Memoirs of a Fat Girl

February 13 is an important day in history.

Good things happened on this day, there were many birthdays. Composers with long mouthfuls for names share this day, like Domingo Miguel Bernaube Terradellas in 1713, and Valentin de Zubiaurre y Unionbarrenechea in 1837. The first American quintuplets were born on February 13, 1875, as was Omar Torrijos Herrera in 1929, future president of Panama.

People died on this day. In 1542 Catherine Howard, fifth wife of Henry VIII, lost her head. Marvel Comics cartoonist Jack Kirby passed away in 1994.

Momentous events have taken place. The first sign of cholera in London was today in 1832. There were riots in New York over the high price of flour in 1837, and Jesse James held up his first bank in 1866. King Tut’s tomb was opened in 1924, mysteriously cursing all those who entered, and the first Barbie doll went on sale in 1959.

I have my own momentous event to celebrate, an anniversary, if you will. February 13, 2006, sometime between 7&9pm: after a barrage of insults from my boyfriend Jess, I tell him to go to hell. Our 6+ year relationship is ended on the spot.

I once got this email forward full of destiny-driven sayings, one of them along the lines of, “remember that right now is exactly where you are supposed to be.”

There are times when that’s a load of hooey. February 13, 2006, I honestly thought to be the worst day of my life.

That was then. Now, I know it was the best day of my life. The wheel of change started to turn.

If there are such things as time machines, if Bill and Ted had something going with those excellent adventures, I’d go back to that night and tell that shattered girl, take heart. Everything’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be better than okay.

Truly, it is. Now, if I could just fit into smaller jeans…