So far, being 27 is pretty cool.  I went to yoga on Monday night, am going again this evening and have scheduled one-hour massage for Thursday so that I’ll be in tip top shape by the time The Wedding Date and I depart for our cruise on Friday.

I had a great birthday complete with great friends, great presents and a great round of mini golf (in fact, I’m never golfing again without my bedazzled golf club).

The Girls Team

As far as I can tell, there are only two bad things about having finally turned 27.

Firstly, as you may know, I am, as far as my cleavage is concerned, the exact opposite of well endowed.  Flat at a pancake would not be inaccurate, and whenever sheer desperation compels me to purchase a bra with a reasonable cup size, I eventually realize that I’ve been duped again: you can’t make something out of nothing.

But I’ve never lost hope.  “Maybe next year,” has been my unwavering mantra.

But it’s been fifteen years of “Maybe next year.”

Age 13…

14…

15…

16…

17…

And so on and so forth until now.  Conventional wisdom (not to mention science) would suggest that at 27 I am officially a lost cause.

Done.

Finito.

That’s it.

No more growing, unless of course I get pregnant and getting pregnant is not on my to-do list for the foreseeable future.

Secondly, there’s my dream of competing in the Olympics.  I don’t want to win, in fact I don’t even care if I medal; I just want to be there.  I mean how cool would it be to live in the Olympic village?  Hanging out with all those cool athletes, marching in the Opening Ceremonies, bonding over complex carbs—  how awesome would that be?

Knowing my mom, she’d send me off with like six dozen glow in the dark bracelets from the Dollar Store so I could make friends with the other athletes, and I’d bring my trusty glue gun and a box of rhinestones so my teammates and I could bedazzle our uniforms or volleyballs or sabers or whatever.

I’d probably be so busy crafting that I’d miss my event but that’s okay, because it’s not about winning.  At least not for me.  In fact, I’d want to compete in whatever event is first so I could party the rest of the week but at 27, and without any demonstrable athletic skill, I think my chances of getting into the competing for Team USA are pretty much nonexistent at this point.

It’s okay though.  I’ve been exploring other options.   For example, I could compete for Puerto Rico.  Or take up shooting.  Or give up on the idea of competing all together and simply apply to be an RA for the Olympic Village.  Unfortunately, you had to be eligible to work in the UK to be an RA for the London Olympics (I had my mom look up the requirements) so I’d need to work on getting a work visa for Brazil in order to be ready for 2016.

Alternatively, I could become a celebrity, like Victoria Beckham; then I’d get to drive around in a bejeweled cab with the rest of the Spice Girls and join in the celebrations that way.

Or I could concentrate on humanitarian work, or winning the Nobel Prize.  Then I’d get to be one of the people who carry the Olympic flag at the Opening Ceremonies and I’d rather carry the flag than go lugging that darn torch around anyway.

Last but not least—and this is my best, option, I think—I could convince The Wedding Date’s kids to start training.  It’s too late for me, but it’s not too late for them.  The eldest wasn’t terribly keen on this idea when I first suggested it, but the youngest said “maybe” to skeleton so I think we’re onto something.  I mean does Colombia even enter the skeleton competition?  Probably not, which means TWD’s kid would have a good shot.  Plus, those sleds offer lots of great decorative possibilities—way more than, swimming, say.

Thoughts?