Googa Mooga coroner and charitable soul Allison Robicelli recently celebrated her 33rd birthday, and opted for a water park adventure with her two young sons at “Sesame Place, the Northeast’s top puppet-themed water park (for ages 0-7).” Of course, roaming water parks, with all its trickly noises, are full-bladdered two-year-olds, who, sadly, chose to use the birthday girl as a potty.
Writes Robicelli in her particular brand of warm-and-fuzzy voice:
“I began to feel a warm sensation on my ankle, then over my entire foot. I looked down to see a girl, no more than two, in a sequined blue bathing suit. She was squatting over my hastily pedicured right foot, peeing.
The tinkler’s mortified mother apologized profusely, and I waved her off, pointing to my own boys and nodding in solidarity as a fellow parent who has, many times, found myself apologizing for things I never dreamed possible. (“Sorry my son stole a tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter at Thanksgiving and rubbed it all over your dog.”)
As I trudged over to the restrooms to wash off my feet, I began to wonder what the hell had happened to me. I don’t get as excited about my birthdays as I used to, but surely they should include some sort of recklessness, or frivolity, or, at the very least, an absence of stranger-urine.”
What follows is a story about how your life isn’t over at 33, especially if your husband thinks you’re an unmitigated hottie (which, for Allison, happens to be true). We’d send her some power-birthday cupcakes to fortify her chin-up attitude, but that seems gauche. You can read her whole story here.
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