All the hype. All the build-up. Alas, my birthday (aka Date Night III) blew serious chunks.
On Saturday, Chuck and I dropped Junior off at my mother’s then had lunch at my favorite Indian restaurant. We even had a gift certificate from good ole Granny. But after stuffing ourselves full of Chicken Tikka Masala, garlic naan and a carafe of wine, we both looked like we were expecting.
The ensuing espressos and cloves were mere stupidity. As was the shot of Jack.
The rest of the afternoon consisted of me asking Chuck what he wanted to do and him telling me he didn’t care, it was my day.
My day. It sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? A whole day to do whatever the hell I wanted. But there was one problem. I didn’t know what the hell to do! Something was off. I couldn’t shake the blech. The blah. The macaroni brain. So Chuck did what every good husband does when his wife is behaving like a freakazoid: He took me to the outlets.
And that’s when I started behaving like a psychotic mother in a Lifetime movie. It was like every little kid had a marshmallow head, and I wanted to eat it. Was the little boy in front of us Junior’s age? What words was he saying? Would his parents mind if I held him and called him Junior? Could I please smell his hair and kiss his fat cheeks?
The evil voices in my brain started telling me that my mother had tricked me into thinking I’d like some alone time with my husband and to sleep late. She didn’t care about me. She just wanted Junior all to herself! She just wanted me to suffer!
Can you guess what happened next?
Why, yes, of course. Chuck smacked some sense into me, we went home, etc., etc., watched the entire first season of Weeds, had a birthday toast, etc., etc. and slept until 11:30 the next morning, around which time my mother brought my child back to me and my wonderful husband served me breakfast in bed.
All of this leads me to believe that actually being 34 is going to be fine. It was the damn metamorphosis bullshit that sucked balls*.
Wow, does anyone else see a Hallmark card somewhere in there?
*It could also be seasonal affective disorder (SAD) or my potassium levels or maybe, just maybe, I have become every obsessed mother I ever mocked.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.