My birthday was on Saturday, and after being reminded of the event on Thursday, I mentally geared up for the last official year of my twenties. I say "official" because, for the first time in my life, I feel the magnetic pull of my thirties tugging me to the top of the proverbial hill that I will eventually topple over, and I can't guarantee that I won't be 29 for the next six or seven years.
You just play along.
And for what I expected to be a real non-event, my birthday turned out to be a pretty big event. My sister Amy and I had an amazingly rich and authentic lunch at a tiny French patisserie and I gorged myself on French cheesecake before trying on random dresses at a store. I get such limited time away from the kids, so I was eternally grateful for an afternoon of silence and was glad to spend it with Amy. Joel just doesn't have the coloring for a leopard print halter top.
The portion of the day that I influenced, dinner, was ironically the part that made me feel more like 79 and less like 29. I'd asked to eat at one of my favorite restaurants; a place that serves up amazing flatbread pizzas, and after a forty-five minute wait in the stifling heat, we were finally seated. I opened up the menu and gaped in horror. Yes, horror. Yes, about flatbread pizza.
Did they eliminate my two back-up favorites as well? Yeah.
Did Graham cry through the entire meal? Yeah.
Were the people seated next to us three-sheets-to-the-wind and shouting profanities two feet from my sons? Yeah.
Did they seat us in a crowded, wood floored and paneled banquet room designed to amplify sounds? Oh, heck yeah.
Did my husband, in an effort to quiet them while appealing to their raucous nature, carry Graham over and ask them to lay off the language so that our youngest wouldn't "drop an "f bomb" during church on Sunday? Hrmph. What do you think?
But even though dinner did not play out the way I'd imagined, I came home to an even bigger surprise. My husband, never one to pass up the opportunity to surprise me, had ordered a beautiful cake from a local bakery because he knew how much I enjoy beautiful desserts but also knew I'd never devote the time needed to make one for myself.
viral video in which I'd hoot, holler and probably wail on about my longing for Mediterranean flatbread pizzas.
|I swear it was complete. I was just too close to capture the whole thing in one shot!|
I think I'm going to like being 29 for the next seven years.