Friday, February 5, 2010

Twenty Seven


Twenty seven. That was the magical age, the age when everything would come to an end. I didn't know how, but I knew when, and it would be dramatic, romantic, beautiful and just plain awesome. These thoughts began around the age of fifteen, that awkward age smack dab between awkwardness and adult. Fifteen was the beginning of boyfriends and bomber jackets, plaid shirts, ripped jeans, converse one-stars, dad's old jackets from the '70s and Nirvana (and I'm certainly not referring to spirituality). Fifteen was the beginning, and twenty seven was going to be the end.

I could imagine my life with the best of them, but I couldn't see life at all past that magical number, when I would become the most forefront of memories in everyone's mind. By the age of twenty seven, I knew I would have married (and divorced) Sergei Fedorov, and gained the romantic attention of Brad Pitt. I would have become a celebrity right up there in the spotlight with Julia Roberts, and before my actual death, I would have acted out the most heart wrenching deaths of all time, up on the big screen (Brad Pitt crying salty tears at my bedside).

Fifteen was when I started experiencing heart pains. I was sure my left ventricle was on the outs, and I was biding my time. I recall sitting in a travel agency with my mother, as she talked of our upcoming trip to Cape Cod with the agent. I only half listened, only concentrating on the chest pains that would surly bring about my demise, and Brad Pitt. And if it didn't happen before Cape Cod (it didn't, clearly) it would happen when I was twenty seven.

I imagined my death as if it were delicious fodder for the tabloids, it would bring the world together in harmony, and perhaps even save the children because of course, rockstars would gather around the mic and sing in my charitable honour. My mistake was certainly telling my parents of these romantic, teenage infused visions of death, as they waved it off "Yes dear, you're dying," as I held my hands to my chest in what were surely my last years. Twenty seven was fast approaching, and I had a death date with Mr. Pitt.

Then I finally did it: I convinced my parents that the pains in my heart were the real deal. My left ventricle was wheezing out it's last breath, and I still had celebrity-dom to conquer, not to mention my sold out concerts at Maple Leaf Gardens, and I had yet to even meet Sergei Fedorov.

The day my mother took me to the doctor, and when I had convinced doc I needed a heart scan, the angels sang (so to speak). When I heard those words "You need a heart scan," fireworks went off in my head. This was it, my dreams were coming true. I made sure to tell every last one of my friends of this massive procedure, and won the envious pity of them all as I swept the back of my hand over my brow in feigned dramatic illness.

I can still remember the hospital room, the blue gown and those glorious suction cups attached to real wires, feeding into a real, beeping, hospital machine! As the nurse told me to relax, I couldn't stop my heart from beating fast. Alas the quick beats were not out of nerves, but rather out of knowing that Brad Pitt and Sergei Fedorov were most definitely right outside the door, holding their hats to their chests in worry over me. In just a few moments, as I closed my eyes, they would burst in through the door (with salty tears of course) and grasp my hands. But then, about a minute after it all began, it stopped. The nurse removed the suction cups, told me to sit up and said something along the lines of "We'll get the results soon, but from what I can see, you are completely normal and there is nothing wrong with your heart" ...shatter. But where is the drama? Where are the singing celebrities? Where is Brad Pitt? And why isn't anyone thinking of the children!?

I went home, and that was it. When I actually turned twenty seven, I recall having a giggle over a glass of wine with friends "Here I am! I made it and I feel just fine. Healthier then a proverbial horse, and you know, I never did marry (or divorce) Sergei Fedorov."

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