Once upon a time, in a cute, little Midwestern town, a girl named, um, Jan Waglin lived a simple and happy life.
Jan was a bit of a tomboy, much to her fancy mother's chagrin. And yet, her mother--some say she looked just like Doris Day--mostly put up with her daughter's foray into all things boyish. This was probably especially hard to do, for you see, Jan's mother was a fashion artist for a fancy local clothing store, where she got 40 percent off all the clothing! Do you know how many fancy-pants girls would kill for that kind of discount?!
Alas, the best her mom could do was to yank Jan by the ear once a year--usually just before school started--and buy her one snappy, new, color-coordinated outfit for the year. These outfits mostly sat undisturbed in Jan's closet, carefully guarded by the myriad Wacky Pack stickers that peppered the sliding doors of that same closet.
About once a year, Jan would get down with her "girl" self and wear something nice to school. Usually a dress. Until 8th grade, when Jan's annual dress choice--a snazzy, retina-burning yellow number with short sleeves and a slender belt--proved to be a lousy outfit to bowl in. Especially at Madsen's, where the balls leech their long-held dyes and the grease of a thousand strangers onto the closest cloth available. Jan spent the rest of that day trying to hide the black smears of her ten-pound ball, and threatening anyone who started to snicker with a dutch rub like no other.
Jan liked life very much, thank you. And she liked walking that silly gender fence, regularly dipping her feet into activities and attitudes usually reserved for boys. She liked running footraces against her fastest classmates. She loved all the hoops surrounding the coveted Presidential Physical Fitness Award, except for the chin-ups, which were especially hard for a girl of her stature. She liked building forts with her friends and farting, just for the heck of it.
As she got older, Jan started to realize that one of the reasons life was so nice was that she was surrounded by nice people. Patient and forgiving people who seemed to endure her constant testing and pushing and joking with an attitude usually reserved for saints and astronauts.
In return, Jan did her best to entertain people. She would say stupid things just to get a laugh out of someone. She liked whoopie cushions and wasn't afraid to use them. And she really loved getting stupid gifts. People seemed to know that, because, after awhile, she had quite a collection of stupid and worthless things. These things made her very happy. And those gifts seemed to make the other people happy, too.
One night, as Jan was figuring out how to spend her 16th birthday, she realized that maybe life was good, in part, because she was a willing recipient of good things. It was a pretty serious thought for a goofball to have, but she was not averse to trying new things. Even if they were serious.
And so, that night, Jan decided that joy was hers to take just as it was hers to give to others. No lightning bolts accompanied this thought. No booming voice of a father-figure God drenched her ears. No, this was a quiet epiphany. But she paid attention anyway.
For her 16th birthday, Jan's dad dressed up as a waiter, while her mom put on a fancy apron--probably one she bought at that store Jan visited annually--and they transformed Jan's bedroom into a restaurant, complete with candles and music. She had a few friends over before the school basketball game and they ate dinner in Jan's room, her father periodically checking in on them, a tray in hand with bubbly apple juice in fluted glasses sitting atop it.
It was, Jan supposes, a silly way to spend a birthday. And yet, everyone had a very hard time wiping the smiles off their faces. She figures they were glad to be there.
Just like she was.
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