I don’t know what it is. In my head, I see my birthday going something like this:
Okay, maybe I don’t have a law degree, own a snazzy off-white blazer, or work in an office full of colleague executives, but you get the idea, yes? A birthday should entail exorbitant amounts of doting, the culmination of one’s friends in the same room, compliments in which people specifically bring attention to my lack of crow’s feet and frown lines. And a cake — preferably a rainbow-chip funfetti cake.
But somehow my birthdays usually end up looking more like this:
I hope this day finds you well and able. So, I don’t know about you, but Sunday gluttony rolled over into my salubrious Monday, which in turn resulted in Cara doing sluggish laps around the perimeter of gym, like a gold-fish in a bowl. Lacking endorphins and a mightily gleaned sweat-glow, I arrived home in such dour funk, that when my dear, innocent, dough-hearted husband greeted me at the door, attempting to cheer me upon earlier-than-normal arrival time with a smile and “Oh, good! We’ll have more time together tonight.” I brushed passed him, pivoted on my heel, and gave him this: