Friday, August 15 marked the 25th anniversary of my birth. In my family, birthdays are a big deal. Everyone gathers for a celebration that is complete with a meal of the birthday person’s choosing, a cake and a shower of gifts from family members. While some people feel that their birthday is a day where it’s “all about me,” I tend to take the stance that my birthday is the one day of the year where I can pretty much do whatever I want. Why? Because it’s my birthday, that’s why.
Last Friday was no exception to my hard and fast rule. On Thursday, everyone in the office received an e-mail announcing Friday as “Hawaiian shirt and flip flop day,” in celebration of the last Friday before school began. I immediately realized that while I do own flip-flops, I do not, nor will I ever, own a Hawaiian shirt. I once owned a blue tank top with white Hawaiian-like flowers on it, but that made its journey to Goodwill years ago. So, when I awoke on my birthday, I wore an incredibly un-Hawaiian outfit of jeans, a gray sweater a black blazer and black loafers. Take that, conventional wisdom!
Upon arriving to the office, I was wished a happy birthday and chastised for my lack of hideous floral attire. I was asked how old I was and immediately criticized for my incredible youth, which apparently nauseated those who work with me. One co-worker even threatened to put gum in my hair after I said, “Twenty-five feels old.” Other kinder, gentler co-workers made apple pie with crumbles on top and sticky buns. I had a big slice of pie followed by a warm sticky bun, which is completely out of character for me. Normally I’d have a big slice of nothing and a warm nothing and proceed to cut up my apple at the sink. Then, I’d hear something like, “Look at you, little Miss willpower/skinny/healthnut!” or “That’s why you look like THAT and I look like THIS.” Once, someone watched me prepare my fruit and said, “So that’s your secret!” I responded that eating fruit instead of a 300-calorie doughnut really isn’t a “secret”—I’d call it a choice instead. I could go on, but I won’t bore you with the details of being 20 years younger and 20 pounds lighter than all of your co-workers.
After spending the rest of the morning in a sugar-induced coma, Adam treated me to lunch where I ordered my old faithful, a grilled chicken salad. He gave me my birthday gift, a lovely bracelet. It was too big for my small, child-like wrists, but very beautiful and thoughtful nonetheless. Perhaps if I ate more apple pie and sticky buns this wouldn’t be a problem!
We were dismissed from work early in celebration of the last Friday before school began (we’re hard-pressed for something to celebrate around here) and I stopped at the grocery store on the way home to pick up a few essentials. Upon arriving home, I placed my bags on the kitchen counter and headed over to let Rudi out of her cage. When I turned back toward the kitchen, something looked odd—out of place, even. Could it be? Like a bright, white light shining from heaven, my eyes rested upon the most beautiful sight. It was…
Last Friday was no exception to my hard and fast rule. On Thursday, everyone in the office received an e-mail announcing Friday as “Hawaiian shirt and flip flop day,” in celebration of the last Friday before school began. I immediately realized that while I do own flip-flops, I do not, nor will I ever, own a Hawaiian shirt. I once owned a blue tank top with white Hawaiian-like flowers on it, but that made its journey to Goodwill years ago. So, when I awoke on my birthday, I wore an incredibly un-Hawaiian outfit of jeans, a gray sweater a black blazer and black loafers. Take that, conventional wisdom!
Upon arriving to the office, I was wished a happy birthday and chastised for my lack of hideous floral attire. I was asked how old I was and immediately criticized for my incredible youth, which apparently nauseated those who work with me. One co-worker even threatened to put gum in my hair after I said, “Twenty-five feels old.” Other kinder, gentler co-workers made apple pie with crumbles on top and sticky buns. I had a big slice of pie followed by a warm sticky bun, which is completely out of character for me. Normally I’d have a big slice of nothing and a warm nothing and proceed to cut up my apple at the sink. Then, I’d hear something like, “Look at you, little Miss willpower/skinny/healthnut!” or “That’s why you look like THAT and I look like THIS.” Once, someone watched me prepare my fruit and said, “So that’s your secret!” I responded that eating fruit instead of a 300-calorie doughnut really isn’t a “secret”—I’d call it a choice instead. I could go on, but I won’t bore you with the details of being 20 years younger and 20 pounds lighter than all of your co-workers.
