Happy Birthday to K

Today is my oldest friend's birthday. Not oldest as in age, oldest as in most experienced. We met on a frigid Saturday morning, the very first ever Orlando Scottish Highland Games. She was dancing, my mom had conned me into running scores from the judges to the scorers. Our moms hooked up. I got hooked on dancing. I met Kathryn, and the rest is history.

In the (good Lord, has it been that long?) THIRTY YEARS since I've known her, we have gone through a hell of a lot. Scottish dancing--that's enough in itself, given that it involves kilts, costumes, special shoes, shin splints, and bagpipe music. Trauma. Broken bones. Scoliosis. Hawaii. Moves. Career changes. Husbands (plural). Children (also plural). Dogs. Kittens (Kathryn's the only woman alive who could convince me to take home A cat, let alone two--which she did). Home sales. Home building (she's the crazy one, I'll have you know). Turning forty.

She never lets me forget I'm older--twenty-four whole days. She does fun things like plant a flock of pink plastic flamingos all over my suburban lawn to celebrate a milestone birthday. I do fun things back, like leave a totem on her front door, topped with yellow yarn hair, to remind her that she's the primary victim of The Blonde Witch Project. Then we go and get spooky and have baby boys within sixteen days of each other. We always did want our kids to grow up together.

Today's her birthday. Twenty-nine. Again. (Kathryn does anniversaries, not birthdays). Know what my present is? Her.