Life isn’t fair. I guess we’ve all said that at one time or another — for many reasons. Maybe we even yelled it as kids. “No fair!” And if we’ve lived a long time, it has simply become a part of our overall belief.

But I want to go way back to when I was a kid. It’s especially not fair if you’re a child and can’t even understand the concept of fairness gone wrong.

I remember, for instance, gamely eating canned spinach because when Popeye ate it his muscles got bigger. My arms remained skinny — not even a single bulge. No fair.

I remember the spelling bee contest in fourth grade and being eliminated in the very first round.

My mother had let me know she expected me to take her all the way to Washington, D. C., to compete in the national championship.

I blew it on the word, “merry-go- round.” I got the letters right, but I left out the hyphens in between. I sat on the sidelines, pretty much silently spelling all the other words correctly. It was not only disappointing but, to add insult to injury, my best friend won. No fair.

I remember missing the acrobatics final recital for parents and friends. Granted, my only accomplishment in the class was standing on my head longer than anyone else.

Still, there was this silver-spangled costume I wanted to wear. However, right before the big event I broke my arm and never got to stand on my head through the whole show. No fair.

I remember my mother reading stories to me about fairy tale princesses. They always had long golden hair, especially Rapunzel, whose tresses were so long her boyfriend could use them to climb up and save her from a wicked witch. My hair was short and black and straight. I couldn’t even match Shirley Temple’s bouncy curls. No fair.

But, looking back, I remember what now seems to me the most unfair of all. It concerned my friend, Margaret. We lived across the street from each other, and we were both 5 years old when the photograph in my album was taken at my birthday party.

She and I are standing by the cake, in our best dresses (we wore dresses back then) and hair bows, ankle socks and patent leather shoes — none of which made us look any better than rather awkward, skinny 5-year-olds. Neither of us stands out as especially cute little girls.

Fast forward 14 years. I was 19 and living in another city. One day my cousin sent me a newspaper story — with photograph — of a beautiful girl, crowned prom queen of her college class. She is gorgeous. And her name is Margaret Bergeron. The little friend standing next to me and my birthday cake long ago.

This is definitely no fair. There we were, alike in looks at age 5. “Nature” had made her a queen, while I, well, I didn’t much get past the awkward, knobby-kneed, straight-haired little girl while she morphed into great beauty.

“Nature” had her way with both of us years ago. And perhaps over many years of living, we might be equal once again. Just to make one thing fair at last!