When Good Birthdays go Dreadfully Well

Now that I have already gotten over the whole "turning 40" bit, birthdays are really fun for me again.

Wednesday was my birthday, and it was honestly one of the best. Right now I can't be sure whether it was because the week and a half or so before my birthday was emotionally trying for a variety of reasons, or whether it just really was that good. I think it was both.

For one thing, I was having a horrific day on Tuesday, mostly internal stress, not external (hello, anxiety attacks, nice to see you again -- NOT!). So in the middle of my angst, I was at the post office mailing something overseas, when I looked out and saw that I was being given a parking ticket. I had banked on being able to run in and out of the post office. After all, what post office has metered parking, seriously? Well, my luck had run out, and given the way my day was going, I was not a lick surprised. But when I opened the ticket, it said $0 owed. I just stared at the little orange ticket in awe and then, given the tension in my head that had been building up like a tornadic low pressure system, I almost cried. I mean, after all, what are the odds of having a crap day and then getting a not-ticket? So I took it as a sign that my luck was turning around. I was right. Within minutes, my oldest childhood friend called. I knew she had recently moved from California to only about two hours away from me. But imagine my surprise when she said, "Happy early birthday, when can I see you?" She was in town! Minutes away. I could see her that very night. On a day I really needed to see a good friend, she happened to be there and she took me out to dinner and it was awesome.

THEN, the day of my real birthday arrived. Not only did I get tons of greetings from my online writer friends (from a specific forum), but I ate cake for breakfast. When else do I get to eat cake for breakfast? Well, I'm a grown-up. I could eat cake for breakfast every day if I wanted to, but not only would I be as big as a house, but my stomach would make me pay, and believe me, it has ways of making me pay. So cake for breakfast is for birthdays only. And occasional lazy Saturdays. But back to my birthday. My work friends were fun, my students were cute and attentive (one student gave me a homemade card with a random earring taped to it that he had likely found on the ground). I got texts, including an exclusive picture of my two darling nieces. Someone at work brought me homemade brownies. Another person brought me a fish filet sandwich from McDonald's (yes, she had been sweet enough to remember that once a LONG TIME AGO I mentioned that it was the only sandwich from McDonald's that I liked).

That evening I went to write group, and the lovely Pink Audrey made New Mexican enchiladas to die for and the lovely Sequins and Mr. Sequins made a beautiful chocolate cake. After we ate the enchiladas but before we ate cake, we finished taping our hula hoops. Mine is sparkly purple and yellow. I would take a pic, but I am too lazy to go downstairs. That shall be another post. As we taped our hula hoops, Pink Audrey chirped, "Cake?" every so often like a parrot until Mr. Sequins gave in and busted the cake out. I ate until I literally could not swallow another bite of anything. That night, my stomach hurt like a mo'fo', but it was worth it. Oh yes, it was worth it. I'd do it again tomorrow.

The fun continued the next day, and I got to celebrate again at my parents' house the next evening. I had a delicious dinner, opened a few fun presents, and had some German chocolate cake. Over the phone my nearly three-year-old niece informed me that the highlight of her day was not attending music class as her mother wanted her to tell me about, but that she had peed on the floor. Let's face it. Bodily functions trump the arts any day. But she did sing happy birthday to me for the first time.

Now if I want to be really grateful for something, I should note that my birthday was not like one of the movies I review. If my birthday had been in one of the vacation gone wrong movies, a ghostly serial killer called the Corn Stalker would have broken into Sequins and Mr. Sequins's house, bound us all in sparkly hula hoop tape and sequins, and eaten all the cake. The only sound would have been a muffled, "Cake?"

But no, that vision is far too sad to truly contemplate, and that, thankfully, was not our fate.

Instead, my verdict for the last few days? * * * * *