It all started last Thursday, when I applied for a needed passport. Yes, I had one years earlier when my parents paid for elaborate vacations, but THAT passport got lost over the years, and I never really needed a new one (mainly due to the fact that all “elaborate” vacations in my life have revolved around Mickey Mouse for the past decade). It wasn’t until my best friend and I decided to plan a vacation to Cabo over the summer, that I realized that a new passport was essential to attend the next Pretend Wedding. So I decided it was time to grab the bull by the horns--I had my photo taken (worst picture ever—and I am NOT exaggerating), called my parents for my birth certificate (which is now yellowing with age), and headed to the county court house totally excited to check something off my to-do list.
Now, the clerk working there was a young guy, fairly attractive, and we made the usual idle small talk as I filled out all of the paperwork. I was over-the-top excited to finally be getting my passport, and did my usual talk-until-his-ears-start-to-bleed thing.
Clerk: “Is is still sunny out there?”
Me: “Does it ever rain in Texas?”
Clerk: “So Cabo, huh? Why did you choose Cabo?”
Me: (fearing that this is some test of national security) “Because I have a hankering for a nice tan AND some high-end tequila …. And all the Mexican cartel members seem to be vacationing in Acapulco.”
And so it went for the five minutes that I filled out every form and attempted to document that my passport was “lost” somewhere in the middle of my parent’s attic. It wasn’t until I handed over the paperwork and documents that I received the now anticipated, and totally normal, “Ohhhhh…. There may be a problem.”
As I glanced up from my check writing, I noticed that he was holding my birth certificate, and looking at me with a curious glance. “It says here you are 35?”
Exasperated with the fact that my age was just publically announced I replied, “Ummm, yes. Did you expect the form to be printed on an animal hide for those born in the seventies?”
He chuckled nervously, squished his eyebrows together and asked the totally UNANTICPATED question…. the kind of question that throws your universe off balance… the kind of question that causes your mouth to fall open wide enough for an elephant to wander into your throat:
“Any chance you were adopted????..... because there are no parents listed on your birth certificate.”
Now, being a questionably-sane-Army-Wife, I have learned to expect the unexpected… but this one came from left field. There I stood in the middle of the county courthouse staring bug eyed at an almost-good-looking clerk trying to decipher the exact meaning of his words. And that’s when it hit me….like a ton of bricks…. It wouldn’t matter.
I learned long ago that there is the family you are born with and the family you choose, and it wouldn’t matter if I was adopted, plucked off the Nile, or born naturally from my mother’s womb (although the thought of the ladder definitely makes me cringe). The people that I surround myself with—Loren, Allison, Chuante, Monica, Craig, Toby, my parents, (and about a dozen others that I haven’t mentioned)—are all the family that I need. They are the ones that have held me upright through the past year, and they are the ones who I am first to call when something catastrophic threatens to throw my world off kilter. Yes, life may like to send some flying monkeys at you. But as Dorothy learned, it’s a heck of a lot easier to navigate the yellow brick road with friends. So don’t go it alone. Lean on others when you are too weak to stand on your own two feet. And when marginally-hot guys ask you if you are adopted…. Reply with a smile, “Family is more than just blood.”
(And THEN call your parents and announce, “Well, I FINALLY understand why I am so much smarter and better looking than my brother.”).
Are you serious?
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