No shirt, no shoes, no service." Even when my mother argued that I would catch my death, cut my foot open (I did), get third degree burns or ruin my arches, my always-painted circus toes had to be free to wiggle and breathe. Never mind that I smashed my big toe in the car door when we took a car trip to Estes Park, Colorado. “Honey” (my grandmother) wouldn’t quit singing, “To Bear Lake, to Bear Lake to see all the snow; Home again, home again with a busted toe!” “BURST”, my English-teacher mother corrected, horrified.

Refocusing on my initial question, let me clarify why I need my forty pairs of shoes. First of all, some aren’t really SHOES . . . there is a pair of slippers under my bed that my mother gave me before I had surgery three years ago (so I wouldn’t catch my death or get pinworms in the hospital). I have eight pairs of boots that I’ve had for years—in a place like Nashville, you can’t give those away, especially my red Baby Lamas and pink “Chukka” boots. You can’t really count the six pairs of pumps, or the four pairs of rubber thongs—sorry, six—there are two pairs on the top shelf with my painting clothes. I hardly ever wear any of those, but you have to match at weddings, funerals and the beach. My seven pairs of “flats” keep my feet close to the barefoot position and don’t ruin my arches, Mother. My four pairs of "mules" are definitely needed because they can be kicked off in a flash—and I actually LOVE my turquoise Dr. Scholl’s western mules--except I can't wear them with capris until I turn 70. Of course one must have a pair of athletic shoes—I do. Finally, I couldn’t do without my five pairs of SANDALS—about the closest thing there is to barefoot when you are required to wear shoes!

Slippers + 8 + 6 + 6 + 7 + 4 + 1 + 5 . . . oh, technically I only have THIRTY-EIGHT pairs of shoes. Dang it!! I forgot my garden shoes in the garage and my very fun “hobbit” shoes that Joel and I found at a consignment store--they are in their own category--making a family memory. Okay I really must keep the shoes. I won't buy any more for a long time. Now, I must go work on my Gospel Transformation lesson. Is it on Self-Justification? No, that was last week’s lesson. Anyway, if I ever visit the Philippines or Manila, I probably won’t drive to Marikina to see Imelda Marcos’ shoe collection at The Shoe Museum, but before she dies, I would love to ask her to elaborate on why she owned a bulletproof bra.