Can I have a 2 day birthday? Can I just stretch another 24 hours of joy before going back in the womb for another year? I'm sure it would be fine so long as it didn't mean another 24 hours of labor for my mom. In that case, she'd probably be first to say, "Sorry Rob, I'm afraid, 1 day of birth is all you get. Here, have this Star Wars toy you wanted when you were seven."
"But It looks like it's been chewed up by a dog."
"I know, you were supposed to get it when you were seven. The dog got it first. If it's any consolation, it looks like she enjoyed it."
Yeah, that's one thing that does change over time. Birthday gifts. When I was a kid I got toys and clothes. Now I get cards and cash. I think I like it just as much now as I did then. I get the same disappointments too. When I was a kid I wanted the Millennium Falcon so Han and Luke could take a much deserved vacation from planet Shag-Carpet, I didn't get it. As an adult I wanted that Benjamin Franklin bill so that Rob could take a much deserved vacation from planet Cheap Thrills. I didn't get that either.
That's not to say I didn't have a good birthday. It was great. I didn't do much. I relaxed, I blogged, I relaxed some more and then I renewed my drivers license. Birthdays are still good. I still like having my cake and eating it too, and I still like my candles blown out.
This year I found evidence I'm getting older. I had a hard time reading the DMV eye chart with one eye. Yeah, I know, right now most of you are making sure you don't live in the same place I do. Probably not a bad idea. I'm no different than every other easily distracted blind Californian.
"Oh, look a shiny object!"
"Run it down quick before somebody else gets it!"
Still, the lesson to take from this has nothing to do with pilotless self-indulgence. It's that I passed. I'm still in the game. I went home. I ate dinner. I celebrated. Not bad for a birthday. After dinner, my dad called. He wanted to wish me the best. We talked while Mom prepared his dinner. That's great! It wasn't even his birthday.
It was a good talk. Father son banter at it's finest. Ok, maybe not it's finest, but it was good for us, and that's what mattered. I think Dad-chat was a great gift. As I get older, Dad gets wiser. Our talks are always enlightening.
While we were talking MyUnwife called my cell.
Dad says, "I can let you go."
"No, It's fine. I'll call her back later."
After Dad left to eat, I called MyUnwife. I figured I'd get the machine and leave a message, but she answered.
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's me, I'm returning your call."
"Oh, Hey!"
We talked for a while. It was nice. We were always able to talk. We shared the new events in our lives. Sort of like playing go fish, "Do you have any Queens?"
There weren't many events, but filling the gaps made me feel like the little Dutch boy plugging dam leaks with MyUnwife.
The truth is, although she occupies a different shelf in my life, I still care that she's there in the pantry. Ok, that metaphor makes me sound like Jeffery Dahmer. Let's just say I'm glad she called before somebody else calls the cops.
"Mr. Boyd, how do you explain these sardines?"
"I was drunk?"
"Inebriation is no excuse for bad taste."
"No, but it does make it easier to explain bad choices."
"I'm afraid you're going to have to come downtown."
"Can I bring the sardines?"
"Don't make me break out the pepper-spray."
"Does it go good on crackers? Ow! My eyes! My eyes!"
"Yes it does Mr. Boyd. Yes it does…"
It doesn't sound like much of a birthday does it? Maybe not for you, but for me it was one of the best I've had in a long time. I'm renewed. I'm refreshed. I'm looking forward to the next year. Oh sure, nobody blew my candles out, but that just leaves something to look forward to next birthday.
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