After spending the rest of the morning in a sugar-induced coma, Adam treated me to lunch where I ordered my old faithful, a grilled chicken salad. He gave me my birthday gift, a lovely bracelet. It was too big for my small, child-like wrists, but very beautiful and thoughtful nonetheless. Perhaps if I ate more apple pie and sticky buns this wouldn’t be a problem!
We were dismissed from work early in celebration of the last Friday before school began (we’re hard-pressed for something to celebrate around here) and I stopped at the grocery store on the way home to pick up a few essentials. Upon arriving home, I placed my bags on the kitchen counter and headed over to let Rudi out of her cage. When I turned back toward the kitchen, something looked odd—out of place, even. Could it be? Like a bright, white light shining from heaven, my eyes rested upon the most beautiful sight. It was…
a NEW OVEN! I immediately began laughing hysterically (my normal reaction when I’m not sure how else to react to a situation) and began lovingly inspecting and caressing the new addition to our family. It was almost as though Adam knew how much I hated the old oven!
I picked up the phone and called Adam, who was at a football scrimmage. The conversation went something like this:
Adam: “Hello?”
Me: “Uh, hello! New oven!!”
Adam: “Oh, yeah. You noticed?”
Like somehow I would miss that the crusty bane of my existence was no longer a fixture in our home. The new oven was so gorgeous, what with its smooth, flat top, white exterior and brand name that was recognizable. My favorite part of this story is the reaction the Home Depot guy had when hauling off the old oven. Adam told me he had many questions, like:
“Whoa. Does this thing still work?”
“Your house isn’t old enough to have an oven like this in it. Where did this thing come from?”
I only wish I could have been there to provide crisp, witty responses such as:
“Unfortunately, yes. We’ve tried to kill it, bribe it and destroy it, but it refuses to die.”
“We aren’t sure Home Depot guy, but I’m pretty sure the bowels of Hell.”
The irony of all of this is that my dear husband is the one who does all the cooking at our house—my morning oatmeal and egg white omelets are as close as I get to ‘cooking.’ My main concern is how good it looks and how easy it is to clean—check and check. I rest peacefully at night knowing that the Caloric is now rusting away in a dump somewhere, the place it should have gone years ago.
After I finished admiring the oven, I headed outside for a long, relaxing run—a birthday gift to myself. It was on this run that I got to thinking about birthdays and how great this one was. Was this the best birthday ever? Nah, I thought with a smile. I have a feeling that the best is yet to be.
I picked up the phone and called Adam, who was at a football scrimmage. The conversation went something like this:
Adam: “Hello?”
Me: “Uh, hello! New oven!!”
Adam: “Oh, yeah. You noticed?”
Like somehow I would miss that the crusty bane of my existence was no longer a fixture in our home. The new oven was so gorgeous, what with its smooth, flat top, white exterior and brand name that was recognizable. My favorite part of this story is the reaction the Home Depot guy had when hauling off the old oven. Adam told me he had many questions, like:
“Whoa. Does this thing still work?”
“Your house isn’t old enough to have an oven like this in it. Where did this thing come from?”
I only wish I could have been there to provide crisp, witty responses such as:
“Unfortunately, yes. We’ve tried to kill it, bribe it and destroy it, but it refuses to die.”
“We aren’t sure Home Depot guy, but I’m pretty sure the bowels of Hell.”
The irony of all of this is that my dear husband is the one who does all the cooking at our house—my morning oatmeal and egg white omelets are as close as I get to ‘cooking.’ My main concern is how good it looks and how easy it is to clean—check and check. I rest peacefully at night knowing that the Caloric is now rusting away in a dump somewhere, the place it should have gone years ago.
After I finished admiring the oven, I headed outside for a long, relaxing run—a birthday gift to myself. It was on this run that I got to thinking about birthdays and how great this one was. Was this the best birthday ever? Nah, I thought with a smile. I have a feeling that the best is yet to be.
1 comment:
Yay! so fun! enjoy the new little addition to the family.
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