Twelve Again

On this day after Halloween, this first of November situation, I've decided to be 12 again. I'm pretty sure 12 was a pretty good age. Hang on, I'll check with one of my former shrinks. "Hi.  Me again. Was I happy at 12?" "Come back to therapy and let's explore it." Never mind. I'm going with yes. At 12, I could eat whatever I wanted and still fit into the smallest pair of jeans in the Tiny Miss department. At 12, the doctor predicted I wouldn't get my period till I was "at least 13." Well, I showed him. I got my period six weeks before I turned 13. Up until that big life change, I didn't know from PMS. No one knew from PMS. Back then, it was just called B.A.B. (Being A Bitch) Gosh, I miss those simple times. I miss my long hair. I miss my bell bottoms. I miss my desert boots. I miss all the boys I had crushes on. I miss walking to Westwood with my friends. I miss Westwood. What happened to Westwood? When I was 12, Westwood was cool. Did that mean I was cool, too? No. I was never cool. Not one of the "cool kids." Cool is overrated, anyway. So is youth. It's wasted on the young, as they say. Honestly, I can't think of any age I'd like to be again, can you? On second thought, I've decided to be 12 x 5 today. I'm pretty sure 12 x 5 is a pretty good age. Yep. I think I'll be 12 x 5 today. Tomorrow, who knows?