Speaking of Birthdays
Melissa, I remember my thirtieth birthday.
I woke up that morning with a mission. There would be no tears – I would accept that I was no longer 20 something. I planned to be gracious and mature.
There are some days that just don’t follow the rules
The celebration began early with kisses and hugs and lovely presents wrapped so beautifully. The hubby is one of those guys (of whom there are a few) that can go shopping and purchase presents that a girl really likes. In addition he buys cards and wrapping paper and ribbons. He measures, cuts, folds, and tapes as nicely as if a professional had prepared it.
After breakfast the festive boxes were set before me and I felt like a princess. (Albeit, a thirty year-old one.)
I’m sure he cringed when I tore the ribbon and papers to bits - just like I always did. What I’m sure he didn’t expect was to see my face fall after opening the first gift.
It was a silk blouse with long sleeves and button down collar in the perfect color for my season. Just like any woman’s eyes would do, mine scanned the neckline for the sewn in name label and size tag.
My body was just 5 months recovered from giving birth to baby number three. Physically I was like a rubber band that had been snapped one too many times. When she was just 10 weeks old, I went back to work wearing another woman’s clothes. Well, they were mine. It was only that before this baby I was another woman.
The pre-pregnancy size garment was held in front of my horrified face knowing the tears were close. The man must have gone into my closet and looked at the sizes hanging in there that I hoped to fit into again.
I opened the next one, and the next one, and the next one. All beautiful clothes, perfect in color and style. This man knew his woman. Everything but her size!
Tears. Of course. Then questions.
From him: What’s wrong? Don’t you like them? Are they the wrong color?
From me: Are you trying to tell me I need to lose weight? Didn’t you know I can’t fit into this size anymore?
From him: You can take them back and exchange them for a larger size.
From me: Boo hoo hooo. Then run away and hides in the bathroom with a cold washcloth on my face.
The day wasn’t over.
We had lunch with friends John and Janet. I’m sure it was fine because I don’t remember anything about it.
I do recall silently ruminating the events of the morning and the contents of the boxes sitting in my bedroom. That’s probably why I suggested to Janet that we take a walk after eating. She agreed.
With her dog on a leash and my baby snuggled into my back carrier, we strolled down the road towards the park.
We were two blocks away when a vehicle approaching from behind started honking, causing us to turn in response. The pick up truck passenger, hanging out the window, flung the contents of a 32 oz paper cup over the three of us.
My immediate concern was the unknown substance that was on my baby. Janet wisely turned and repeated the license plate out loud. Our noses almost immediately identified the liquid. Beer.
John was hot when we got home with our lamentations. He prepared to go make mince meat of someone’s face. I admit that I was ready to watch him do it. Fortunately, the hubby was (and is) the level headed one.
The police caught up with the inebriated men inside the truck owner’s house. He was a driver for a local beer distributor. The other was on the ballot in the upcoming election for county fire commissioner.
Neither drunk was cited, only given a written warning (for whatever that is worth). The passenger, the one in the election, wrote me a personal letter of apology that indicated he could be a third grade drop out.
What a day! Hormonal weeping over clothes nice enough for a smaller princess and being christened to set sail into my thirties… not with champagne, but with stinkin’ beer.
I woke up that morning with a mission. I wanted to be gracious and mature, but I wasn’t.
In the meantime, however, I’ve had hundreds of birthdays to make up for it.
PS. I know someone may want to know.
The hubby, who was at the time the hunkiest firefighter on the force, took the letter and passed it around at the local IAFF (firefighter’s union) meeting. It was at this meeting that they determined who the